Shout Out #31
Trip Start
Jun 05, 2006
1
34
41
Trip End
Ongoing
Kolkata (Calcutta),
India
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Pulling into Delhi after a rough night of mosquitoes and curvy roads helped me appreciate holding a plane ticket. The original plan involved 30 hours on a cross-country train but all the trains were booked. Several days of fruitless attempts at buying a ticket reconfirmed my desire to fly. The overnight bus ride crushed any lingering concerns about being a pussy.
At the airport, passengers aren't allowed to check in more than 2 hours prior to departure. I dropped my bag and slept on the floor until a line grew- weaving around the entrance, along the wall, and past my feet.
The Air Deccan flights have no assigned seats. Passengers are shuttled to the foot of the plane where it's every man for himself. A scheme came to mind. Be the last on the first bus and score a window seat at the front of the plane. Just as I contemplated the logistics a line magically formed and I wasn't in it. Somehow it made perfect sense for it to happen in a situation where it was best to not be first. India has an unexplainable logic. Lines only form if they are absolutely necessary. There was a purpose behind it, I just didn't understand. For me, this line made for great bus capacity estimation. For my plan to work I had to insinuate myself into place; the spot I gauged as capacity (in India) for the first shuttle. Phase One couldn't have gone better. I was THE last person on the bus, standing on the steps at the rear door.
On the tarmac we were detained inside the bus while a delinquent cleaning crew scrambled to please the angry superior. The bus had parked so that my exit was closest to the boarding stairs. During the delay my position in the doorway left me susceptible to bumping and nudging by people behind me. This was serious business. The crew finally finished, the doors opened, I was second on board with a front row window seat. Before the plane finished taxiing I was asleep. The only explanation I can give for taking such concern with the seating is that flying was such a rare treat. It was an opportunity to have legroom.
In Kolkata I was quickly off the plane, my bag was one of the first on the carousel, there was no line at the prepaid taxi desk... it was all too smooth. 200 rupees wasn't a cheap ride to town. Perhaps a rickshaw would be cheaper. Seeing me exit with a backpack and a furrowed brow a taxi driver pounced. "You are needing a taxi sir?"
"No. I want a rickshaw."
"No rickshaws are driving from the airport. It's too far."
I noticed another 'Prepaid Taxi' stand on the edge of a parking lot. They charged 370 rupees. On the walk back to the first desk the driver began negotiating, working his way down to 200 rupees. At the car he took my bag and put it in the trunk. I sat in the back. He walked off. It only took a minute or two before I figured it all out: the trunk was locked, I was stuck, and he was hustling up another passenger. My anger mattered very little to him. After I'd said my bit he chuckled a little and told me, "You are not getting 200 for one person."
A long line had formed at the true prepaid taxi stand inside the airport. All the passengers from the rear of the plane now stood in front of me. I was directly behind Nakul's (the warrior's) mom. We hadn't spoken prior to that odd coincidence. It was the perfect opportunity to split a taxi.
Just as we sat in the back seat a man came to her window asking for money. Rather than handing out cash she blessed the man with Ganga water from Rishikesh, one of the four main pilgrimage destinations. He was more pleased than if she'd bought his dinner. Knowing that wasn't her intent I couldn't help but think it a great gimmick. 'Not only am I not going to pay you, I'm going to splash this water on you and you're going to like it.' She then splashed the driver, me, and sprinkled some on herself for good measure. We were all very blessed.
"I'm writing a book about Ganga and her healing properties.
"Really?"
"Throughout history there were references to Ganga from many different foreigners who'd come to India. Long before there was mass communication."
"So several different groups of explorers had similar experiences without knowing about the others?"
"Yeah, exactly. They had no way of hearing about Ganga from the others." Looking at my arm, "What does your tattoo say?"
"Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question."
"Is that your writing?"
"No it's from an e.e. cummings poem. It's actually from the introduction to a book called 'New Poems'. Nakul told me you are a tattoo artist."
"Well, I used to be."
"Why did you stop?"
"When you stick needles in the body it releases a lot of energy. If you look at the origin of tattoos in the Polynesian islands-I'm from Hawaii- they were doing it to tell the important stories of their lives. It was ritual. I wouldn't do a tattoo unless there was that personal connection."
