Finding Joy in Calcutta

Calcutta is a city of paradoxes. Chaotic, yet charming. Modern, yet old-fashioned. Capitalist, yet socialist. Intellectual, yet romantic. 

These lovable contradictions make it worthy enough to be called the City of Joy, a moniker born from Dominique Lapierre’s 1985 novel, where characters find happiness amidst adversity.

No matter who you are or where you are from, the city embraces you like one of its own. And in its comforting imperfection, you will find a place to call home.

Situated on the banks of the Ganges, Calcutta is the capital city of the state of West Bengal. Names can be deceptive, this state is in the eastern part of India. The prefix is a reminder of the subcontinent’s troubled Partition, when the western part of Bengal remained with India, while the eastern part became East Pakistan and later Bangladesh.

And speaking of capitals, Calcutta was the capital of British India before New Delhi took over. At its heyday, it was a melting pot that attracted minds from far and wide, such as the Portuguese, Greeks, Jews, Armenians, and Brits, where politics, art, culture, and commerce flourished.

Robert Clive of the East India Company laid the foundations for British rule in Bengal in 1765.

Historian William Dalrymple notes, “In 1806, Calcutta was at the height of its golden age. Known as the City of Palaces or the St. Petersburg of the East, the British bridgehead in Bengal was unquestionably the richest, largest and most elegant colonial city in India.”

Remnants of the British era are very much alive in the city, be it in the architecture or ideas.

Behind every para (neighbourhood), lies a story waiting to be told. And I was all ears to listen.

One of the first sights you’ll see in Calcutta are the iconic bright yellow cabs dominating the city roads.

I got to ride in a cab driven by a kind old man, bonding with him over lively conversations. As for my destination, I knew exactly where I had to go first.

Bengali women are admired globally for their unparalleled beauty. With every turn in Calcutta, I came across many gorgeous women who dazzled with their lovely smiles and enchanting eyes. The kind that’ll make you say, “Ami tomaye bhalobashi” (I love you).

But do you know who’s the most beautiful of them all? She’s the epitome of beauty, both inner and outer, in the whole world, not just in Calcutta.

Agnes Bojaxhiu was her name, or as you’d know her better, Mother Teresa. She has touched hearts and has inspired, and continues to inspire, many, including me.

Her legacy is ubiquitous throughout Calcutta, such that her statue or name could be seen in almost every para.

I came to Calcutta to volunteer with the Missionaries of Charity. Not having the slightest clue of how it worked, I took a leap of faith and knocked on the door of the Mother House, the headquarters of her religious order.

This is where Mother Teresa lived, prayed, and worked for the poorest of the poor. She spent nearly seventy years in India, even longer than her time in her home country of Albania, which she left at eighteen.

The Mother House exuded a lovely vibe as the MC sisters warmly welcomed visitors, their gentle interactions and kind smiles making me feel right at home.

An Irish nun showed me around and guided me to Mother Teresa’s room, preserved just as it was during her lifetime. The simple space had a bed, desk, table with bench, cabinet, and a few sacred icons. God indeed calls ordinary people to do extraordinary things.

After a life well lived, Mother Teresa was laid to her final rest in 1997, the same year I was born. Twenty-eight years later, I found myself paying my respects in the tomb chapel.

The inscription on Mother Teresa’s tomb had the very words she lived by every day.

The museum offered me a window into the life and times of the Mother through her personal belongings, letters, photos, and books.

The highlight was her Nobel Peace Prize, awarded in 1979, in which she humbly called herself “unworthy” in her acceptance speech, accepting it “it in the name of the hungry, of the naked, of the homeless, of the crippled, of the blind, of the leprous, of all those people who feel unwanted, unloved, uncared, thrown away of the society, people who have become a burden to the society, and are ashamed by everybody.”

I signed up with Sister Joshua Marie and soon joined nearly fifty volunteers from around the world to make a difference.

Each day began with a solemn prayer, followed by a pep talk from the sister. Not all volunteers were Christian. Some belonged to other faiths, while others were agnostics. Yet, everyone was united in the spirit of Christ for the greater good.

She divided us into groups, assigning each to one of six charitable homes in the city that catered to different underprivileged folks, including orphaned children, the specially challenged, the homeless, and the dying.

The Baptist Missionary Society Guest House, where I stayed, was conveniently located in a sprawling green campus next to the Mother House.

BMS traces its origins to English Christian missionary William Carey, the Father of Modern Missions, who made immense contributions to Calcutta by founding schools and colleges, campaigning to end the regressive practice of sati (where a Hindu widow is forcefully burnt alive on her deceased husband’s funeral pyre), starting a press, among others.

The plaque outside the main block bears William Carey’s inspiring words, “Expect great things from God. Attempt great things for God.”

The nearby Saint Teresa of Ávila Church holds a special connection with Mother Teresa.

Raised in a loving Albanian Catholic family, Mother Teresa devoted her life to God, becoming a nun at sixteen. After her initial training in Ireland, she was sent to this church in Calcutta, where she took her religious vows as a nun and adopted her new name in reverence to Saint Thérèse de Lisieux, the patron saint of missionaries.

She served in this convent school for nearly twenty years. During this time, she was deeply disturbed by the dire poverty surrounding her. After much discernment, she was called by God to establish the Missionaries of Charity.

From humble beginnings with twelve sisters in 1950, it has grown into a global network with nearly 6000 sisters in over 140 countries, who embody simplicity and humility.

My daily routine kicked off with a bumpy bus ride from the Mother House to Manicktala in these vibrant blue buses, an adventure in itself.

For the next three weeks, I volunteered at Daya Dan (gift of giving in Bengali), a home for orphaned children with physical and intellectual challenges.

As someone who loves kids, caring for these neurodiverse children was a dream come true. In no time, I became familiar with them and could put names to their faces.

Most of my work was in the kitchen, helping with meal prep, serving, and cleaning. Spoon-feeding the kids was challenging yet rewarding, especially with the blind children, and wiping each child’s mouth after meals felt like a mission accomplished.

I cherished the moments spent with the children, whether helping with homework or just playing and having fun.

Though all the boys are special in their own way, I was particularly fond of Dev, the most active (read: mischievous) of the lot. Born with Down syndrome, he is super clever and doesn’t let his condition stand in his way.

What touched me the most was his sweet gesture. During the morning prayers, all volunteers are supposed to bless the children. I used to move around tracing a little cross on their foreheads. Whenever it was Dev’s turn, he’d lovingly cross me back.

Once lunch was done, I’d escort the school-going kids to their pick-up point and put the younger ones to bed, followed by tidying up their rooms.

I asked a new volunteer to “hang” with me, and his excitement quickly turned to surprise when he realised I actually meant line drying kids’ clothes.

