Life on the Streets of Kolkata

If the heart of Hong Kong beats in its crowded lanes of high-rise, high-tech stores, packed to the gills with well-dressed shoppers eager to accessorize with the latest cellular gadget, then Kolkata comes alive in its streets: from the wide rivers of colorfully painted buses and honking motor-rickshaws, to the narrow lanes whose broken sidewalks cradle all moments of life from dawn to dusk.



When we first rolled (bounced) into town on the cratered roads leading away from the airport, we passed whole families, dimly lit by the street lights, sleeping one after another on the sidewalk. Closer to the center of town, these same sleepers were constantly passed by a midnight procession of dogs, men pulling rickshaws, or, presumedly, insomniacs.



When we finally stepped out of our air-conditioned hotel into the street, we were happy to see that the road had come to life, with taxis, three-wheeled motor-rickshaws, man-pulled rickshaws, buses, and aging streetcars. Crossing this aggressive cocktail of transportation is essentially like Frogger, but without "extra lives" (plus you're not a frog). I'm sure that any mother worth her salt would blanch at the thought of her child attempting this foolhardy feat (but don't worry about me, Mom -- I'm a pro).



If you're going to be hospitalized, at least you're doing it with the help of some very interesting vehicles. My favorite is the motor-rickshaw, boasting one motor-cycle-style wheel on the front, two wheels at the back, a thin metal frame draped over the whole contraption like a miniature van, and two passengers with an apparent death wish crammed inside open doorways. These speed along with no regard for pedestrians -- although that could be said about any other motorized vehicle -- or their ears, as their constantly honking horns seem to be among the most shrill on the road. (Also of interest are the buses, whose varied decorations have only two common themes: some sort of name, title, or route, and a brightly and intricately painted "DANGER" on the back, just in case you were actually planning on getting anywhere near one of these things.)



Yet the real street life spends its time off the pocketed roads and on the sidewalks, whose once neatly paved surface and now damaged surface is only repaired to the point you can walk on it, perhaps with some smashed bricks and a few shovels of gravel. Popular sidewalk activity seems to follow this rule of thumb: if you can do it, you can do it on a sidewalk.



Can you bathe? Well, you can do it at a pump on the sidewalk. Can you get a haircut or a shave? You can do it at a mobile salon on the sidewalk. Shops drape tarps from buildings to trees, covering entire kitchens moved to the street. Men crank sugar cane through the gears of long-handled machines, making and selling cane juice on the streets. We even saw one enterprising lad get the street to work for him: setting a short length of cane on the road, he picked up a 100-pound stone crossing a gutter, and used it to smash the cane into a juicy pulp from which he could suck its nectar.



When yesterday's thunderclaps caught up with us, we counted ourselves lucky to have the random assortment of tarps covering the sidewalks. We scurried from tarp to tarp in brief moments of light rainfall, joining soggy crowds of businessmen, shopkeepers, and couriers, whose heavy loads were always carried on their heads.



Although the rain washed away the sticky film of humidity that we'd felt all morning, it did so only by soaking our clothing, so we quite happy to find our way into the Computerized (!) Railway Booking Office in the city center. As we dried, we worked at figuring out how to purchase a ticket through what appeared to be a convoluted system. In fact, it wasn't too difficult, but after finding our train information on a board and writing it on a sheet, we had to wait about 30 minutes in a line that never moved. Luckily for us tourists, that was enough time to dry off before being pointed to the "tourist office," whose staff quickly invited us to have a seat and spend our greenbacks. Presto, done, and we'll be off to Darjeeling on an overnight train Sunday night.



When we left the offices, the rains had passed and the street had come alive again, with pedestrians dodging puddles and traffic, and traffic moving the water from the puddles onto me. As the daylight dimmed, we returned to our hotel, showered up, and headed off for a well deserved dinner.



The day had already taken a lot out of us. We had already dealt with the constant onslaught of noise, the solicitation of vendors and drivers, the unrelenting traffic, the rain, and the general disorientation of not knowing where to find anything, and we were ready for a great meal. The "BAR-B-Q" was this and more, providing not only food, but great service, air conditioning, and some space to breathe. (Our only other meal yesterday was lunch at the Blue Sky Cafe, whose owners were shocked to hear that we knew anything about cricket. "You understand cricket?" they asked, to which we responded, "Well, we saw Lagaan." Their laughter tells me that Bollywood and cricket are a great start to getting to know the country.)



Finally, we headed back to our a/c room with full bellies, watching the street go into hibernation, and noting with a sort of awkward guilt the dogs curling up next to people sleeping on the sidewalks. It's difficult to reconcile the comforts that make our travel fun and exciting against this low standard of living that makes "home sweet home" little more than a sporadically paved strip of sidewalk for so many people.



Later this week: a handful of architectural feats, life on the Indian railways, and the world's largest banyan tree.