Benjamuna's Blog

Stories…. with a touch of India….

Feathers at Free School Street June 28, 2023

Filed under: INDIA,Travels — benjamuna @ 11:42 am
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On my very first visit to Calcutta I found myself in a car driving through a street lined with cross-legged men in front of big, flat wicker baskets with chickens. I had no idea about the lay-out of Calcutta and I couldn’t ask the driver to stop, but I made a mental note of the sight and promised myself to come back. This spring, while planning a photo excursion in Calcutta, I tried to explain my to-be guide, Manjit, what I had seen. – Ha ha, he said, I know what you saw. I’ll take you there.
And he took me to Free School Street.

We set out in the early morning, 6 am to be precise. I had no idea that Free School Street was so close to my lodgings and made another mental note later that day: I could easily walk back another day and watch the whole ‘show’ again. In the wee hours the street was bustling with life, but not crowded. Come to think of it now, I didn’t see a single woman among men of all ages doing the same job: bundling up hens.

At first, I thought the chickens were dead, it wasn’t particularly lively in the wicker baskets. Some were covered by nets, but the chickens didn’t seem like they were about to fly the scene. The men didn’t mind my presence, maybe because of Manjit who constantly stroke up conversations with people who seemed to know his face. I knew I was observing daily life in Calcutta, this was not some kind of a zoo. If the men had found me and my camera intruding, it was their right.

I was appalled by the sight though, that was – I shan’t deny it – very pleasing to the camera lens, otherwise not. The men collected the chickens in pairs of twos and instead of placing them on the ground less than an arm length away they simply threw them on the ground. The chickens landed with a smack.

So that was their next station, now waiting to be picked up by buyers that either came by taxi or – for the most part – by bicycle or any other simple vehicle. Some bicycles became so loaded with chickens it was barely enough space for somebody to jump on.

The ride through the city would be the animals’ last journey, still very much alive (but not exactly kicking), hanging from their feet, watching the world upside down – if they ever noticed. They would reach their final destination, like a wholesale market or a shop, a restaurant or a hotel, as fresh as they could be.

I have seen enough in India to make me a vegetarian the minute I enter the country, sad to say. Not only as a matter of principle; the sight of Free School Street goes against anything I feel about animal welfare. But although many tourists eat well in India and tolerate the food without any problems, the hygiene is sometimes a far cry from homely hygiene measures and one should take precautions to stay away from the dreaded ‘Dehli belly’. Still, this is the way things work and this is how many people earn a living.

I spent at least a couple of hours taking in the atmosphere while walking slowly towards the end of the street. More and more bicycles entered the scene, deals were done, money exchanged – and the men pedalled away with their load.

I noticed a man hanging his clothes to dry on a clothesline on the blue wall behind him. Wearing a checked, blue lungi he seemed to have dressed for the occasion; the matching colours acted like a magnet to my camera. His wicker baskets were empty, instead his chickens lay in two heaps on the pavement. They didn’t stir, but kept their heads high. As if keeping their dignity alive to the bitter end.

It was a few days later that I discovered how close Free School Street was to my lodgings in Auckland Square. After a visit to the New Market (where the destiny of some of the hens was relieved to me in a spectacle of feathers and blood) I had been told to walk Free School Street all the way up to Park Street and I would then find myself more or less ‘at home’. At noon, the street looked nothing like the 6 o’clock sights when I had to kneel to get the best shots. Normality prevailed, people were walking on the pavements instead of smacking hens towards the asphalt. I could never have told that it was the same street.
END

PHOTOGRAPHY TIPS: I spent eight hours in the company of calcuttaphototours

 

Hooghly & Howrah May 25, 2023

Filed under: INDIA — benjamuna @ 9:58 am
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Water – a river, a lake, the seashore – adds atmosphere to a city. Calcutta, or Kolkata as the city’s official name is, proudly hosts River Hooghly. And where there is water, there might be a bridge, such as Howrah Bridge. One of my favourite spots in Calcutta is the beach close to Howrah, where life unfolds in many ways.

