The smell of death

Kolkata once boasted the greatest collection of splendorous colonial architecture in the world, the "City of Palaces", the gem of British India. Yet perhaps no other Indian metropolis had suffered as much when the center of power was permanently shifted to Delhi. Kolkata had since been mired in an almost century-long decline, with her Bengali hinterland ripped apart into two separate halves with much violence. Her people's penchant for maoist communism did not help. It was only with the recent IT led boom that the city brought herself to her feet again; however those lost decades scarred the Kolkata deeply. The decay was still apparent even in the heart of town; squatters eating away the base of ornate weather beaten buildings; rubbish overflowing unto the streets; the occasional human/animal waste littering the pavements; the ubiquitous child beggar with that septic patch on his limbs or scalp, almost as if the rot had crept into him from the city, tugging at your clothes with his crusty pleading eyes. Even the recent boom contributed to this dismal image, the extensive roadworks necessitated by decades of neglect and revived by the improving economy piled up mountains of debris on the streets as if it were a war-zone. It was somewhat like a dystopian London, "the Empire with a dark complexion"; it even has a metro which looks just as tired as its counterparts above grade, the city trams that still trawl certain parts of the city. When Theroux set foot here in the 70s, he smelled death; 30 years later the stench lingers.

But all that perhaps are merely empty physical manifestations of our transient existence. Like the emaciated Indian holy man, the Calcuttans seemed oblivious to their decrepit physical surroundings; they had survived those nasty years, and now they are finally thriving again.



Drowned in perspiration from the stifling evening heat of the high Indian summer, I checked into a dingy air-conditioned cell-like room in Sudder Street area, Kolkata's Khao San, with scores of baby roaches as my bed fellows. I somewhat regretted my decision since the nights turned out to be rather pleasant as Kolkata, flanked by the Hoogly and being close to the sea, enjoys a constant night breeze.

After my first Indian masala dinner, I set out to explore the Sudder St-New Market area. It was a bustling district with bazaars sprouting along stretches of pavements, carpark lots, where vendors would display their wares on their vehicles so they do not even need a mat. The darkness blanketed the unsightly, and where there was light, the people gathered and goods were laid out. The mood was festive, there were people shooting luminous catapults into the sky and peddlers playing with pipes that would shoot up several feet into the air when you blow into it. The Calcuttans dined by the roadside and strolled leisurely among the bazaars, relieved from the intense heat of the day. It was then that I understood the Indians' fascination for the sterile Singapore shopping experience which consists of malls strung up together by brightly lit pedestrian connections so you would never be exposed to the elements: there was little escape filth and dangers that plagued the streets, the only respite was nighttime when the ugly was hidden away, but darkness is also ominous for there is always the fear of the unknown dangers that lurk in every corner.




I finally retired to my room and made it a little more cheerful a little less lonesome by filling it with the images and sounds of the TV. There was an English news channel and on endless repeat were the news footages and updates of the Arushi murder, a suspect case of honour-killing. The odour of stale urine permeating from the bathroom made the room seem even more unsanitary. Being especially anal about the cleanliness of my sleeping conditions and still rather fresh from the sterile environment of Singapore, I felt a little uneasy about the suspicious looking bed. I bolted the bathroom door to keep out the unwelcome perfumes and laid my sleeping bag on the tired looking bedsheets, drifting in and out of sleep to the noise of buzzing door bells in adjoining rooms and the occasional Bengali chattering.