Kolkata City of Joy
A Clumsy Odyssey: My Bumbling Stroll Through Kolkata’s Chaotic Symphony
Ah, Kolkata—the “City of Joy,” they call it. Even on my first visit as a seasoned backpacker from sanitary Singapore, I was not fooled by French author Dominique Lapierre. Calcutta as it was called by then in 1996, was exactly like what I saw in the documentaries – and more. Calcutta was a port of entry on my trip to Darjeeling that year. In 2026, I was back again and once again, Kolkata (this time) was a port of entry. Armed with mobile phone with the relevant apps, a backpack stuffed with winter clothing, surgical masks, antiseptic wet wipes, hand sanitiser, I made this city my port of entry for travels into Arunachal. Thanks to the Nipah virus scare, the flight was half full.
It was dark and almost midnight when I landed at Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose International Airport which turned out to be a beautiful reincarnation of the shabby terminal back in 1996. The city centre was quite a long drive from the airport. The outskirts of Kolkata were completely unrecognisable. Roads here were not only smooth and wide, they had sprouted viaducts, soaring above their humble predecessors. Trees and lampposts were entwined with LED lights. Sleek, tall and elegant buildings even made this part of the city look a little like KL. For a moment I thought Kolkata was no longer the old Calcutta with people sleeping on pavements and sheep grazing on cricket fields, but the moment we entered the city centre, it was deja vu – the old Calcutta. The constant honking, the buckling pavement bricks, piles of trash, roadside “camping” and signboards whose purpose is clearly to misdirect.
Kolkata seemed like a city that never sleeps. There were a number of shops and restaurants open past midnight. The hotel I had booked was supposed to be well known and highly rated. When I arrived, all I saw was a signboard at the gateway but no hotel entrance along the entire driveway. I asked around and a couple of helpful souls assured me that I was at the right address but the hotel was nowhere in sight. Then I spotted a little sign saying that it’s on the 4th floor but the lift and staircase were situated at a different part of the building. This being India, you don’t ask why they didn’t place the signboard there. They just didn’t. Then, accompanied by the two helpful souls, through an unmarked door behind the unmarked building, I found a lift lobby. A few folks loitering inside professed to know where the hotel was. For a brief moment, there was an argument about whether it’s 3rd or 4th floor. When I arrived at 3rd floor, there was no hotel. It was the 4th floor. My room was decent enough but I still felt scammed. None of the reviewers wrote that the place would play a game of treasure hunt ala Indiana Jones with guests. Somebody should tell the 3rd floor guys they were wrong.
The Living Daylights
My flight to Itanagar was around 2pm. I could have stayed in my hotel room till check out time and headed straight to the airport, but hey, I’m an adventurer. How could I let the drama and peaceful riot on the streets slip away? Armed with my surgical mask and selfie stick, I stepped out into Kolkata cacophony. Everybody here just minded his own business, leaving beggars to roll on their mats on the pavement, leaving cracks to trap the next unsuspecting foot and trash to form a second kerb. Everyone loves music here and the car horn is a musical instrument.
A short walk to a highly rated eatery brought me to the city’s chicken trading post – a haven for the avian flu virus and adventurers with a taste for the outrageous. The stench was overwhelming but it would have been a pity not to document this riot of colours and chorus of clucking. They had live chickens in cages on the pavement. Those that were sold were tied upside down on bicycle handles and transported out of the market. When I arrived at the highly rated eatery, I realised that it was a Muslim place and it was Ramadan. I suddenly noticed how the Muslim population in this Indian city has swelled in recent years.
All this drama of mannequins hanging from trees and people washing themselves on the streets were an assault on the senses even for someone well-acquainted with India. The best part is, there is nothing to hide. It’s literally warts and all. The last time I came, there were goats grazing on the cricket field. I believe they’re still there. People here are very hardworking, but they seem to be so engrossed with work that they can’t bothered with decorum or putting their best foot forward. Perhaps people enjoy living here. Perhaps it’s really a city of joy to them – in which case they may wonder what’s wrong with us.
Kolkata was just a brief stopover on my trip to Arunachal. I thought I might as well make full use of my time by documenting all that drama. On my return trip, I took the opportunity to buy some books and tea. South Asian editions of international titles cost a fraction of the price in Singapore. Likewise, premium no frills Darjeeling tea is not just affordable but easy to find. My returning luggage was loaded with books, tea and some snacks. Kolkata has not been a waste of time. Not at all.