My husband and I recently took a pledge to introduce our two sons to as many places in India as possible. For we believe nothing matches the diverse learning experience that travelling around the country provides. With a no-frills policy, we boarded the train to Kolkata.
As the landscape changed from lush green to brown and to green again, my husband and I relived childhood memories of long-distance train journeys. We also hoped our boys made their own memories, whenever they took their eyes off the gadgets in their hands.
There is something about the city of Kolkata that has, for long, evoked a sense of romanticism and old-world charm. We got a quintessential taste of the city right at arrival, as we were welcomed by busloads of protesters and those walking in hundreds, raising flags and shouting slogans and, of course, disrupting traffic. But we didn’t mind it, as we watched in glee, like excited school kids.
For the next three-and-a-half days, we shunted between being the zestful backpacker and the typical tourist, ticking off as many places as we could — from Howrah Bridge, Victoria Memorial and Kalighat temple to Writers’ Building, Belur Math and Science City, using all modes of transport — metro trains, trams, quaint yellow taxis and leisurely long walks.
What we will remember most about Kolkata are not the tourist places, but the images of a city caught in a time warp. Regal old buildings are as much part of the landscape as the glitzy malls and high-rise apartments. We stayed in one such old building — a colonial bungalow turned into a delightful home-stay, with antique furniture and rich textures.
Walking past the ragged bylanes and gullies that lead to the Kalighat temple, staving off touts who promise to take you right up to the goddess’ feet for a fee, we were astonished to spot ancient buildings from an era long gone.
An unhurried ride in the tram along the crowded streets perfectly sums up the character of a city that moves at its own pace. It is amazing that the tram is still the lifeline of many people to get to work and back after a tiring day.
We spent the evenings strolling along the famous Park Street and the nearby streets, gazing at the Christmas twinkle lights and learning the art of manoeuvring jaywalkers.
When the hunger pangs hit us, we desperately looked for a restaurant to eat at, but we soon discovered that street food is what the Bengalis swear by. Street fare in Kolkata is not just an enjoyable gastronomic experience, but also a great social binder, as the rich and less fortunate alike dig into roadside chat and sandwiches with no qualms.
While our knowledge of Kolkata sweets started and stopped with KC Das, we quickly learnt that every Bengali has a neighbourhood sweet stall he or she owes allegiance to. Despite not having a sweet tooth, we ended up stuffing ourselves with rasgullas , rasmalai, rabri and mishti doi from a tiny, nondescript shop that closely guards its sweet secrets.
The chilly December evenings over steaming hot matka chai, the colourful shawls wrapped around the elderly, the youngsters in hip winter jackets, the spicy chowmein that the city seems to have appropriated, adding its own USP, and the quaint boutiques that sell gorgeous cotton saris and stoles made the short trip a fairly immersive experience. While I wanted to listen to some Rabindra Sangeet, the boys wouldn’t hear of it. Maybe next time, I told myself. For Kolkata is not a city you visit just once.
