“Life was solitary, poor, nasty,” droned the professor on a hot, lazy afternoon when the body clocks of most students signalled that it was time for a lovely surreptitious siesta, without actually dozing off on to the next guy’s shoulder. This was sometime in my first year at Presidency, when I was being introduced to the wondrous possibilities of how the State had emerged in history.
I had no idea that George W Bush had chosen to accompany me to Rome during the weekend — en-route to Albania from his G-8 conference in Germany. This gentleman seems to excite agitationists all over the world, and Italians are, even without much provocation, a rather excitable lot. Thus the city of St. Peter was now in the hands of protestors and the Italian government felt that the situation was so serious that the normal police would be unable to handle it. Hence, one was treated to a very rare spectacle of witnessing the smart, semi-military crack force, the carabinieri on real time prowl all over Rome — in their dark blue macho uniforms and their threatening rifles and pistols. Girls, both turisti and local drooled over those handsome hunks that were straining to impress them with their crackling walky- talkies.
I came across a photograph of Pandit Nehru sitting on a simple wooden bed, covered with a frugal white sheet and a few batik spreads, and a couple of pillows strewn behind and beside him. There were no crowds on the dais, which was obviously during the Convocation of Visva Bharati in (1954), and while the Upacharya, who was at the right corner of the photo, delivered his address over an ancient microphone, Panditji looked straight at the audience.
The dichotomous relation between the two extremities of any religion, however rigid be its structure or dogma — between the formal, scriptural version on the one hand and the plethora of practices and rituals that pass off as the ‘little’ or popular tradition on the other — have never ceased to enchant the observer and entice the researcher.
Of the millions who stand reverentially before the thousands of Durga images in Bengal during the annual pujas, how many wonder as to why Kartikeya — the valiant general of the gods — looks away so apathetically, when his mother is locked in a mortal conflict with one of the most dangerous adversaries of the gods? Why do the daughters, Lakshmi and Saraswati look so benign and disinterested, when Durga’s eyes puff and widen in rage and fury? And their potbellied elephant-headed sibling, Ganesha: what is his role?
Of all the quaint and colourful foreign communities that have contributed their distinctive hue to the kaleidoscopic variety of Calcutta's life during the preceding centuries, the Chinese stand out prominent, bright and with a rare degree of permanence. For, while the Jews and Armenians have almost entirely left the second city of the Empire, and the European nationalities have dwindled to miniscule numbers, the Chinese have swelled their ranks to carve out for themselves a special niche in the hearts and minds of Calcuttans.
The story of how Job Charnock landed at a place near Nimtala Ghat on August 24, 1690, is so much a part of recorded history that is seldom questioned. The Diary and consultation book of the Rt. Hon'ble East India Company chronicles the event quite authoritatively. But as the city prepares for its tercentenary celebrations, a challenge to that theory is worth recalling. Charnock's credit was contested, almost by accident, 204 years after Calcutta was founded. It was in the early part of 1894 that the Government of India directed the Government of Bengal to compile a list of Bengal's old Christian tombstones and monuments of historical and archaeological interest. An Armennian scholar and businessman, Mesrovb Jacob Seth, was invited to translate into English a number of the Inscriptions in classical Armanian on the tombstones in the Armenian churchyards of Calcutta, Chinsurah and Saidbabad.
The history of Calcutta in the first half of the 18 th Century remains a never- ending source of interests and speculation. Yes, speculation — for the official records of Calcutta were all destroyed during Shiraj-ud-Dowla’s attack and occupation of the city in 1756. Hence, the supreme importance of non-official reports and letters, including those of travellers.
‘Akaal Bodhan’, or the untimely invocation of Goddess Durga in the month of Ashwin (mid-September to mid- October), has been an intergal part of Bengal's social and religious culture, for centuries. When the first British merchants entered Bengal in the seventeenth century and came in contact with Hindu religious festivals, their initial reaction ranged from curious appreciation to outright horror. The strange deities, the colourful costumes and the cacophony of weird flutes, pipes, cymbals and drums of all types, conjured an impression that evoked either admiration or disgust.
The Sunday Statesman’, Literary Supplement, 4th March, 1984 Which is the oldest surviving newspaper in India? Which Indian newspaper started publication at least three years before ‘The Times’, London, and is still continuing? The answer to both queries would surprise many. ‘The Calcutta Gazette’, which completes 200 year of publication today.
As Calcutta approaches its tricentury (1990), and urbanologists and forecasters quarrel over its future, nostalgia rules the day for a dedicated band of historians, researchers and simple Calcutta-lovers. Anthologies, histories, sketches and hitherto unknown facets of the city's chequered past are churned out with persistent regularity. The latest book on old Calcutta is mainly a reproduction of the writings of two famous 19th century British commentators who lived and worked in this city, and is profusely annotated and edited by an Indian expert.
It rained incessantly on Sunday, the 24th of August, 1690. The English ketch fought the monsoon swell in the unruly Hooghly and dropped anchor at an obscure village on the east bank of the river. Little did the band of muttering Englishmen realise the significance of the event when the Lancashireman, Job Charnock, Agent of the London East India Company, waded through the squishy silt and clambered onto higher ground. The place of landing is supposed to be Muhonto's Ghat near Nimtollah.
December, 1921. The Calcutta race course. Backers and bookmakers were screaming themselves hoarse as the thundering phalanx of horses drew closer to the post. The steward discreetly observed the Prince of Wales mopping his regal brow, as frenzied punters broke into hysterics. “Galway Gate’ streaked past the winning post — nose, neck, hood, head and all length.
Fifteen miles downstream from Calcutta on the left bank of the Hooghly, at a village called Achipur, stands a sparkling red tomb, with an uncommon shape and a little known tale. Its brightness can not fail to attract all and sundry who choose to glide along this lazy stretch of the river a few miles before it flows out to the sea. Its horse-shoe architecture with the two ends inclining downwards is supposedly characteristic of Chinese cemeteries. The waves of the river lap dangerously close to the tomb, and had it not been for the embankment built recently by some thoughtful Chinese gentleman, the tomb of the first Chinaman to set foot on the shores of Bengal, (or for that matter, India) would have been lost to the muddy Hooghly. The first Chinaman, in modern times, that is.
You take a good look at yourself in the mirror, comb in hand. Set down forcefully that obstinate bunch of hair sticking out rebelliously. That is right. Just fine. The trousers need a bit of pressing but will do for the day. So, all set, you pick up that exercise book, tuck in the pen on to your vest, under the shirt and come down the stairs on to the streets of Ray’s ‘Mahanagar’ Calcutta.