Showing posts with label Calcutta. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Calcutta. Show all posts

Calcutta / Instagram

A few photos which I took in Calcutta / Kolkata in October:

The Taj Bengal hotel


breakfast (the most attractive part, at least)


dawn, over Calcutta's big sky


a morning walk behind the hotel (red rooftop in the distance), crossing a bridge over Tolley's Nullah


Bhowanipore War Cemetery


perhaps this does not mark a warrior's grave, but it touched me


A side street in Bhowanipore


a lively morning market in the narrow streets across from the War Cemetery. A butcher.

 a temporary vegetable market

freshwater fish
 a water tower, I suppose. what colours and shapes!


 Durga puja. The demon victim and the lion vehicle are looking equally apprehensively at the goddess, who is not overly concerned about where her spear-point is going.


 puja implements in a small pandal, waiting for the priest


Sandesh

R's childhood friend has come to visit from Calcutta, bringing a carton of langda mangoes and a box of sandesh, one of R's favourite Bengali sweets. I believe that 'sandesh' means 'message.'


Sandesh is made from paneer. I have seen my sister-in law make it in Chicago, mixing paneer and sugar in a food processor, then stirring it in a wok over a low flame until it became a little less moist, then rolling it into lozenge shapes and decorating it with mandarin orange slices.

The modern version has many added flavourings. Here's a tour of the plate above: the yellowish squares are, according to R and his friend, the classic form of sandesh, with saffron and pistachios, and decorated with silver foil. "We never knew that sandesh could be white (the most common colour now - unless it's sweetened with jaggery, which colours it pale tan). Only in the villages would you find white milk sweets."

Next are slices of plain sandesh surrounded by sandesh flavoured with rose water and dyed pink. Decorated with chopped pistachio and saffron threads.

In the center are two large pieces, strongly rose-flavoured, decorated with fresh rose petals, resting in individual trays made of folded and stapled pieces of banana leaf.

Then, two balls of plain sandesh enclosing chocolate and rose petals and decorated with silver foil.

The cool soft graininess of sandesh, the freshness of rose petals (small and dark blood red, roses from before the essence was bred out of them): what a delicate message they convey.

Park Street Cemetery

Ecotone's current blogging topic is Cemeteries. Here's my contribution:

Park Street Cemetery was inaugurated in 1767, the oldest cemetery in Calcutta. Inside the gate the maintenance staff, three or four men, sat idly on a charpoy. The mausoleum nearest the exit was being lived in. It was furnished with a cot, a plastic water pot, a few pieces of cloth.

Mausolea shaped like houses were crowded together amid tall crotons and palms. It was like coming upon ancient ruins in a jungle. There was a skyline of domes and flat roofs and towers, all the same brown cement with chunks fallen away to show the red brick structure, built for the most part along wide paths. Everything was green and damp. The tops of monuments, urns and such, were broken off and lying on the grass. Shouting boys played cricket among the graves. There were cawing crows, and intermittent sounds of traffic from Park Street.

One of the biggest tombs - pyramid above pediment - contained the body of "Elizabeth Jane Barwell - 'the celebrated Miss Sanderson' aged about 23."

The most elaborate tomb belonged to Rose Aylmer, who died in 1800 aged 20. The poet Walter Savage Landor wrote a poem to her, which was inscribed on her tomb:
Ah, what avails the sceptred race!
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue every grace,
Rose Aylmer, all were thine...
Mrs. Martha Goodland, 21 March, 1785, aged 23:
If ever Tears deservedly were Shed
If ever Grief was due to Virtue Dead
Thy Merit Martha and thy Spotless Ways
Claim Tears from all, for all allowed them praise
Thy Strength of Mind we scarce shall meet again
Shewn through a long, most agonising Pain
Thy warm affection as a Wife or Friend
Make all who knew you weep your cruel End
Cruel Alas - but this one thing were sure
Those Virtues that in life you held so pure
Will be repaid - This Thought and this alone
Your friends have left to mitigate their Moan
Whose Heart is torn is wretched while he lives
And only prays one day to reach that shore
To meet his Martha and to part no more.

I liked the home-made verses - they made me feel that real people had written them and grieved. As in all British cemeteries in India, there were too many graves of young wives, and very young children.

When I left, a gang of young boys was half in and half out of the gate, shouting and laughing. An old Anglo-Indian man drove them out and said to me, "They won't listen! They're animals!"

A Visit to an Astrologer

From my journal -- a visit to an astrologer in Calcutta:

On the way back from Dakshineshwar D said, "My astrologer lives near here. It's just five minutes away. We'll go and visit him." I said, "Will he tell me good things?" He answered, "He's a very old man, and very good, and he only says good things."

It was getting dark as he turned into a crowded area of small cement houses, with winding lanes barely wide enough for the car to pass. It was a neighbourhood for people who owned motorcycles. He parked in a cul-de-sac beside a two-story house, one room wide and perhaps two or three rooms deep. We got out of the car and D called inside, and we entered.