"That's an interesting reason. I've never considered the release of energy. It makes sense though. Just think about acupuncture. So how did you end up in India?"
"I wanted to raise my kids in a place with more freedom. Mayapur was a good destination because we can live in the forests. I'm a single mother too. We get support from the U.S. but $500 is nothing there. In India we can live comfortably off that."
Though the human history of Southwestern Colorado hardly rivals the magnificence of its geologic history, the Pueblo settlement now called Mesa Verde blurs the distinction between the fingerprints of humanity and those of the earth itself. The adobe houses and cliff dwellings give the appearance of having emerged with the surrounding Rocky Mountains. Mesa Verde was the image Rasa used in explaining how she prefers to live. She took that image from Hawaii to India.
Being the 'queen of the deck' she was going to Mayapur on family business- the selling of their home in the forest. She was taking the kids and the man Nakul called his father to Auroville. "I'm afraid the idea of Auroville is tainted because the government has stepped in. The school (in Mayapur) has been good for Nakul but I want him to experience something else. I mean, I chant Krishna sometimes but the school is too traditionally Vedic. It's good that they taught Sanskrit though. Sanskrit is such a language of the heart. I wanted him to open up his heart space. English isn't a warm language."
I remembered my German friend calling down from a climbing rope, "I have no more power!!" Language is so closely related to a way of being. Hearing how different people from different countries used English gave much perspective into their culture. French élan, Israeli common sense, or the gentleness of certain Asian cultures came through in how phrases were composed. A German has no power. An American is worn out. Speaking English with people from non-English cultures gave me a lesson in my own thought processes and how they manifest in verbal form.
Rasa and I shared a similar understanding about India. Regardless of how much time we spend in the country we'll never be Indian. "I'll dress Indian to get by and to show respect but I'll still fly and take taxis instead of using the trains and buses." We both have an American sense of privacy too. It's not comfortable rubbing against people in a crowd or publicly handling business we typically handle privately.
Rasa's hotel was a notch above my economic standards. Around the corner a mildewy cavern suited my price point...windows cost extra. Getting out of the clothes I'd been wearing for two days felt as refreshing as the cold shower. I was ready to roam.
My room was the last on a short hallway that ended at a mysterious door. A stack of continually exchanged dirty plates and utensils sat on the floor in front of the unmarked doorway. A right turn led me past the neighboring room (ours were the two rooms under the stairs) to the front counter and the grumpy, overweight Asian girl with an Indian accent and too much make-up on. (I was forced to reconsider a staggering number of preconceptions.) The hotel opened onto a narrow dead-end alley. Employees from the other hotel sat on crates against the wall smoking cigarettes. Another employee washed dishes with water from a hand pump. As I walked by, one more employee hustled by with a plate of food. The kitchen was on the opposite side of the road as the hotel. A little storefront selling packages of cookies, crackers, laundry soap, calling cards, and much more marked the end of the alley. Turning right onto Chowringhee Lane I passed a line of cart-pullers wanting to show me the city. The human powered rickshaws are unique to Kolkata. A quick right onto Sudder and all of the noise associated with being on a busy little road.
Kolkata is different from Delhi, the only other major city I visited. Sudder Street and Paharganj, the budget hotel districts of each city, shared few similarities. Paharganj was a densely woven network of densely populated unnamed alleys. After three visits to the city I was starting to get a vague sense of how to find my way around. Sudder Street and the adjacent roads are wider and lined with trees. It's something of an avenue. People don't walk in the middle of the street and the traffic isn't mostly auto-rickshaws and bicycles. There are no cows. Kolkata is puzzlingly devoid of cows.
Finding a thali spot was much more difficult in Kolkata as well. Continuing along Sudder the sidewalks varied in width and level of decay. Shops butted against the walk on most of the roadway though an occasional break in the streetscape created enough space for a vendor to make a little kitchen. A collection of pots and pans and a few stoves were thrown together under a tarp secured by a series of ropes. Customers sat on wood benches or simply stood with their plates. The dishes were washed into the gutter using the same hand pumps people bathed in. Groups of men and boys bathed on the street. The pumps were especially busy in the morning. Wearing shorts and tank tops one person pumped while others lathered and rinsed. The women must have had other means for getting clean.