Sister Sharon Claire, the facility’s in-charge, won me over with her motherly warmth. On weekends, she’d organise fun contests like a ‘get-ready for school’ challenge, encouraging the kids to be independent.

Aritra, a bright student born with a serious condition, recovered after timely medical attention from the sisters. Today he dreams of becoming a doctor to treat others like him. As he’s a quick learner skilled in playing the piano and drums, I got him a chessboard as a parting gift to help him master a new skill.

In the petite chapel downstairs, I met Sister Jean. She was a young nurse when Mother Teresa’s words “Follow me” changed her path, inspiring her to join the congregation, a story similar to Christ calling Peter. Now in her seventies, she recounted her experiences of bravely serving the sick in war-torn Ethiopia.

Attending a special mass for the Feast of Corpus Christi at this chapel with the sisters and kids was a blessing.

I also spent an evening volunteering at Kalighat Home for the Dying, the first hospice founded by Mother Teresa Here, where I witnessed firsthand the transformative power of the sisters’ compassion for destitute people to find dignity in their final moments.

The hospice is located in the historic Kalighat neighbourhood, which is bustling with crowds and full of energy.

The place gets its name from the Kali Mandir, the temple most visited by Hindus in Calcutta.

Near the Kali Mandir entrance stands India’s only Greek Orthodox church, in front of which many Hindu pilgrims make a roadside pronam (reverential prostration) to display their devotion to Christ before crossing the road to the temple.

The Doric columns and the triangular pediment brought to mind the ancient Parthenon of Athens.

Trade flourished between ancient Greece and Bengal, paving the way for Greek settlers who came to Calcutta in the 17th century. In 1752, Hadjee Alexias Argyree, a wealthy Greek merchant from Philippi, got caught in a fierce storm on a voyage to Jeddah. Close to death, Argyree prayed, vowing to build a church in Calcutta if rescued. His prayer was answered when the storm subsided miraculously.

At the Sunday morning liturgy, I stood as the priest swung the censer, filling the nave with the rich, woody scent of frankincense as he chanted. It was all Greek to me, literally.

Volunteering with the Missionaries of Charity introduced me to amazing folks from around the world. Fr. Sinisa was one of them. Born in war-torn Bosnia, he fled the conflict as a child with his family and later found asylum in the US. Inspired by Pope Benedict’s 2008 mass in New York, he felt called to dedicate his life to God and joined the vocation.

I also met three brothers from the Servants of Christ Jesus, a small Colorado-based Catholic order who stand out with their black attire and shaved heads.

Sister Joshua Marie organised a volunteers’ outing for us at Prem Dan, a home for intellectually challenged elders. Prem Dan means ‘gift of love’ in Bengali, and rightly so. The elderly residents were filled with joy at our visit, greeting us with warm smiles and friendly waves.

We participated in meaningful sessions, where we sat in groups with an MC sister and shared our experiences. I shared how volunteering with the Missionaries of Charity in Calcutta was a life-changing experience for me.

The highlight of the evening was a solemn mass led by Fr. Sinisa at the chapel, bringing us closer in prayerful reflection.

After nourishment for the soul came nourishment for the body. The sisters cooked us delicious noodles, chicken ribs, and potato wedges. When I started washing the dishes after my meal, a smiling sister chimed in, “It's your day, you shouldn't!” 

At Daya Dan, kids bid volunteers a heartfelt farewell with a goodbye song, garlanding and presenting them with handmade paper flowers.

Time flew by, and before I knew it, my turn arrived. Some goodbyes are hard, and this one was especially hard. On my last day, the kids’ song ended with ‘Come again, brother’. I definitely will.

Working with these kids has made me discover a nurturing side of myself and a paternal instinct I never knew I had. I hope to have children and build my own family someday, by His grace.

Mother Teresa’s quote, “Helping hands are better than praying lips,” struck a chord with me. I’d donated to charity before, yet it was a fleeting gesture since I just handed over money and walked away. But when I donated my valuable time, the experience was a whole lot more fulfilling.

Following the death of Queen Victoria, the then Viceroy of India suggested to build something, “monumental and grand, to which every newcomer in Calcutta will turn, and see revived before their eyes the marvels of the past,” thus giving rise to the Victoria Memorial.

Designed in the Indo-Saracenic style, it’s the largest monument dedicated to a monarch anywhere in the world, and is built with white Makrana marble, the same material used in the Taj Mahal.

This monument stood out as the most magnificent I’ve visited in India, truly grand in its scale and beauty.

A life-size marble statue of the Queen, holding the crown jewels, is the centrepiece of the memorial.

Under the dome, a series of twelve paintings commemorated key moments in Queen Victoria’s life such as her coronation.

The royal gallery has the world’s second-largest oil painting, a 1876 masterpiece depicting the royal procession of Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s husband, upon his arrival in Jaipur.

Sprawling across a vast area, the manicured gardens are meticulously maintained.

A row of street food stalls selling local treats were on my way out, and I munched on jhalmuri, a popular Bengali street snack made by tossing crispy puffed rice with boiled potatoes, onions, tomatoes, and ground spices.

Just a short walk from the Victoria Memorial is St. Paul’s Cathedral, the oldest Anglican cathedral in Asia. It’s modelled after the Canterbury Cathedral.

St. Paul’s Cathedral – 1839

While the cathedral glorifies the Creator, the Birla Planetarium next door marvels at His celestial creations. 

As the show began, the fulldome projection transported me to the vast expanse of space, surrounded by breathtaking celestial visuals that made the experience immersive.

I was completely absorbed in the wonders of the universe, witnessing the birth and evolution of stars, planets, and galaxies.

Indira Udayan, a nearby garden houses a series of memorials. The Bhasha Shaheed (Language Martyr) memorial has a statue of a mother holding her dead son on her lap. The woman embodies the mother language, while the dead man represents the martyrs who sacrificed their lives for the right to preserve their linguistic heritage. In West Bengal, the Indian government sought to impose Hindi, while in East Pakistan, the government enforced Urdu, posing a threat to the Bengali language.

A bronze statue of Ho Chi Minh caught my attention, situated alongside the avenue dedicated to the Vietnamese Communist leader.

You might wonder what connects Calcutta to Saigon thousands of miles away. The answer lies in Bengal’s past where the state was governed by a Communist government for 34 consecutive years. 

Lenin Avenue and Marx Engels Beethi Roads are other streets in the city with a Communist connection. Calcutta may have moved on from leftist rule, but communist nostalgia still lingers. 

The 21 July Martyrs memorial commemorates a tragic chapter in Bengal’s past. The Communist Party was infamous for vote rigging, which explains its three-decade uninterrupted rule. In 1993, a protest march demanding mandatory photo voter ID cards to curb electoral fraud turned violent. Police opened fire on the protesters, killing thirteen in broad daylight. 

