My last stop in north India was Kolkata.
Before visiting, my expectation of Kolkata (once spelled Calcutta) stemmed from a book about Mother Teresa that I read in grade school. In one scene, Mother Teresa knelt in the garbage on the streets of Kolkata, treating a man with parasitic worms. The man looked up at her and asked, “Why are you doing this for me?” She replied, “Because I love you.”
This scene has been stuck in my head for 20 years; this was the Kolkata I expected. And while that side exists, the Kolkata I discovered was also vibrant, growing, and, in many ways, western. In fact, the area around the airport reminded me of Miami. And on a lazy, tree-lined side street near my hotel, I saw New Orleans.
I was told that it’s acceptable to wear tank tops in Kolkata, something that I was cautioned against wearing in every other city in north India. So, I promptly donned a sleeveless shirt over my cargo pants and instantly regretted it. Within seconds I was being hassled by a skinny, 20-something who followed me two blocks, repeatedly asking for my phone number until I told him to f*%# off. Then, moments later, a man at the ATM bumped up against me. Something about the way he hit my breasts and lingered there made me know that it was intentional. Everywhere I looked, men were devouring me with their eyes.
Maybe I just had a bad experience, but, ladies, no matter what you hear, I would save your tank tops for south India.
Kolkata served as the capital of India during the British Raj (i.e, period of British colonial rule in South Asia between 1858 and 1947) and it bears vestiges of that rule, like the Victoria Memorial, above. Lonely Planet described the memorial (a structure established in 1921 to honor the queen) as a mixture between the US Capitol Building and the Taj Mahal. Architecturally, I see why. It’s lovely inside and out (some maintain that it’s prettier than the Taj Mahal) but because it’s a British-built memorial, many Indians would never admit that.
The Victoria Memorial sits on 64 acres of gardens; there is a reflecting pond out back. Around the reflecting pond, I noticed a preponderance of couples holding hands, embracing, and generally swooning over each other (another example of the western influences sweeping Kolkata).
Sadly, I was battling a respiratory infection, and Kolkata’s dirty air seemed almost unbearable. I walked around, hacking every few seconds. My lungs felt filthy, as though I’d just smoked a pack of cigarettes. A tourist guide I read said that 25% of travelers to India develop a respiratory infection.
In Kolkata, the north India portion of my trip was all but over. At dinner, I ordered chelo kabab, a dish that’s imported from Iran. It was rice with a fried egg on top, flanked by spicy mutton (lamb), chicken, and vegetables. It was heaven. It was also the first time I ate meat in India.
I wondered if my body would rebel; it didn’t. Once again, I thanked my dad for giving me his “steel stomach.” Unfortunately, several people I ate chelo kebab with in that restaurant did not have steel stomaches. Afterward, in the taxi, they were sweating and steel-faced. When we reached our hotel, they rushed inside. I, on the other hand, wandered in slowly, coughing.
I loved north India more than I could imagine loving a place. But after five weeks I was tired and ready for the low-key, less conservative south.