A Favorite City?

“How can you like a place with that much poverty?” Nicole asked me clearly annoyed.

Hands down, Calcutta is my favorite city in India. From the moment I stepped foot in the city, there was a chaotic charm that engulfed me, as the rain poured outside and the city continued to buzz. It was dark, I was tired, I had no clue where the taxi driver was taking us, and I still stared out the window with that feeling of excitement that a youngster shows when his parents take him to Mount Rushmore for the first time. Welcome to Calcutta, which in new India is now called Kolkata.

But Nicole’s question kept nagging at me, as I felt guilty for liking this city. It was easy for me to appreciate only the good that the city offered: I could take up and leave anytime that I wanted to. I could escape to our homey flat and have Madan, the caretaker at where we stayed cook us up a feast. I could compartmentalize the real Kolkata as a mere “sight to see” or “city to experience,” without being forced to confront the life that millions of Bengalis suffer through each day.

But in many ways, that is what travel—especially to developing countries—is all about. Trying to find the gem amongst the rubble, as a guilty western conscience gnaws at me. Being confused, asking questions, seeing and uncomfortably feeling a different way that people live. And guiltily enjoying it.

I love Kolkata because it’s a city in motion. People are always on the move. And working. While other Indian cities to me revealed a sort of stagnant chaos—movement everywhere that seemed to keep everything standing still—Kolkata was constantly on the move, and getting somewhere (although I admit I have no clue where). Men buzzed around with huge sacks on their head, corner chefs fed the masses, rickshaa drivers busily pedaled, walked and drove, children danced through the streets, and the city embodied each movement. It is definitely not a static city.

The transportation represents all of these different types of movement. It is the only place left in the world with manual rickshaas (definitely seems feudal to me). Cycle and auto rickshaas complete the trio. There is an above ground tram, a subway Metro, plenty of busses, taxis, bikes, ferries, house boats, fishing boats, you name it. I saw individuals in makeshift wheelchairs, and I even saw a beggar with no legs slide across the street with a tiny board on wheels. Anything so as to not stay still.

And the architecture. Sure, it is run-down British colonial, once again making me feel guilty for liking something with such a European influence. But it still had the diversity of colors that will always be India to me. It looked like a city lost in time, kind of like Havana, Cuba, where buildings slowly grew weary and decrepit, but maintained the architectural allure that it always had. The buildings and neighborhoods were a not-so-distant escape from the hustle of the city, and the narrow back streets represented this serenity. There was some quiet in this city after all.

Finally, as a traveler, so much of your experience in a city is defined by where you stay and who you meet. There is no good way to get around this. Kolkata brought us Madan, the caretaker at where we stayed who would end up for me representing the prototypical Bengali: my symbol of Kolkata. I stayed at a friend’s late grandparents’ flat in an intellectual section of the city, tucked away just off of the lively action of Kolkata. It was the perfect refuge: thousands of aging books decorated the dining room, curtains blew in the air to the beat of the ceiling fan, and a canopy bed waited in which to fall asleep.

Madan has lived in this house for 40 years. He came here when he was twenty years old. The late owner was a lawyer, one of the best in Calcutta, Madan told us. He clearly took pride in his old boss, and his face displayed a subtle display of nostalgia. I noticed when he walked around the house the place just didn’t feel quite right without them. Madan loved to cook: he made us sautéed fish, chicken and vegetable curry and a beautiful roasted chicken. He made the best roti. He served the food with the charming Bengali arrogance: he knew it was good. For me, Kolkata would not be the same without him.

In two days, Kolkata entered my list of favorite cities. Along with Havana, La Paz, Santiago (Chile), and Rome. It intrigued me, confused me, saddened me, and moved me. I wondered if I could live there, and I tried to convince myself that I could. But the arrogance of traveling took shape and we had to leave.

And perhaps that is the real reason I could fall in love with the city after all: I could leave Kolkata after only two days.