This was a turning point in Bengal’s political landscape, and the rally’s main organisers formed their own party, the Trinamool Congress, which dethroned the Left Front in 2011 and has remained in power since.

Bengali cuisine is so refined, so it’s no surprise Bongs take pride in having a gourmet palate. And that’s why I love 6 Ballygunge Place, which indulges food connoisseurs.

The property is a renovated British bungalow and I could feel the nostalgia all around. The retro-themed decor and vintage props added to the dining experience.

The pride of this place is their Daab Chingri, a traditional Bengali preparation where a tender coconut is scooped out, and jumbo freshwater prawns marinated with ground mustard are stuffed into the coconut shell before being slow-cooked in an oven.

The daab malai (tender coconut cream) enriched the flavour of the gravy, making the pairing with rice a match made in heaven.

I also loved the Bhetki Paturi, fillet fish marinated in a spiced mustard paste, wrapped in banana leaves, and steamed until tender. Christ said faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains. For the amount of mustard Bengalis consume, they should be able to move the entire Himalayas with just a push.

Calcutta is often called the cultural capital of India owing to its rich association with literature, music, film, theatre, and art.

Art was omnipresent, filling every nook and corner of the city, from the public spaces to malls.

Rabindra Sadan is a prime cultural centre in the city that has long been a hub for Bengali theatre.

It’s dedicated to the memory of Rabindranath Tagore, the Bard of Bengal, who became the first non-European to win a Nobel Prize. A poet, writer, playwright, composer, philosopher, social reformer, and painter, he was a true polymath.

His paintings were as celebrated as his writing. Tagore’s modern art brilliantly expressed emotions like sorrow, fear, and mystery.

Within the same campus is Nandan. More than just a movie theatre, it’s a celebration of cinema and creativity.

Bengali cinema is known for its rich storytelling and realistic portrayal of social issues, exploring complex human relationships and societal dynamics.

One of my all-time favourites is Satyajit Ray, considered the greatest Bengali filmmaker of all time.

I had only watched Bengali movies on streaming platforms before, so I was excited to see one on the big screen. Grihapravesh told the story of a young woman coping with her husband’s disappearance when a mysterious guest arrives at her home.

I also watched Onkon Ki Kothin, a heartwarming film about three children in a Calcutta slum who dream of opening their own hospital someday.

Little did I know that my visit to the Indian Museum, the oldest as well as the largest museum in Asia, would spark a fascination with ancient history.

The museum housed exhibits that date back to the 1st century BC, notably Buddhist sculptures, given the fact that ancient Bengal was a major centre of Buddhism.

Exploring the different sections of the museum brought out a childlike enthusiasm in me.

Unlike other museums which warn visitors not to touch the exhibits, this museum invites us to “please touch” some of them, keeping the visually challenged in mind. A great example of inclusivity in action.

Bengal’s textiles are renowned globally for its exquisite quality and craftsmanship. So much so that the British were threatened by it during the Industrial Revolution and dismantled this industry by chopping the thumbs of Bengali weavers and destroying their looms.

After immersing myself in history at the museum, I made my way to the bustling Sir Stuart Hogg Market next door where the locals shopped and the curious explored.

Its imposing Victorian Gothic façade, with its bold red walls and elegant white arches, stood out amid the crowded street.

From textiles to cured meats and fine cheeses, vibrant flowers, and exotic pets, everything imaginable seemed to be on display.

The central attraction of the market is Nahoum and Sons, a bakery founded by Nahoum Israel Mordecai, a Baghdadi Jew.

The moment I stepped into the store, the rich aroma of freshly baked pastries wafted through the air, making it hard to resist overindulging.

True to its name, the heart cake was sweet enough to steal my heart. The cheese puff had a crispy exterior and a fluffy filling that was cheesier than a Hallmark movie.

Their apple tart was hands-down the best I’ve ever had. The rum ball was the first time I’d tried rum in any form, and it became my newfound favourite.

The Birkat HaBayit, a Jewish prayer traditionally inscribed at the entrance of Jewish homes, was proudly displayed on the counter. Staying true to their roots, the bakery remains closed on Shabbat every week and Jewish holidays like Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

Sudder Street, adjacent to the market, is always abuzz with activity and popular among hippie tourists.

Aminia on this street has a loyal following with Calcuttans swearing by their biryani, prompting me to find out why.

The Calcutta-style Mutton Biryani is distinct from other Indian variants since it includes potatoes.

Legend has it that a financially strained Nawab (Muslim ruler), who had lost his lands and wealth to the British, asked his chefs to get creative with limited resources. They resourcefully added potatoes to the biryani and the rest is history.

The smoky aroma of kebabs emanating from Nizam’s nearby drew me in. This legendary eatery invented the Kathi roll.

The story goes that during the 1930s, British officials used to grab a quick bite at this place after work. They found eating kebabs with their hands challenging, so Nizam’s found an innovative solution by wrapping the kebabs in crispy parathas (flaky Indian flatbread) and neatly packaging them in wax paper. 

Their Mutton Kathi Roll had me hooked from the first bite. Usually, when you roll something this good, it’s illegal. 

Seeking fulfillment, I visited an ashram. Not food for thought, just food for the stomach. Tucked away in a narrow alley, Siddeshwari Ashram is a pice hotel (Calcutta restaurants that serve home-style meals at affordable prices). 

A vibrant spread of Bengali comfort food landed on my table, with steaming hot Gobindobhog rice (a traditional variant known for its short grains and sweet, buttery flavor) accompanied by alu bhaja (crispy fried potato slices), alu dum (potato curry), dal (lentils) and postor bora (deep-fried patties made with ground white poppy seeds).

Any traditional Bengali meal is incomplete without seafood and what’s better than Chingri Malaikari, a rich, creamy Bengali prawn curry made by cooking bagda chingri (tiger prawns) using coconut milk.

An adage goes, “What Bengal thinks today, India thinks tomorrow.” Being a culturally and intellectually developed region, it’s ahead of its time and its innovative ideas eventually influence the rest of the country. No wonder Calcutta became India’s first city to launch a rapid transit system in 1984.

The Calcutta Metro seamlessly connects different parts of the city, and it became a part of my daily commute.

In an age where many doomscroll through reels on trains, it was heartening to see quite a few co-passengers armed with books, engrossed in reading. Bengalis sure do love their books!

Park Street is to Calcutta what the Champs-Élysées is to Paris... aka the OG high street of India. Dubbed as ‘the street that never sleeps’, this thoroughfare is the beating heart of the city’s nightlife and entertainment with its myriad trendy clubs and restaurants.

For centuries, this street has been the epicenter of Calcutta’s erudite, upper-middle-class Bengalis, affectionately known as Bongs.

Ask any Bong about Park Street, they’ll tell you it’s not just the food and nightlife. Oxford Bookstore is a key part of the experience. 