According to Association for Asian Studies, “The Hooghly weaves through the Indian state of West Bengal from the Ganges, its parent river, to the sea. At just 460 kilometers (approximately 286 miles), its length is modest in comparison with great Asian rivers like the Yangtze in China or the Ganges itself. Nevertheless, through history, the Hooghly has been a waterway of tremendous sacred and secular significance.”
The river is also a major waterway providing a year-round water supply to the plains of West Bengal. Its water is used for irrigation, as well as consumption by both the public and the surrounding industries. 

I first came close to Hooghly after a visit to Mullick Ghat, the city’s renowned wholesale flower market. After walking through this fabulous place, I stepped through a gate and the Hooghly appeared just in front of me. Many of the people who inhabit the area are engaged on various sacred rituals, the river being the centre of many ritual activities in the Hindu life. Others carry out work related to the flower market, some are simply taking a bath or washing clothes. The atmosphere always seems relaxed void of the usual Indian commotion. In contrast, I have walked along the river bank on a busy, narrow road trafficked by colourful trucks, taxis and auto rickshaws, and the bustling life is also marked by shops and stalls – not at least chai stalls.

Across the river is District Howrah with its magnificent railway station.
Offerings and other sacred rituals take place by the Hooghly. Howrah bridge makes a beautiful backdrop.

The Hooghly has a large traffic flow, both commercial traffic and that related to the tourist industry. You may, not surprisingly, go on midnight cruise, or other types of boat rides.

Right: Many people try their luck with the fishing rod.

Howrah Bridge

Several bridges go across Hooghly river, but the Howrah Bridge, opened in 1943, is one of the iconic landmarks in Kolkata. Howrah Bridge is a cantilever bridge with a length of 705 meter – It claims to be one of the longest cantilever bridges in the world. It’s said to carry 100,000 vehicles and countless pedestrians daily.

Not sure if I had managed 700 meter with this load on top!

I have been one of those pedestrians as well, watching countless people walking fast across for so many reasons. The traffic rumbles in two directions and the barbed wire reminds us of what bridges sometimes must endure – thus the precaution.

My most intriguing memory is that of a man who sat on the railing towards the traffic reading a newspaper. There must be so many other places to sit down and read, my first thought was. But maybe he found the backdrop relaxing …

You can hear it throughout the city, the cries from the conductors at the colourful buses: Howrah, Howrah, Howrah …

Howrah bridge connects Kolkata with Howrah, located on the western banks of the river.  The two cities are known as twin cities. Howrah is an important transportation hub and gateway to Kolkata and West Bengal through its magnificent railway station.

Hooghly river is also known as the Rabindra Setu, named after the great Bengali poet and Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore.

END

 

How I came to like Mishti Doi May 10, 2023

Filed under: INDIA — benjamuna @ 10:39 am
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I have always been reluctant towards milk products, I hated milk when I was a child. It took me ages to appreciate yoghurt, especially plain yoghurt. So when I came to Calcutta for the first time, and my landlady Katy urged me to try Mishti Doi, I simply said no thank you. But she didn’t give up that easily …

Mishti means sweet and Doi means curd or yoghurt, translated into Hindi it would be Meetha Dahi. Mishti Doi is a classic, sweet yoghurt variety made of milk, curd culture and jaggery or sugar. It’s a famous and much appreciated Bengali dessert, traditionally set or even baked in earthenware which gives the Mishti Doi an unique flavour and consistency.

It was the pot that did it for me, a little crooked, filled with an -until now – unfamiliar mass with a light, brownish hue. If nothing else, I thought, it will make a good photo …

In Calcutta, you often buy chai from tiny earthenware cups which are smashed afterwards. Shards of these cups are present all over the city. And now a bigger size cup, filled with Mishti Doi, was placed in front of me so I simply gave in and slid the spoon carefully into its contents. The yoghurt attacked my tastebuds and I instantly fell in love! The taste was mild and strong at the same time, but so rich. Velvet might be a good word to describe the consistency.
I still eat it with delight …

Mishti Doi also comes in plastic containers. On my last visit to Calcutta I walked across the street of Katy’s home, entered the famous sweet shop Mouchak and asked for Mishti Doi, which – it turned out – was now contrary to earlier only found in plastic containers. Disappointed I came back, empty handed. Katy responded by sending her secretary to Bow Bazaar, to another famous sweet shop who makes sure to sell Mishti Doi from earthenware cups, and that in several sizes.
Mishti Doi is a staple dessert in the Bengali culture and available in every sweet shop, but Katy – like many other – has her favourite supplier: Bhim Chandra Nag in Bow Bazaar. So off we went one day, for me to see for myself. The sweet shop is fairly simple but beautifully decorated; a high counter with a variety of other sweets on display and a few tables. But I had only eye for the Mishti Doi in its earthenware cups covered with printed paper paper.

