Kolkata is dynamic and fascinating but also on the sketchy side. It’s all in your face and no way to escape. Disembarking at Howrah station with a teeming mass of humanity can be an intimidating experience. T, who had accompanied us from Shantiniketan, warned us to hold on to our bags as we tried to sift through the throng of passengers to reach the exit. We waited out of sight as T arranged a taxi and we started toward Sudder St. Somehow, the places we mentioned (recommended from our guide books) were all booked. (T called so I trust it was true). The cab driver stopped at a rundown hotel down a dark alley. Yes, that sounds promising, doesn’t it? I didn’t like the dilapidated exterior, but thought I would take a look inside to see what they had to offer, even though I knew he would be getting a commission for taking us there. Needless to say, the place was not to my liking. The taxi driver was annoyed. He offered a plan that he would go check out rooms at some other hotels and then come back and get us. What? I insisted we needed to see the rooms, not him. We went to two other hotels in similar states of disrepair and I rejected those as well. The driver said he would take us to one more place and that was it. He was done. The fourth room was tolerable, even though more expensive, so that is where we ended up. T warned us to be extremely modest, since we were in a Muslim neighborhood. I was dressed in a loose salwaar kameez with dupatti scarf, so I thought I was being modest? Anyway, he just wanted to reinforce the issue.
All was well, save a few times when we lost electricity, which meant no fan or AC, and the air became stifling in the room. In the bathroom, the ubiquitous dripping of the faucet lulled us into a stupor. Just when we thought it was becoming unbearable, the electricity revived. T had left us shortly after getting to the hotel, so we were on our own for two days. If Tabby hadn’t gotten sick, we would have been in Kolkata a day earlier. Frankly, I was relieved to have a shorter stay.
In the morning, we found a rickshaw. We told the driver where we were going and he said it would be 50 rupees. Well, he tried to take us somewhere else. He didn’t know what we were saying so he had to ask others for directions. Turns out rickshaws aren’t allowed on Park Street. I don’t know if I believe him. Now, with a new destination, I asked how much it would be. He hesitated and started pedaling faster, saying 500 rupees. What?? I ordered him to stop and let us off. He didn’t listen. When he didn’t slow down, I was getting ready to jump out. I only hoped Tabby was thinking the same thing. He finally did slow. I don’t think he was strong enough to keep up the pace. We got down and I paid him the 50 rupees. He got this insulted look on his face and said “50...EACH!” I don’t think so. “no, we agreed on 50.” We left him scowling, as we wandered down the streets in a strange city that had no street signs. At least none that we could read. We were determined to find the cemetery on our own, and asked a few passers by for directions.
After getting our bearings, and consulting the map, we managed to find it without much trouble. It was only a mile and a half away. 500 rupees. Yeah, right. The Park Street Cemetery contained obelisks, pyramids, and mausolea in memory of the British, many with distinguished careers, who died while living in Kolkata. Many died young from tropical diseases or at sea, and the inscriptions provided a glimpse into the challenging lives they led.
All was well, save a few times when we lost electricity, which meant no fan or AC, and the air became stifling in the room. In the bathroom, the ubiquitous dripping of the faucet lulled us into a stupor. Just when we thought it was becoming unbearable, the electricity revived. T had left us shortly after getting to the hotel, so we were on our own for two days. If Tabby hadn’t gotten sick, we would have been in Kolkata a day earlier. Frankly, I was relieved to have a shorter stay.
In the morning, we found a rickshaw. We told the driver where we were going and he said it would be 50 rupees. Well, he tried to take us somewhere else. He didn’t know what we were saying so he had to ask others for directions. Turns out rickshaws aren’t allowed on Park Street. I don’t know if I believe him. Now, with a new destination, I asked how much it would be. He hesitated and started pedaling faster, saying 500 rupees. What?? I ordered him to stop and let us off. He didn’t listen. When he didn’t slow down, I was getting ready to jump out. I only hoped Tabby was thinking the same thing. He finally did slow. I don’t think he was strong enough to keep up the pace. We got down and I paid him the 50 rupees. He got this insulted look on his face and said “50...EACH!” I don’t think so. “no, we agreed on 50.” We left him scowling, as we wandered down the streets in a strange city that had no street signs. At least none that we could read. We were determined to find the cemetery on our own, and asked a few passers by for directions.
After getting our bearings, and consulting the map, we managed to find it without much trouble. It was only a mile and a half away. 500 rupees. Yeah, right. The Park Street Cemetery contained obelisks, pyramids, and mausolea in memory of the British, many with distinguished careers, who died while living in Kolkata. Many died young from tropical diseases or at sea, and the inscriptions provided a glimpse into the challenging lives they led.
From there we found St. Paul’s Cathedral, and went to the New Market for some souvenir shopping. All that haggling and the persistent touts grew exhausting pretty fast, but we walked all the way back to the hotel.
We had been warned for days that there was going to be a strike, and it happened on Tuesday. Most shops, banks and restaurants were closed. The city was eerie in this state of desertion, such a contrast to its natural state. We went to the Victoria Memorial, where we were at first denied entrance. Someone came over and had a talk with the security guard, and then we were allowed into the gardens. Another person warned us to be aware of any miscreants roaming the premises. Afterwards, we went to the Indian Museum. At this point, we wee starving and opted to eat a very Indian meal at Pizza Hut! Seriously, everything else was closed. We weren’t even sure it would be open. Our waiter told us that Pizza Hut never closes, much to his dismay. During the middle of lunch, all of the waiters lined up and treated us to a synchronized dance routine, Bollywood style.
That evening, we were scheduled to be on the night train to Bhubaneswar in Orissa. We had reserved an AC3 compartment, so I had high hopes that I would have a better experience this time compared to Darjeeling. When I was here two years ago, I had a similar compartment, which was all good. This time, Howrah station was empty. I guess everyone got scared off by the strike. In fact, our train car only had four other people, in the entire car! I was ecstatic to have the compartment to ourselves! Someone was concerned for our safety and suggested that we move to another nearby car, which had plenty of room as well. Besides a minor smell of garbage combined with rat poison, everything was great. (Did I mention I saw a mouse scurry across the floor near my feet on the train from Shantiniketan to Kolkata? Mom, I’m putting this in for you!) We got a bedroll, and attendants were on hand nearby. They also made sure that we were awake for our intended stop and got off at the right place in the wee hours of the morning. If you can spare the cost, I do recommend the AC car on your next night train ride through India.
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