The book lover in me craved the scent of books drifting through the labyrinthine aisles. A who’s who of the literary world has graced this bookstore with their presence. Günter Grass, VS Naipaul, Salman Rushdie, to name a few. 

The 1970s saw Bengal rocked by the Naxalite movement, a left-wing extremist uprising driven by Maoist ideology, as rebels waged a violent campaign against the government. During this tumultuous time, this bookstore doubled as a dead drop point for comrades, who would exchange messages by secretly slipping notes into specific books for other members.

With a book in hand, I headed upstairs to Cha Bar, a cute little in-store cafés where I sat for hours and got lost between the pages.

On the barista’s suggestion, I got a cold coffee and fish and chips to keep my books company.

I snuck onto the campus of St. Xavier’s College on Park Street. As one of India’s leading colleges, it counts among its alumni several eminent personalities.

The college is dedicated to the memory of Saint Francis Xavier, known for his missionary work in India.

The first-ever Wow Momo outlet is right next to the college. Founded by two Xavier’s students in 2008, the brand has rapidly expanded to become India’s fastest-growing restaurant chain. 

As the name suggests, they specialise in momos, steamed dumplings filled with meat or vegetables. I snacked on a plate of Pan-fried Chicken Momos doused in Schezwan sauce. The dumplings packed a punch but weren’t worth the price.

If a momo and a burger had a love child, it would be the aptly named MoBurg.

Allen Park is often mistakenly believed to be the park that lends its name to Park Street. This green space comes alive with lights and vibes during Christmas every year. Boro Din is the traditional Bengali name for Christmas, and people greet each other by saying Shubho Boro Din (greetings of the great day).

A red and gold neon sign beckoned, leading me to Trincas, a heritage pub with roots going back to British times.

Quinto Cinzio Trinca, a Swiss businessman, arrived in India in the 1920s.

He partnered with Joseph Flury, a fellow countryman, and together they founded a Swiss confectionery and tea room in 1927, named after them.

Trinca and Flury soon parted ways. Down the line, Trincas sold his business and moved back to Switzerland with his family. Being Jewish himself, he was keen on entrusting his establishment to a fellow Jew, and Ellis Joshua fitted the bill.

Trincas has been a launchpad for a good number of bands, making a name for itself in Calcutta’s jazz scene.

Several singers and musicians, predominantly Anglo-Indians, would go on to make waves in showbiz.

Usha Uthup, regarded as India’s queen of pop and jazz, is perhaps the most famous among them. In the late ’60s, she defied conventions by choosing traditional ethnic wear in contrast to the classic Hollywood-inspired gowns worn by her fellow female singers.

In the Woody Allen movie Midnight in Paris, Owen Wilson time-travels to the romantic past by walking through the city streets at night. Stepping into Trincas was like walking back in time to the halcyon days of Calcutta, where jazz and alcohol flowed freely.

The Trincas story is a quintessential example of Calcutta’s cosmopolitan spirit, where a Swiss entrepreneur sold his tea room to a Jewish immigrant, serving a diverse crowd of Bengalis, Armenians, Greeks, Anglo-Indians, and more.

Given Trincas’ Jewish connection, I was pleasantly surprised to find Chilli Roast Pork on the menu.

The star of the show was their Devilled Crab, cooked in paprika sauce, topped with melted cheese, and baked to perfection in the shell, served alongside creamy mashed potatoes and peas.

Peter Cat is another iconic Park Street restaurant, notable enough to be featured among the seven places ranked in the book ‘India's Most Legendary Restaurants’.

The one dish that catapulted Peter Cat to fame is Chelo Kebab, comprising lamb kebabs, brochettes, fragrant rice, chargrilled tomatoes, and a soft fried egg, finished with cubes of butter. A feast for the eyes, and the taste buds, too.

Middleton Row, near Peter Cat, is steeped in history. At the far end of the row lies Loreto House, which was the only house in this vicinity back in the 1760s and had a huge deer park surrounding it, which is how Park Street got its name.

In the wake of China’s annexation of Tibet, the Dalai Lama fled to India. Thousands of Tibetan refugees followed him and settled in different parts of the country, Calcutta being among them. Blue Poppy Thakali in Middleton Row serves highland cuisine from the mountains of Tibet.

The intimate floor-seating setup offered a unique dining experience, reminiscent of a Tibetan home.

The founder Doma Wang has been nicknamed the Momo Queen of Calcutta by the press, which is quite telling. Her Beef Fried Momos were so good.

The chef’s special section of the menu described Popo’s Fried Rice as a dish “named after my grandfather Popo’s reward for good behaviour.” A few spoons of the rice fried in butter with prawns were all it took to understand why.

The Tibetan Mincemeat Chowmein captured the bold flavours of traditional Himalayan kitchens.

The last place I ever thought of visiting as a tourist attraction was a graveyard, let alone one where I’d have to pay for a ticket. And yet, here I was, standing at the entrance of the South Park Street Cemetery.

Founded as early as 1767, the cemetery is the final resting place for over 1600 British soldiers as well as their family members.

The whole place had a mysterious, Gothic vibe, like stepping into a Tim Burton movie set. As it was a rainy weekday afternoon, I was the only one around... the only living one, that is.

While others my age were busy bar hopping or island hopping, I was meanwhile grave hopping. My social life was dead, just like the people buried here

From simple headstones to grand mausoleums, there were elaborate memorials that told the stories of lives lived and lost. The folks buried here were dying to be discovered. Pardon the morbid pun.

The epitaphs, engraved in archaic English reminiscent of the KJV Bible, were so eloquent they’d give modern poets a run for their money.

Spotting a gravestone with the name David Ogilvy, I immediately thought of the advertising legend. But on reading the rest, it dawned on me that this David was a doctor who was treating people rather than selling to them.

While some graves mentioned the spouses or parents of the deceased, one caught my eye: Friend of Warren Hastings (the first Governor-General of Bengal). Guess having friends in high places matters, even after you’re long gone.

A poignant saying goes, ‘The smallest coffins are always the heaviest.’ Indeed, it was heartbreaking to see the graves of young children and infants, their lives cut tragically short.

Eager to try Bengali specialties, I headed to Ilish Truly Bong on Park Street, which lived up to its name.

Fish is a staple in Bengali cuisine, and Ilish (Hilsa herring) is prized for its soft, oily texture and mild taste. The spicy food lover in me got a bit bummed when the Ilish Biriyani arrived, since it was subtle in taste, but the dish began to grow on me.

If Park Street is a party-loving socialite, College Street is its nerdy cousin.

The street owes its name to Presidency College, having a reputation of producing two Nobel laureates in Economics.

Presidency University – 1817

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The University of Calcutta calls this street home too. At the time of its establishment, its jurisdiction spanned from Kabul to Rangoon and Ceylon, the largest of any Indian university.