Panditji sat on a mat on the floor, with one knee up and one knee down. He was a skinny old man in a dirty, torn white undershirt and a torn white dhoti. On his right arm just above the elbow he wore several cords, and one chain of metal links, with charms attached to them. He wore rings with coloured stones on both hands. Several black cords hung around his neck, holding charms which were hidden beneath his undershirt. He wore thick black-framed glasses. He had big eyes in a thin face. His greying hair, through which his scalp showed, was combed straight back, and fell in thin strands halfway down his back. He sat with his head down, and occasionally glanced up from under bushy grey eyebrows.

We sat on mats. He sat beside a bed raised on bricks, under which were piles of papers, books, magazines. Next to him on the floor were steel glasses and dishes, all covered, with some drying slices of cucumber on one of the lids. Behind him were two steel cupboards set up on bricks. Under them were a number of small square paper candy boxes. I looked up from where I sat and saw the main electric switch, connecting the house to the outside lines. It was covered with cobwebs, and cobwebs hung from the ceiling. The room was lit by one neon tube light. A dirty ceiling fan was switched off. Behind me was a glass-fronted cupboard full of bulging plastic bags.

Next to the front door two glass-fronted cabinets were lit from within by electric lights. They were packed with gods. In the centre of the larger cabinet was black Kali, with her characteristic lolling tongue made of gold, and wearing gold earrings and necklace. The other gods were dusty with what looked like incense ash or vibhuti powder. In front of each god was a miniature steel plate and a tumbler the size of a large thimble. Each plate contained a fresh marigold, each tumbler was filled with water.

Coloured lithographs of deities filled every bit of available wall space. One was a calendar picture showing the head of Ramakrishna Paramahansa surrounded by a ring of Kali faces, beautiful dark blue women, smiling alluringly at him from different angles - but all with the long red tongue hanging down.

D sat beside Panditji and began talking in Bengali, explaining who we were and asking questions. Panditji pulled a book from the pile under the bed, opened it, touched a line with his finger and spoke briefly. As the darkness outside became complete, the room filled with hungry mosquitoes. We tried to wave them off, but Panditji ignored them.

It was a slow process. D asked something, Panditji gave a brief answer, there was a pause, then another question. Ramesh interjected something, at which Panditji laughed, like a cough. He asked D if I had any questions. I asked, "What sort of thing should I ask? What kind of questions do you ask?" D said, "It should be something specific." I said, "I don't know. Will I ever publish a book? How is Ramesh's health? How is my health? Are those the right kind of questions?" D said, "You can ask him directly, he knows all languages." Panditji said, in English, addressing me for the first time, "Do you want to say anything more?" I laughed, acknowledging my surprise, and he said, "Write this down." I pulled out my notebook, and he began to predict. "By September present position increase time." D translated this to mean that everything was good, and would improve after September. Ramesh's "time is running good time." He began in English, but what he had already said had pretty much exhausted him, so after awhile he switched back to Bengali and D translated for him. As D had said, he had only good things to say.

D told him a number of things about us, and advised him on his answers, which advice he took. Panditji looked at Ramesh's palm. D said, "See that cross there? Look, Venus is very strong." Panditji peered near-sightedly at Ramesh's hand and said, "Yes, it is very strong." D asked which of us would live longer, myself or Ramesh, but Panditji was discreet, and refused to answer. D said, "Will she live longer?" and he gave his coughing laugh. "Will he live longer?" A slight shake of the head, and a laugh. It was as though D were showing off the abilities of a favourite child. When I ran out Panditji said, "Any more question, Motherji?"

He pulled out one of the paper boxes, and offered us each a sweet. We declined, but D said, "I'll take it as prasad", food blessed by God, and pinched off just a bit and ate it.

Good old man, you are dead now.
May Kali, whose avid mouth
hungers for the flesh of evil-doers
be your protection.

Boating on the Hooghly

I'm missing Calcutta, which seems a semi-magical place to me. We have often visited it in the cool season, which is beginning now. I wrote this poem after a visit there:

Boating on the Hooghly


The boatman frees us from the shore.
In sooty-soft evening we ride the strong current
as though it is we who are standing still,
while ships at anchor are speeding past,
and the men who huddle on their decks
are rushing to lean toward tin-can stoves,
to gild their faces with smoky light,
to turn their backs on the growing dark,

while Renu beside me sings
of stormcloud-coloured Krishna:

Mother, why am I so black,
when Radha is so fair?
You were born on a moonless night, child,
your body is the body of the night

and the boat becomes an almond-shaped bed
carrying us to sleep, and a dream
that a Serpent King with a jewelled hood
stirs in his underwater cave,
creates a vortex and sucks us down
to sing lullabies to his serpent wives.

The boatman will save us,
the splash of his long-handled oar will wake us.
He'll row toward the shore,
return us, clinging close to the bank,
through deep shadow and fitful light,
past ships and their cargoes of firelit faces,
to firm ground and the song's end.

(This poem was published in The Reader (U. of Liverpool) No. 11, Autumn / Winter 2002.)