welcome to kolkata

(a post for people who keep asking me what its like)

maybe what hits you first is the plumes of smoke rising from the underbellies of trucks, buses, and autorickshaws, the oft-crumbling sidewalks inhabited by fruit-sellers, pan-wallahs, tea stalls surrounded by low benches and stools, cobblers, beggars, cucumber and guava sellers, their produce kept in large shallow baskets, knife ready to cut them open and sprinkle on black salt or masala before they are wrapped in newspaper and handed to you, men bathing out in the open under the public water pumps, men selling green coconuts wielding the curved blades of their trade, phuchka-wallahs with their towers of crisp-fried shells, their potatoes spices and tamarind water, flower-sellers in the midst of assembling their creations, butchers of chickens with baskets of live prey no ice with which to preserve their kill and a menacing blade spattered in blood and gore, and hawkers hawkers hawkers—of bags of bedspreads of clothing of cheapo jewelry of tupperware of mugs bowls plates cups of knives digestives string soap nail polish books almost anything that can be sold..... and as if this crowd on the sidewalk weren’t enough, then there are the people that live there that can be found in evenings and hot afternoons stretched out with nothing but a worn bit of fabric to cover them... maybe this is what you see, along with a rushing hurly burly mess of traffic, ramshackle buses, squat toilets, poor public sanitation, men pissing in public, babies of the lower classes toddling around the street butt-naked, amputees, strange skin conditions, crowds crowds crowds... and an endless assault of color smell noise heat humidity everything rushing down on you the poor helpless witless disoriented and overwhelmed...

but then maybe what hits you first is that it isn’t as bad as they told you. you have not gone into shock, you are not necessarily so overwhelmed, you did not die of unknown illnesses after those mysterious fried you-don’t-know-whats off the street, you have not been run over, you have not been robbed, your throat has not been slit and you thrown out of a speeding taxi onto the asphalt to just lie there like discarded baggage like that guy you heard about earlier this year—you heard it had something to do with the drugs, but still, who wants to think of such things?—and really you are doing pretty ok, even learning to like the streetlife, and if not liking the traffic at least you have learned to cross the street competently, not letting the fear overwhelm you. you have even experienced those precious moments of quiet, the sundays when traffic slows, the early mornings in the cool of a green park, the bandhs, those political strikes that intermittently hit kolkata, when all shops are shut up, companies closed, public transportation unavailable, and the kids take to the streets with their cricket bats and balls, nary a menacing car or truck to be seen...

or maybe what strikes you first is how even in kolkata, which everyone had described to you as backward and falling apart, has its modern amenities. you discover that no matter what they told you, no, the entire city is not sunk in time, in hopelessness, in poverty and in disrepair. there are escapes from the viscerally-assaulting rush that can be kolkata, into that other kolkata, into starbucks-lookalikes with their cappuccinos and blueberry muffins, air conditioned malls where you can ride the escalators to your heart’s content, stadium-seating multiplexes that show the occasional hollywood films, fancy schmancy hotels and restaurants that could very well be home—or at least the version of home that wealthy folk live—but where the bill still probably comes to something affordable, so long as you can convince yourself to think in dollars, not rupees. places like forum mall, city centre (salt lake), and park street—crowded with western brands, the likes of KFC or mcdonalds or nike or what have you, along with the fanciest home-grown brands—seem like a separate world from the rush and crush of gariahat junction or new market.

like any other place in the world, kolkata is a jumble, not something that i could sum up in a few breezy lines, all brochure-like. it is an assembly of so many different pieces, different people, places, experiences, emotions... reacting to a question about how it is like living here will be all about how i am feeling that day, that hour, that minute. cuz there are days when nothing can touch me i am so on top of everything and everything is going right, days when it is all about getting through it, functioning as best as i can and not letting whatever small daily frustrations there are there agitating at my mind get to me, others when all i can think of is how i want to go hide in the comfort of a westernized and air-conditioned movie theatre or cafe. and then there are those other days when i cannot be consoled and cry my lonely foreigner self to sleep in my monastic, solitary room.

a mix, of things i love and things i could do without... some things i cannot bear and others i just don’t know what to do with.

i find the clearest image of where i am in the faces of all the people i have met, encountered, interacted with. my loving teacher who makes my heart melt with only her mischievous smile. the dadas at the place where i stay with their teasing and concerns about if i have eaten enough and determined proffering of ever-more sweets, bananas, and bowls of yogurt. the bengali tutor who quotes to me the words of rabindranath tagore on the equality of all humankind and of all their faiths and who won’t let me get away without tea and a heaping plate of maggi noodles. the man i haggle with for jewelry who cannot get enough of my ridiculous bengali and finally laughing at my determination gives a price much less than his original outrageous demands but that i am sure is still twice too much. the guardman who gives suspicious looks as i pass in and out of the gate where i live. the other guardman who is so excited to find someone to practice english with that he practically leaps up from his stool when he wishes me a good morning. the staring staring staring eyes i encounter almost everywhere i go, from leering men, from suspicious womenfolk, from curious children, from skeptical cool kids in blue jeans or whatever looking at me in my indianized dress wondering whats with that girl why isnt she wearing blue jeans like us is she weird or a crazed hippie or from iskcon or what, looks from people trying to catch my eye or stare me down or figure me out or imagine how i would look out of the clothes—cuz (much to my surprise at first, i had been so innocent and ignorant) certain men here seem to mostly identify white skin on female bodies with promiscuity and pornography, a fact reflected in their looks words and actions as well as in the self-defensive walk i have adopted unwillingly, staring at the ground body narrowed hunched crunched with my arms up in front to warn off the world.

life swings between these highs and lows, from friendliness genuine hospitality and love to sketchiness awkwardness embarrassment and even fear. i would be lying if i said the bad days were rare, that i don’t end up feeling crazy and angry and out-of-place more often than i can easily deal with. but on the worst of such days, i just try to think of my dance teachers, my bengali teachers, my classmates, and all the other little people in my life that protect me and make it worth it. cuz this is definitely no easy place to live, especially for a woman like me, all white-skinned young female unaccompanied and conspicuously not-belonging. but at the same time... i could not wish for a better educational experience, not only for what i learn in the classroom, but also what i learn in the hostel, on the street, and everywhere else i wander to.