From Sudder I took another right onto Mirza Ghalib Street, working outward in a widening spiral from my hotel room. Ghalib fed into Park where a series of upscale restaurants, cafes, and retail stores created a mall-like atmosphere. My eating options were high class or low class with little in between. Finding a thali spot with the perfect blend of cheap and dirty took a little more effort. The search ended at a side street back in the vicinity of my hotel. I was then officially in Kolkata. The arrival process ended only when my bag was in a room, I was showered, and my stomach was fed.
"Excuse me sir, do you speak English?"
(Whoa! I'm a sir.) "Uhh, yeah. I do."
"Can you tell me where an internet place is?"
"I'm actually looking for one too. I just left a place across the street because their computers are slow and the guy was reading over my shoulder while I wrote. I think there's another one up this way."
We both thought it was time to go after spending a couple hours sending emails. We were getting hungry.
She asked, "Do you want to have room service at my hotel? I've got air conditioning."
"Ah, yeah. You have a/c?"
"Yeah. This is my first day in India and I just wanted to have a nice place to stay. Tomorrow I'm going on a train to Mumbai. I was teaching English in Japan and I'm passing through India on my way back to Canada. There's a meditation thing I'm doing in Mumbai."
"Nice. I did something similar. That'll be a good way to return home."
The hotel employees weren't too comfortable with Allison bringing such a dashing young man back to her room, especially considering the fact that he'd seen me help Rasa check in earlier. The two guys at the desk exchanged knowing glances of uncertainty. "Should we be allowing this?" The porter/janitor/desk clerk/waiter guy sheepishly brought us our dinner; moving around like he'd walked in on something. I imagined him thinking, "These foreign blondies are horn-balls. They are not waiting 10 minutes after ordering their food. I must be taking the food quickly." At 9 PM sharp, shortly after finishing our food, the phone rang. They were a reputable establishment and I needed to be leaving. We decided to continue our conversation at a café on Park.
Waking up in a room without a window is not easy. Not wanting to sleep later than I'd become accustomed to sleeping, I decided to set a 6 AM alarm- something I rarely did. The day began with a series of asanas and a cool shower. Dressed in my cleanest selection of clothes I hit the streets by 7:30, a few hours before the heat picked up. I came across a great stretch of street vendors on Jawaharlal Nehru Rd. A man setting up his fruit display happily sold me an awesome papaya. Another guy farther down the sidewalk handed over a straight-faced chai in a little clay cup. At a display of magazines and newspapers spread out on a cardboard box I saw an English language publication with national distribution. The cover featured an image of a Kolkata street vendor with the caption 'Hawker Power'. Since I was enjoying the benefits of that specific economic market, I decided to take a copy of 'Civil Society' for my travels.
Kolkata is an incredibly morning friendly city. Had the sun risen no higher I might still be relaxing on the street eating papaya over the latest news. But of course, the sun did rise. The heat struck sometime during my mid-morning lunch with Allison. Leaving the air-conditioned restaurant felt like walking from a freezer into a furnace.
Seeing how she operated gave me a good glimpse of what my second day in India was like. Everything was completely different than everywhere else. Being with her felt much more touristy than I'd grown accustom to feeling. It gave me some perspective on how much I'd started to understand and how much I still didn't know. The country is baffling. We were just in separate stages of cluelessness.
She caught her train and I continued wandering the city. The Maidan was the obvious destination. Sometimes called 'the lungs of Kolkata', the enormous park has several sports fields, athletic clubs, lots of grass, and tons of shade. Kolkata played a big role in the British Raj. As an act of the British East India Company in the late 1700's, the Maidan was created with the construction of Fort William. The sight of a large grassy expanse told much of the story. It's the sight of an English garden. The same garden Americans endlessly re-create in their public parks and private lawns, regardless of climate. Another part of the story was told in the form of exclusive athletic clubs. Places where 'Dogs and Indians' were once forbidden continue to flourish. Access is still exclusive though entry is based pedigree not race. I passed a competitive volleyball match being held at the Aryan Club, one of the less exclusive athletic clubs.