University of Calcutta  – 1857

The street has many firsts to its credit. The Calcutta Medical College is Asia’s oldest med school dedicated to teaching Western medicine.

Calcutta Medical College – 1835

The 900-metre stretch has the distinction of being Asia’s largest book market and the world’s largest used book market. Locals wistfully call it Boi Para (colony of books in Bengali).

From new releases to pre-loved finds, and fiction to academic manuals, if it’s in print, you can mostly find it here.

Fresh off the press, brand-new copies were hitting the shelves as fast as the existing ones were flying off them.

Browsing through this street has to be every bibliophile’s wet dream, a perfect way to lose track of time.

Rows of detective novels lined the shelves. Bengali literature has produced some exceptional detective fiction. England has Sherlock Holmes, while Calcutta has its own sleuths, Feluda and Byomkesh. I came up with a joke right then and there: Why do Bongs make the best detectives? Because they know when something is fishy.

A copy of Mein Kampf stuck out like a sore thumb on a shelf. The book might have been banned in almost every country, but it’s not a struggle to find My Struggle in India. The irony was that it sat side by side with MK Gandhi’s My Experiments With Truth. The autobiography of a man known for his cruelty and that of a man associated with peace was a study in contrasts.

One can’t imagine College Street without the Indian Coffee House. synonymous with adda, a cherished Bengali tradition of gathering for long conversations on politics, poetry, art, life, and basically anything under the sun!

Beyond coffee, this place brewed revolution by providing a platform for Bong intellectuals to engage in passionate debates and shape ideologies.

Over time, it became a Mecca for intellectuals, artists, poets, and activists. Luminaries of the Bengali intelligentsia, such as Rabindranath Tagore, economist Amartya Sen, filmmaker Satyajit Ray, and nationalist leader Subhas Chandra Bose frequented this haunt.

The whole place gave off regal vibes with its waiters dressed in turbans and cummerbunds, a nod to the times of the British Raj. Ceramic cups clattered and the fragrance of roasted coffee filled the air, setting off a sensory high.

I settled into a cozy seat with a cup of cold coffee, paired with buttered toast. This is the kind of place where I could spend all day, every day, and never get tired of it.

Along with coffee, they served a wide variety of snacks, and I couldn’t get enough of their baked fish.

When it comes to snacks, Dilkusha Cabin, another century-old food spot in College Square takes the spotlight with its Fish Kabiraji, bhetki fish wrapped in a coating of crunchy egg floss, served with kasundi (pungent Bengali mustard sauce)

Dim’er Devil, Calcutta’s twist on Scotch eggs, featured hard-boiled eggs crumb-coated with spicy blend and deep-fried.

The Calcutta sun can be harsh at times, and a pitstop at Paramount Cold Drinks was just what I needed. Back in the day, the founder had used the shop as a clever front for covert meetings of underground revolutionaries to plot against the British, much like how Gus Fring’s Los Pollos Hermanos was used for his drug trade.

Their sharbats (chilled summer drink) have been quenching the thirst of weary customers, and I had Kesar Malai, a thick milk drink loaded with nuts and raisins.

A little lunchtime walk about College Square brought me to one of the oldest pice hotels in the city. Originally started as the Hindu Hotel, it added the prefix Swadin Bharat (Free India) to its name when India gained independence from British rule.

As soon as I settled into my seat, a banana leaf was laid before me, followed by steamed rice, potato, bhaja, and dal.

My choice of fish was Chitol Kaliya, a traditional Bengali delicacy prepared with the Indian featherback fish native to the Ganges. It was a tad tricky to separate the flesh from the thorns, but the reward was well worth the effort.

No trip to Calcutta is complete without taking a tram, the lifeline of the city. Although modes of transport like taxis, buses, and the metro exist, nothing can match the experience of riding in one of these.

The city witnessed its first horse-drawn trams in 1873, later switching to electric trams. Calcutta tramways is the second oldest operating tram network in the world, after Turin in Italy.

The dreamy ding-ding of the early morning tram rolling down the street is a wake-up alarm for the cityfolk. Trams are what make Calcutta, Calcutta.

The Route 5 tram took me from College Street to Esplanade, passing through the historic stretch. In the past, Esplanade was dominated by the British, where they would go on ‘elegant walking parties,’ as they described it.

The crossing features several heritage landmarks, most of which are in a dilapidated state now. 

Did you know? Bourne & Shepherd, the world’s oldest photography studio, operated from this four-story building in Esplanade Row.

Bengalis and desserts are inseparable. From welcoming guests to celebrating births, marriages, and even mourning deaths, mishti (sweet desserts) is a way of life.

KC Das, the most famous sweet shop in Calcutta, is an unmissable landmark near the Esplanade tram stop.

They are best known as the inventors of the Rossogolla, hailed in Bengal as the king of sweets. This spongy, white dessert was concocted by the confectioner Nobin Chandra Das, who made balls of cottage cheese and boiled them in sugar syrup.

It’s a crime to visit Calcutta and not taste the sweet goodness of Rossogolla. I gave into my sweet tooth and sampled their other signature creations, namely Rossomolai (rossogolla soaked in creamy, saffron-infused milk) and Rossokadam (pink rossogolla). Sorry, dentist! .  

I gave into my sweet tooth and sampled some of their other signature creations. Sorry, dentist!

Dacres Lane on east Esplanade is a food street that started as a hangout spot where sailors shared tales of their sea adventures over food.

You’ll find Bengali dishes alongside Indo-Chinese treats like momos, chowmein, chicken lollipops, and soups.

The crowd favourite is Chitto Babur Dokan, a streetside eatery with outdoor benches.

An old gentleman, a regular here since his youth, sang praises of their Chicken Stew. The cook first placed a fresh pauruti (toasted bread) on a plate.

Then he poured steaming hot chicken stew over it, brimming with chicken pieces, pepper, cinnamon, carrots, papaya and potatoes.

The Bengalis have perfected this age-old English dish with their native spices.

A place I kept returning to for its mouth-watering Bengali dishes at moderate prices was Chittoda’s Suruchee, a hole-in-the-wall eatery.

Their Prawn Chowmein and Chilli Fish were a deadly combination worth every penny.

Chicken Bharta, a spicy chicken gravy, came with liberal dollops of fresh cream and two boiled eggs.

Mutton Rezala, a Bengali Muslim specialty, had tender mutton pieces marinated in yogurt and slow-cooked in a rich cashew and almond curry.

Only in Calcutta can you find both the largest and smallest museum in India. The Smaranika Tram Museum was housed inside a restored 1938 vintage tram. 

The two tram cars were connected by a vestibule. One car exhibited rare photographs and historical accounts of the earliest trams.

The other car was a quaint little café where I sipped Iced Latte in this time capsule.

Free School Street in Esplanade is nicknamed Little Bangladesh. I stopped by Kasturi for a taste of Dhakai (East Bengali) cuisine.

