Transports of Delight

(Or, Delights of Transport).  I have taken exactly 120 photos today. Start off with standard issue omelette on the roof terrace watching schoolgirls doing their gym exercises (!) also on a roof nearby (think Carry on Camping minus the denouement). The guesthouse does not offer a laundry service but direct me to a backstreet dhobi where I leave my smalls. A young Aussie couple say they "never have laundry done because it always comes back smelling of India".

Legs are mine

Today I have sampled most types of transport on offer in the city. I start with a hand-pulled rickshaw which, despite its beautiful simplicity, I find uncomfortable - its tyres are solid, and the idea of being pulled through the streets by a barefoot pavement dweller gnaws at my social conscience. Still, a job's a job, and I know I paid him well over the odds. Then to the Metro which is fast, clean, airy, and socialist. It was funded in the 1980s by the city's former Communist government and based on the glorious Moscow model, but without the chandeliers. I go a couple of stops, which costs Rs. 6 (7p.) How about that, Boris?

Allowed on the Calcutta Metro: "small items of personal luggage such as laptop computers, camcorders, tiffin tins, attache cases, walking sticks for personal use and umbrellas (preferably folded)."

Inside St. Paul's

I'm at the bottom end of the Maidan looking for St. Paul's Anglican Cathedral. It's midday, and I actually hear it first - the familiar Westminster chime with deep dongs. Then I catch sight of the tower through the trees and am quite taken aback by the beauty of its pristine white-painted Gothic tower. I think of Magdalen College, Oxford, though the model was Canterbury. Both outside and in, it's a minor masterpiece of early Victorian gothic, complete with  handsome monuments and windows by Burne Jones, more resembling a spacious college chapel than a cathedral. It's also where Sara's paternal grandfather was baptised, and her great-grandparents were married in the 1870s, so I'm here in part to pay my respects. It worthy in a typically Anglican way, with a training scheme for "differently-abled people" and an Advent carol service pending. Dr Rowan Williams visited last October.

What smiles !

I walk along the Maidan, where cricket is being played in whites, ponies are grazing, and carriage rides are on offer, but pulled by disturbingly emaciated horses. The Victoria Monument is no mere monument, it is of cathedral-like proportions, much bigger than the actual cathedral. It is set at the heart of vast and beautiful gardens with ornamental lakes, avenues of trees, exotic flowerbeds which are very well used by entwined couples who occupy almost every bench. I am hailed by young Rakesh Kumar and his "not my girlfriend" girl friend, though they hold hands. They want photos of / by / with me, so I oblige. Rakesh asks how old I am, and I ask him to guess. He says 70. I grimace and say, no, only 63. "Then you are not looking good," he says. Maybe it was those yellow pills. The Monument was planned by Lord Curzon within weeks of Victoria's death, to be "stately, spacious, monumental and grand........where all classes will learn the lessons of history and see revived before their eyes the marvels of the past." Today it houses galleries of prints and paintings and a detailed if slightly faded exhibition on the history of the city.

Howrah Bridge from the ferry landing stage

I take a taxi (yellow Ambassador, of course) to Babu Ghat on the banks of the Hooghly River (alias Ganges), then a ferry across to Howrah, and another upstream, under the Howrah Bridge to Ahiritola Ghat. It's cool and fresh on the river as the old ferryboat ploughs up against the powerful stream, and I think of Sara's G/Grandfather commanding his pilot cutter on these same waters 150 years ago.

In those days (as paintings in the Monument Galleries show) the waterfront was lined with the splendid mansions of company grandees and local aristocracy, and I've come to see what is left. Surprisingly, there are still many once fine houses facing the river and in the narrow lanes behind, but in a state of almost complete desolation. I think the current occupants are bemused to see this oldish (70?) "feringhee" photographing their crumbling homes, but they are tolerant enough to ignore my eccentricity. I wander freely round the narrower backstreets where the ground floor of every building thrums wth people hard at work making things - tables and stools, ceremonial fly-whisks for poojas, drop-spindle spinning, tailoring, printing on hand presses. Outside, the streets are taken over by children playing cricket (what else?), but there are also yards with swings and slides and instructional wall paintings such as a freshly-painted illustration of the solar system labelled in Bengali and English. Decay and regeneration live cheek by jowl. And, in case you wonder, the streets are passably clean and well swept.

A piece of transport history

By the time I emerge onto a wider thoroughfare, it is dark. I look for a taxi, but then notice tramlines in the road. Strange. My map shows no tram route here, but I wait, and after about five minutes a twin-car tram comes rumbling along, so I hop aboard, ask for Terminus (can't go wrong) and pay my Rs. 5 fare. If ever there was a transport of delight, this has to be it. The tram grinds slowly along the narrow street, at times barely squeezing between the clog of  cars and buses, laden carts and hand rickshaws carrying fat rich children home from school. The tram bell rings out to warn pedestrians, but there are some near misses. It is standing room only and quite snug though not overcrowded, but a man gets up to let me sit in the "elderly and handicapped" seat. For me, this is a transport museum reincarnated. Incredibly, it is one of the original Calcutta tramcars, bearing the manufacturer's name plate and date 1882. Surely one of the oldest public service vehicles still in daily use.

Dine at Tung Fong Restaurant, just down the road. I'm the only paleface; all the rest are Indians. This is about the most exquisite setting I've ever eaten in. The dining room is a tall marble hall with a centrepiece canopy supported by squat pillars with gold dragon capitals and a shallow dome covered in gold leaf. There are huge Chinese vases stuffed with fresh flowers, displays of netsuke figures, and the waiters are dressed in black silk like exotic missionaries. The food is pretty good too (especially the caramelised walnuts with vanilla ice) and even the beer is a "gold blend." I emerge with ample change from a tenner and tread carefully to avoid disturbing the dreams of pavement sleepers.