Racehorses grazed freely in a portion of open grass at the southern end of the park. The Kolkata Race Course was nearby. Just past the equestrian area, I found my way to the Victoria Memorial. Completed in 1921, the building is a memorial to Queen Victoria, also entitled the Empress of India. It now serves as a gallery showing art in the context of India's history. After a few hours of walking in an extremely humid 40° C (104° F) heat, my clothes were totally drenched with sweat when I passed through the gates. I've been drier in a shower. At the memorial I was the stinky white guy among clean, somewhat dry Indian tourists. The most interesting exhibit showed in more detail the cruelty and greed of the British Raj. At one point in time the average British citizen in India had around 100 Indian servants. It was clear how trade originally favored India- having more desirable spices, fabrics, and resources- and how it ultimately shifted to favor England. Mostly through force, the Raj drained India's wealth in less than 300 years.
Why are there no cows to be seen? Even on the little side roads...nothing. I was heading back to Sudder by a different route, thinking I'd stop by the Nandan cinema on my way back from the memorial. The liberal side of Indian life comes out in Kolkata. Considered the cultural capital of India, many famed artists and writers called the city home. Rabanindrath Tagore being the best known. A movie showing at Nandan, an art-house theatre next to the Sadan cultural center, was advertised on posters in English. Clusters of really smart looking people hung-out in front of the two architecturally significant buildings. Just as the agent held out the ticket he reconsidered the sale. "You are knowing the film is in Hindi?"
"No I didn't. The posters are in English though?"
He looked at me, glanced at all the really smart people in the plaza, and needed no other explanation. It's a status thing. Speaking English is high society and I was trying to kick it art-house style. The theatre would've been relaxing anyhow but I decided to keep walking.
Kolkata is liberal. I was actually surprised to see a man release a mouse from a non-lethal trap. Chicken was on more restaurant menus and there weren't any cows, but there were still some good old-fashioned Hindus. Seeing him drop the mouse in the street served as a reminder. "Oh yeah, this is still India."
The side roads led to a main road that somehow opened onto the retail section of Park Street. Most of the daytime action on Park revolved around shopping and being seen. Groups of young folk met at cafes and men freely socialized with women in a way I hadn't yet seen in India. There was even flirtation. Just as I'd come to terms with all the fraternization, two girls effectively startled me. They walked out of a store...wearing miniskirts. This is a country where rebellious movie stars actually kiss on screen (and it's known how many on-screen kisses they've given). Miniskirts are...they're...I don't even know. Miniskirts just aren't. The incident instantly and irrevocably compromised my moral turpitude.
The following morning I put on my cleanest pair of dirty, sweaty, damp clothes determined to leave on the first available overnight train. Doing laundry wasn't an option. Not with that kind of humidity and a room without windows. Kolkata would be a great city to visit any other time of the year. In June it's good for about a day. I bought my papaya and chai, and walked around before the sun went higher. Once the temps started to rise I got a train ticket to Darjeeling and found some a/c. The remainder of the day was devoted to writing and people watching in a variety of cafes, restaurants, and internet places.
The travel agent told me the appropriate fare for a taxi to the Howrah train station. All the drivers quoted a much higher price and waved me off when I countered with what I knew to be the going rate. I walked down the line of cabbies, each waiting for a Sudder street tourist fare. Ultimately one guy agreed and I hopped in back. The first driver I'd approached marched up with loud protests, arguing with the guy about taking me. They argued until nothing was settled. At the station I decided to pay him the tourist fare for the ride. Whether out of necessity or principle, he stood up to the others and accepted the standard rate. Regardless of his reason for taking me, I knew there was value in making it more beneficial for him. He had earned the money.
Two homeless kids locked on- a little boy and his younger sister. They followed me step-for-step through the station as I looked around for a restroom. The girl wasn't buying it. With a clever smile she followed me right inside the bathroom. Her brother giggled shyly and waited outside. Again, there was value in buying them some bananas. They had strayed from convention.
The station was full of people moving in every direction. Clusters of families and friends sat together on the floor wherever they could. I found space on the fringe of traffic where I could relax for an hour waiting on the train. It was a great locale for people watching. The parade of humanity moved by in concert with train arrivals and departures- quickly in one direction, then quickly in the opposite direction. Some ran, some limped, some struggled with heavy loads, and some struggled with kids. It was life in Kolkata. Boarding the train wasn't easy. Once I'd pushed my way aboard I was being pushed from behind by others pushing on board. Thankfully the family in the berths around mine gave me the upper bunk. They were free to sit and joke around while I read and slept through the ride.