The Instagrammable restaurant decor embodied the vibe of Calcutta.

I feasted on their signature Kochu Pata Diye Chingri Bhapa, shrimp prepared with kochu pata (taro leaves) and mustard paste.

Further up the menu, their Basanti Pulao, a sweet rice dish loaded with ghee, paired well with Katla Kalia, a fiery red carp curry.

Koshe Kosha joined the list of my go-to places in Esplanade.

Dipping the Luchi (fluffy fried flatbread) into their Kosha Mangsho (dark, slow-cooked Bengali lamb curry with deep flavours) was a gastronomic delight.

Drawn by glowing online reviews, I tracked down Eau Chew, a century-old Chinese restaurant hidden in an old building on Chowringhee Road. 

Chinese immigrants started arriving in Calcutta as early as the 17th century because the port was the closest entry point into India from East Asia, and influenced the city’s culinary landscape. Run by a Chinese Catholic family of three, Eau Chew was started by an immigrant from mainland China in the early 20th century.

The intimate interiors instantly felt like home. I started with their Chilli Pork featuring juicy pork tossed with veggies and soy.

Next on their menu was the viral Chimney Soup, loaded with tender meat, succulent prawns, and fresh vegetables, served in a unique bowl featuring a chimney with burning coals that kept the soup warm.

My Calcutta heritage trail led me to the ancestral house of Swami Vivekananda, a celebrated Hindu monk and social reformer. 

Interestingly, he held a deep devotion to Christ and a profound interest in Christian theology, and proclaimed, “Jesus Christ was God, the personal God become man. We have to worship Jesus Christ, the human manifestation, as God. You cannot worship anything higher than the manifestation of God. Keep close to Christ if you want salvation; He is higher than any God you can imagine.”

Christian missionaries shaped Calcutta’s education system by offering Western education to the masses, specifically the poor and marginalised. Scottish Church College is one such premier institution known for providing quality education and helping students develop strong character and social awareness. It was founded by Alexander Duff, the first Scottish missionary to India, who revolutionised Indian education.

Scottish Church College – 1830

They actively empowered women, a milestone being Bethune College in Cornwallis Street, the oldest women’s college in Asia.

Bethune College – 1879

Girish Chandra Dey & Nakur Chandra Nandy might sound like a law firm, but this family-run confectionery near Bethune College has been satisfying sweet cravings for 180 years now. Don’t let the plain exterior fool you, their sandesh is to die for.

Sandesh is a moist and fudgy dessert made with fresh cottage cheese and sugar, garnished with saffron, pistachios, and almonds. No Bengali celebration can happen without it.

I savoured every bit of Dilkush’s rich saffron and pistachio, Parijat’s dry fruit goodness, and Jalbhara’s liquid palm sugar filling.

For a slice of old Calcutta, I headed to Dalhousie, a microcosm of Calcutta’s colonial past.

Standard Life Assurance Building – 1896

Going by the name, you might think the Writers’ Building is a space for authors, but it’s actually a former administrative hub for junior clerks, aka “writers” of the EIC.

Writers’ Building – 1777

A walk around Dalhousie was all a history buff like me needed for a glimpse into the past.

Telegraph Office – 1873

 The Standard Assurance Building’s archway depicted the Parable of the Ten Virgins. To refresh your memory, ten bridesmaids are waiting for a bridegroom’s arrival at night. Five are prepared with extra oil for their lamps, while five are not. When the bridegroom arrives, the unprepared bridesmaids are excluded from the celebration. Through this Parable, Christ teaches us that we have to be spiritually prepared for His return.

St. John’s Church, the city’s first Anglican cathedral, stands sentinel in Dalhousie.

Upon entering, I was left in awe of the church’s timeless beauty.

German neoclassical painter Johann Zoffany’s Last Supper painting, hanging to the left of the altar, offers an Indian twist on Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece, where Jesus is modeled after a local Greek Orthodox priest and his disciples are depicted as European merchants present in Calcutta at the time.

The campus houses the mausoleum of Job Charnock, a British administrator, who founded the city of Calcutta in 1690 by merging three villages.

My church-spotting spree continued, taking me to historic churches in Calcutta, each with its own legacy.

Old Mission Church – 1770

St. Andrew’s Church – 1818

St. Thomas Church – 1841

Christ Church – 1839

Sacred Heart Church – 1832

CNI Wesleyan Church – 1866

Christ Church – 1857

Circular Road Baptist Chapel – 1821

Central Methodist Episcopal Church – 1874

St. Francis Xavier Church – 1900

Carey Baptist Church – 1809

Hastings Chapel – 1855

St. James’ Church – 1862

Church of Our Lady of Dolours – 1810

Maidan is a vast green space that was historically used for military parades. The British introduced cricket to India, and Eden Gardens became the country’s cherished cricket stadium. This ground has witnessed one too many epic battles in India’s love affair with cricket.

The James Prinsep Monument, along the banks of the Hooghly, pays tribute to the English scholar who contributed a lot to orientalist studies. 

Sitting on the steps of Prinsep Ghat, I gazed out at the serene river views as the Second Hooghly Bridge stretched over the waters.

Navigating through the crowds and chaos of Bara Bazaar, India’s largest wholesale market, was like playing Subway Surfers. 

You can find all sorts of things here, if you know where to look. Rumour had it that back in its prime, anything from the finest fabrics, like cashmere and silk, to the weirdest of items, such as Ceylonese ivory and Tibetan yak tails, could be found here.

A grueling search later, I finally tracked down the Armenian Church located at, you guessed it, Armenian Street. The third time is the charm, as this was the third Armenian street I visited after Lebuh Armenian in Malaysia and Avlabari in Georgia last year. Armenians are everywhere!

Built in 1688, the Armenian Church of the Holy Nazareth is the oldest church in Calcutta. Armenians started settling in the city in the 17th century and prospered as a business community, controlling diverse businesses. Following the Soviet Union’s fall, many left for independent Armenia. Today, the small community of 150 Armenians remaining in Calcutta gathers together every January to celebrate Armenian Orthodox Christmas.

Had I not seen the location tag, I would have sworn this building on the next street was a church. The Maghen David Synagogue stands out with its church-like steeple.

The history of Jews in Calcutta dates back to the 16th century, when Jewish traders from the Middle East arrived in search of greener pastures. Tracing their ancestry to Iraq and Syria, the Baghdadi Jews numbered around 6000 at their peak. Much like the Armenians of Calcutta, almost all of them left after the reestablishment of Israel, and today only about 30 Jews remain.

I went to visit the synagogue, but the security guard informed me that all three synagogues in Bara Bazaar had been closed indefinitely since October 2023 due to the ongoing conflict in the Middle East. Ah, the ripple effect of war!

