Thursday: A Melancholic Morning, off (and on) the rails

I take another hand rickashaw to the Sudder Street internet cafe (local one is closed) then amble back to pack my bags for the conveniently late checkout time of midday. Then on foot to Park Street Cemetery. Here I adopt the poise of a minor Romatic poet and spend the best part of two hours looking melancholic among the monumental excesses of deceased Georgian gentry. Admission if free, but with two heavy ledgers to sign, and the site is maintained with a fitting balance between seemliness and decay. Two builders are up a bamboo ladder patching up some fallen masonry (all monuments are rendered brick). They ask for food, so I give them my squashy bananas. This is funerary architecture (1767-c.1840) on a grand scale. Squeezed closely together in a woodland setting are tall obelisks, bulky pyramids, miniature Greek porticos, stone catafalques and urns a-plenty. But not much statuary (weeping angels not big in Georgian Calcutta) or Christian symbolism. Many of the entombed died quite young, and inscriptions witness to the prevalence of infant deaths and death in childbirth. One of the strangest tombs in that of Maj. Gen. Charles Stuart, known as "Hindoo Stuart", whose tomb has all the elements of a Hindu temple in miniature. Stuart converted to Hinduism, adopted native dress, and attempted to persuade European ladies to wear saris arguing (amongst others) that without steel corsets they would be less likely to be struck lightning.

Tombstone Alley

From near the cemetery I catch a tram, unsure where it will take me. Trams are not usually designed for right-angled bends, but Calcutta trams are an exception. As we approach a junction at which we are to turn sharp left, the conductor hops down with a long iron pole which he wedges between the tracks to change the points. We advance slowly and with a bit of a wobble, then come to a halt. The tramcar has refused to turn and jumped the rails. Consternation. The driver steps down to take a look; passengers crane their necks out of the windows and passers-by point down to the wheels. Back in his cab, the driver reverses cautiously - reversing anywhere on these log-jammed streets takes negotiation and good will. We try again, and fail again. This procedure continues for five minutes or more as we see-saw up and down until eventually the wheels get traction on the curving rail and we are off at last. It's Lenin Sarani - you'd have thought that might have facilitated a leftish turn. The road leads to the Esplanade, and the terminus for this route.

The Esplanade may conjure up images of fashionable Edwardian ladies promenading with their parasols, and you'd be right. This area was developed in the late 1800s as a society shopping and social point for Europeans and the native elite. The governor's mansion is at one end, there's a park at its heart dominated by the Ochterlony Monument, a massive Nelson's column lookalike, and grand former department stores (including Calcutta's only art nouveau) line the perimeter. But the days of such social exclusiveness have long passed, and it takes some imagination to visualise it as originally conceived. The sheer press of numbers on the streets (not to mention the depot for honking long-distance buses) puts paid to any notion of gentility. I am hailed on the street by someone implausibly called Ronnie who speaks with an Irish accent (educated by missionaries). He sees me wilting and says, "India's big problem today - too much people!" A very perceptive chap, Ronnie.

I get a Calcutta take on European-style shopping at a self-service store like a big version of QD. Their own-label clothing might raise eyebrows amongst younger clientele in the UK. It's called Spunk. Purchasing procedure: on entry, show security girl contents of my bags; she fixes stickers on my opened water and drinks bottles. Fill basket/trolley in familiar way. On departure: queue at checkout; bag-wallah places items purchased in my own bag; tag-wallah fixes plastic tag to seal bag; checkout girl presents receipt, which I pay; she stamps receipt big red stamp; present stamped receipt to security-wallah on door, who punches a hole in it with a hole punch. These procedures, and countless other similar ones, help keep 20 million Calcuttans employed.

Metro back to Park Street where I sip a reviving beer and later eat delicious noodles before collecting my luggage and taxi-ing to Howrah Station. The Puri Express leaves from platform 22 in the "new end" of the station and I have a long wait for my 22.35 departure. It is, of course, very busy (as Ronnie would notice), but brightly lit and orderly with a whole range of amenities such that you could almost live here. As some people do: I step over a few to get to a vacant seat. No sign of the infamous railway children. One facility we do not have on stations at home is a "Public Grievance Redressal Booth." What a good idea - so much better than a remote Ombudsman. Though I suspect that the advice might be to go and find a man on the street with an old Remington and put it in writing.

Footnote - so what's Calcutta really like?

We've talked for years of visiting this amazing city where Sara's grandfather was born. It's been worth the wait, though of course I've barely scratched the surface. It's no longer a beautiful city in the normally understood sense, but there is beauty to be found, as I hope the photos show. Not least, the people are a star attraction for their cheerfulness, friendliness and tolerance (though in the main they just ignore me.) I like the pace here - unlike the rush and push of Delhi, Calcuttans prefer to amble along and take their time. Despite the huge disparities of wealth and poverty, Calcutta has a low crime rate, less than other big Indian cities and very much less than, say London or other European capitals. It's a safe place for tourists.

Poverty is visible, but rarely as shocking as I imagined. Mother Teresa has much to answer for. She unintentionally blackened the city's name, but did little for it in return. Her operations here were very small in scale, offering a little dignity to a small number of destitute people, but almost no medical care, though she certainly had the funds. Today, I hardly saw a single beggar, apart from in Sudder Street (where the backpackers go). There seem to be three main categories of beggars - old men or women fallen on hard times, victims of disfigurement through accident or sickness (polio, leprosy), and young women clutching babies asking for food. These last, sadly for them, are part of begging rackets controlled by racketeers who take all the money. No local ever gives to them as they know it's a scam. But it's just not true that, as a westerner, you'll constantly be asked for money or confronted by human misery and distress.

City centre locations such as Park Street, have opulent shops and restaurants which look as though they belong in Kensington or Chelsea. At night you may find (a few) people bedding down outside. In quieter backstreets, whole families sometimes live, work and play on the pavement. The mega-rich and the near destitute live side by side in a way that would be unimaginable in Europe. That just how it is, and probably always has been. Incidentally, Calcutta's streets are tolerably well swept. Religious observances (e.g. temples and street-side shrines) are less in evidence than elsewhere. And there are no cows wandering at will. But oh, so many dogs!