The adjacent Neve Shalom Synagogue (Hebrew for oasis of peace) is the oldest Jewish house of prayer in the city. Compared to the ornate Maghen David, Neve Shalom is plain and simple. And that’s what makes it beautiful.

Close to the synagogue, the Cathedral of the Most Holy Rosary is a relic of Calcutta’s forgotten tryst with Portugal. The Portuguese had arrived in Bengal as early as the 15th century, long before the British. Sandwiched in a jam-packed street, this church offers calm amidst all the chaos.

Cathedral of the Most Holy Rosary – 1797

In the same row is the Canning Street Masjid. A synagogue, a mosque, and a cathedral stand harmoniously side by side within a stone’s throw of each other, representing the three greatest world religions. That’s Calcutta for you.

Bara Bazar also hosts Nakhoda Masjid, the city’s principal mosque.

The gateway’s design is a replica of the famous Buland Darwaza (Door of Victory) in Fatehpur Sikri near Agra.

Muslims account for over 20% of the city’s population, possibly more considering the recent influx of undocumented Bangladeshi immigrants.

The predominantly Muslim area of Park Circus has restaurants serving delicious Bengali Muslim cuisine, with Arsalan being a popular name among them. I tasted their much-hyped Mutton Biriyani, which delivered a perfect balance of flavours with meat, ghee, and spices. The saffron infused the rice with an aromatic taste that I relished to the last morsel.

Biryani cravings kicked back in and I returned to Park Circus another day to dine at the Royal Indian Restaurant. Their biryani had just the right amount of spices to seal the deal.

Their Mutton Chaap (yes, you read that right... chaap is simply the local word for chops) had beaten pieces of mutton marinated in spices and slow-cooked in fat. The tender meat left a fatty film coating in my mouth.

A lion’s share of restaurants in Calcutta don’t serve beef as Bengali Hindus don’t consume cow meat. In the congested streets of the Muslim ghetto of Beniapukur, I stumbled upon Zam Zam, which served some surprisingly good beef dishes. I wolfed down their Beef Biryani, the tender beef layered generously with rice and potatoes.

Subsequent visits introduced me to their Beef Bhuna (spicy East Bengali beef curry) and Beef Malai (creamy beef gravy). Both dishes exceed my expectations. The food satisfied my appetite and the reasonable bill satisfied my wallet.

Calcutta is one of the few cities in the world still frozen in time. A case in point are their hand-pulled rickshaws, weather-beaten old men transporting passengers through the crowded streets.

While wandering around with my camera, a rickshaw puller made an offer that the city is best explored on a hand-pulled rickshaw. As enticing as it sounded, I politely refused since the thought of putting him through such physical labour seemed inhumane.

An anachronism in the modern world, these hardworking rickshaw pullers earn their daily bread by carrying almost everyone and everything.

While other Indian cities outlawed hand-pulled rickshaws altogether, Calcutta’s attempt to follow suit was met with resistance from rickshaw pullers, who unionised and argued that it would severely impact their livelihoods.

As long as these hand-pulled rickshaws allow them to earn an honest living, who am I to judge?

There are as many hairs on your head as there are sweet shops here in Calcutta. Of the ones I visited, my favourite has just got to be Balaram Mullick & Radharaman Mullick.

Feeling adventurous, I took a chance on the smorgasbord of Bengali treats, the likes of which included Rossomalai, Malai Chop (saffron-infused cottage cheese cream cake), Kheer Doi (sweetened red yoghurt), and Rossmundi (small Rossogollas in thickened milk).

Their pièce de résistance is a baked twist on the classic Rossogolla, where the ball is microwaved to a golden brown, soaking up the rich milk sauce.

When an Italian traveller visited Calcutta in the early 19th century, he marvelled at its grandeur and called it “a city of palaces”. Being the capital of the Raj, Calcutta has some magnificent buildings that are impossible to look away from. One such structure is the Marble Palace, a palatial 19th-century mansion that mirrors the opulence of the aristocratic class of that era.

The house was commissioned by a Bengali businessman with a passion for collecting art. And his love for art shows in his residence, which is adorned with fountains, marble sculptures of Greek deities, and grand facade.

Speaking of palatial homes, Jorsanko Thakurbari is the ancestral home of the inimitable Rabindranath Tagore.

The house is now a repository of photographs, portraits, and items that belonged to the Tagore family.

The open-air courtyard leading to the serene garden was an idyllic setting for deep thoughts. Now I know where Tagore got his inspiration from.

A vocal critic of British rule, Tagore renounced his knighthood following the 1919 Amritsar massacre, in which the British opened fire on thousands of nonviolent protesters. Dreaming of a new, independent India, he wrote the poetic lines, “Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free.”

While Tagore fought against the British with his pen, Subhas Chandra Bose did so with his sword. I was in for a mini history lesson at Netaji Bhawan, his ancestral home.

Affectionately called as Netaji (Great Leader), Bose was an Indian revolutionary leader. He clashed head-on with Gandhi over their different approaches to independence. Bose chose armed resistance and Gandhi championed non-violent struggle, mirroring the ideological divide between MLK and Malcolm X in the Civil Right Movement where the former stood for non-violent protests while the latter advocated defensive violence “by any means necessary”.

He rallied Indians to rise up against the British and founded the Indian National Army, adopting the motto of Ittehad (Unity), Etmad (Faith), and Qurbani (Sacrifice).

The house held a curated collection of Bose’s personal artifacts, with items ranging from rare photographs and handwritten letters of defiance to furniture and personal belongings. Looking at his military uniform, I could almost picture him sitting in the room, plotting to drive the British out of India.

Placed under house arrest for his revolutionary activities, Bose made an audacious escape from British surveillance by donning a disguise and secretly slipping away using this staircase.

The Wanderer car he used to escape is still preserved in fine condition in the garage.

The biggest criticism directed at Bose is his alliance with Nazi Germany, captured in this infamous 1942 photograph of him shaking hands with Hitler after his daring escape to Berlin. Bose sought the latter’s support for India’s independence movement and aligned himself with the Axis powers against the British, who led the Allied forces. Hitler’s support was driven more by an ulterior motive to weaken the British than by genuine sympathy for the Indians. It was a deal with the devil.  

While paying his last respects to the fallen Indian National Army soldiers, Bose proclaimed, “The future generations of Indians who will be born, not as slaves but as free men, because of your colossal sacrifice.” His vision for a free India was finally realised in 1947.

I went to jail, thankfully as a visitor rather than an inmate. Characterised by its brick-red walls, the Alipore Jail is where political prisoners were incarcerated during the British era, many of whom were independence activists.

The jail’s sprawling green campus, full of life, was in stark contrast to the harsh realities of the lives once confined within its walls.

Walking through the corridors, I was transported into a yesteryear era where the echoes of revolution still lingered in the air. Every dank cell seemed to tell a story, a story of defiance and the unbreakable human spirit.

I could only imagine the pain and suffering of the prisoners long gone. These walls are the silent witnesses to their anguished cries.

Whilst a few prominent prisoners were given separate cells with better facilities, the majority languished in pathetic conditions.

What struck me in particular was an icon of the crucified Christ plastered on the wall above two agonised prisoners. This juxtaposition was a stark reminder of Christ’s own suffering, now reflected in the faces of these prisoners.

Prisoners on death row met their fate by hanging on these very gallows. To instil fear, other prisoners were deliberately forced to witness the executions of their fellow inmates.

Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first Prime Minister, was once a prisoner here, spending eighty days in this cell for taking part in a protest.

A tree in the courtyard outside his cell marks the spot where his daughter Indira would sit during her twenty-minute visits every fortnight. The statue of the young woman waiting for her father was deeply moving.

Subhas Chandra Bose spent eight months here for the same reasons as Nehru.

Kazi Nazrul Islam, the renowned Bengali poet whose work explored themes of anti-imperialism and rebellion, spent two months here. During this time, he wrote a play.

The museum inside the jail took me on a walk back in time to the era of India’s struggle for independence. On display here were the weapons used by Indian revolutionaries in their fight against British rule, including guns, bombs, and other artifacts.

Among them was a book bomb. Pretty sure it was an ‘explosive’ read.

It was also fascinating to learn about the Bengal Renaissance, a cultural, social, intellectual, and artistic movement that took place in Bengal during the late 18th century. The father of this movement was Raja Ram Mohan Roy who used his Western education to bring in many progressive ideas into the region. He campaigned against the Indian caste system, superstitions, child marriage, polygamy, and other social issues.

Coomartolly popped up in my search for things to do in Calcutta. The traditional potters’ quarter was formed in the 18th century when the British built a new settlement in Calcutta and allocated neighbourhoods to different workmen.

The kumars (sculptors) settled in this neighbourhood owing to its proximity to the Hooghly River, which provided the clay required for idol-making.

Over 400 sculptors live and work in this colony, spread across 150 studios, manufacturing clay idols for various festivals in the city as well as exporting them to overseas destinations.

Roaming around the narrow passageways, it was a captivating sight to watch these artisans work on their creations with finesse.

The art of idol-making is a layered process that requires skill, patience, and creativity.

The artisans begin by crafting the kathamo, a bamboo framework that supports the idol. The straw is then layered over the structure, defining the idol’s form.

The second stage involves preparing the mud and applying the clay.

A layer of clay is applied to the straw structure, giving the idol its shape, before being dried in the sun for three days.

The idol is given its final touches with intricate colours and decorations.

One of the most celebrated festivals in Calcutta is Durga Puja, where statues of the deity are grandly displayed in shelters called pandals across the city. She is depicted with ten hands and mounted on a lion, symbolizing strength and courage.

An artisan invited me into his workshop and I got to see the intricate mastery up close.

In addition to Hindu idols, the kumars create statues of the Buddha, and Christmas cribs for churches.

Alongside religious deities, statues of national icons like Rabindranath Tagore, Swami Vivekananda, Raja Ram Mohan Roy, and other personalities were also present.

The workspaces were poorly lit and cramped, with barely enough room to move.

Due to lack of space, they are compelled to display their idols on the streets.

Some of these statues were towering, reaching heights of up to twenty feet.

I even chanced upon a statue of Lady Liberty standing in her trademark pose. Who would have guessed?

In my search for authentic Bengali cuisine, I dropped by Oh Calcutta. As the first customer of the evening, I had the restaurant all to myself.

To make the wait pleasant, the restaurant has a bookshelf stacked with classic reads. I sifted through the pages of a Hercule Poirot short story as my order was being prepared.

For a restaurant named after a Broadway show, it came as no surprise that Oh Calcutta put on a show of its own with its ceramic plates printed with Calcutta landmarks.

Petai Paratha (crispy paratha is beaten while warm, breaking it into soft, flaky bits) made its way to my table along with Kancha Lonka Murgi (green chilli chicken curry). The crunchy bits coupled with the curry made the bold spices come alive.

What’s a Bengali meal without dessert? On the waiter’s recommendation, I indulged in the Nolen Gurer Ice Cream. Elegantly topped with date slices, each spoonful of this palm sugar ice cream was a treat.

The complimentary Calcutta Meetha Paan (stuffed betel leaves wrapped with aromatic spices and rose petals) came as the sweet ending to the story.

Fine dining restaurants may offer a premium ambience and a fancy menu, but there’s something undeniably special about Calcutta street food. Sometimes all you need on a rainy day are Daaler Bora, Bengali lentil fritters.

And then there are momos, piping hot and bursting with meat, served with spicy chutneys that add just the right kick. 

Puchka is a street snack you can find everywhere in the city. The phuchkawala (phuchka seller) poked a hole into a crispy, puffy puri and stuffed it with spiced potatoes and boiled chickpeas before dunking it in tamarind water and handing it in a leaf bowl.

Every para has its own beloved phuchkawala, around whom crowds of chatty youngsters flock like bees to nectar. Popping puchkas into your mouth one after another is a joy shared over good conversations with friends.

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An everyday sight in Calcutta are elderly men, dressed in white with a Gandhi cap, moving around with a cloth bag tied to their shoulders. Curiosity compelled me to check out what they were selling.

To my delight, it was Chana Jor Garam, flattened and fried chickpea chips seasoned with spices. A Bollywood song popped up at the top of my search results when I Googled this snack. If it’s worthy of a song, it must be worth trying. And I wasn’t disappointed.

Far away from the chaos of the city’s traffic jams is the Rabindra Sarobar, a tranquil lake surrounded by picturesque scenery.

I found myself daydreaming by the lake’s gentle ripples, where the world seemed to slow down. Peace, nature, silence.

Love was in the air as couples were sharing laughs and convos by the waters. Rabindranath Tagore’s namesake lake would have been a muse for his poetic imagination, had he been alive to go on a riverside stroll here.

Framed by red-brick exteriors and green Venetian windows, Calcutta’s old houses stand as reminders of a fading era. Generations have grown up in these homes which have seen good times and bad.

On one hand, you have these heritage houses, which give Calcutta its old-world charm, on the brink of decay. On the other, you have modern marvels like The 42, the city’s tallest skyscraper challenging the sky.

Soon, the crumbling houses of the old world will be lost forever to urbanisation and development, alive only as memories.

When Mark Twain visited this city in 1896, he wrote in his diary, “There was plenty to see in Calcutta, but there was not plenty of time for it.” I couldn’t agree more. Despite spending three weeks, I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface of the wonderful place Calcutta is. 

From the moment I arrived, I fell in love, hook, line, and sinker. It’s truly the City of Joy in every sense of the word. I found my happy place here, I’m sure you will too.