I probably had a spoonful or ten every single day during my stay knowing that it would be some time before I could have more!

 

From door to door May 3, 2023

Filed under: INDIA — benjamuna @ 4:47 pm
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Let’s call her Asha. She belongs to the third largest group of workers in India, those who work in other people’s homes. Domestic aid includes housekeepers, cooks, sweepers, cleaners, drivers and watchmen – and perhaps more. Agriculture and construction workers reside on top of that list.

Asha lives in small-town India. She is the mother of two young boys whose father left their mother six years ago. Asha and her boys moved to her parents to scrape through, and Asha followed in her mother’s footsteps and became a maid. Now her work is the only source of income while her parents are taking care of the boys while she is at work.

Official figures show that approximately 4.75 million people work as domestic aid in India. But the same organization (International Labour Organization) claims that the number could just as easily be more than 50 million workers. Not unexpectedly, the majority are women and most work is carried out in urban areas.

Asha is a beautiful tall, sturdy woman who presently works for six families every day. She starts at seven in the morning and is rarely home until twelve hours later. The families that Asha works for all belong to the middle class, now she is taking us to Sarika.

The majority of those who work as domestic aid have no education and they’re often illiterate. They belong to the poorest and most exploited workers in India, not protected by any legislation and thus very dependent on their employer’s goodwill. Not everyone is treated well.

Sarika lives in an apartment block ten minutes away. Asha cannot afford to use an autorickshaw between jobs, she walks from house to house and this is the only break she can allow herself. Nor does she always have time to stop and eat lunch at her own home. The amount and type of work may differ. The salary is not regulated by any authority, but we’re told that most maids in the area earn the same for equal work.

Those who work in other people’s homes do so on different terms. Some are staying with their employer on a permanent basis (‘live-in maid’), while others spend a few hours or large parts of the day with the family (‘live-out maid’). Many are migrants from poor states in India, such as Bihar or Uttar Pradesh. They very often belong to low castes or indigenous people and are among the most marginalized and exploited of India’s population.

We knock on Sarika’s door, she’s a young housewife aged 28. She is married and has a five-year-old son. Together with her is her mother-in-law. For us, it is difficult to imagine that the two women, both at home all day, cannot take care of the simple housework that the small apartment requires. But the culture and the social structure in India makes domestic aid a natural part of middle-class families.

Work is traditionally ruled by caste. Often, food is prepared by those of higher castes, while tasks related to eg. cleaning toilets and emptying rubbish are left to people from lower castes. Therefore, you will often find that several different types of help come and go during the day, all with different tasks. But not every Indian family take caste into account and choose to treat people equally regardless of caste and origin.

Asha goes into the small kitchen to do the dishes. The kitchen is badly maintained and feels slightly unhygienic. The piping above the sink has seen better days and it almost feels like a miracle that water comes out of the tap. Afterwards, floors are swept and washed. This is done every day in India due to dust and dirt that creeps in from all directions.

Asha has worked with this family for many years, Sarika’s first maid was Asha’s mother. She tells us that Asha is like a part of the family. Many domestic workers in India are well treated by their employers, they inherit clothes and are given gifts and food during festivals. Some employers support children’s education. But not everyone is this lucky.

Maids and other domestic aid do not always use the same tableware (plates, cutlery, glasses) as their employer. The maid’s tableware has its own place and is almost invariably made of steel. Live-in maids don’t always have their own room and their privacy is limited. However, it is important to remember that variations are large. Many middle-class (and above) Indians have children who live in other parts of the world and see domestic aid as insurance and security in old age – and thus treat their maids well.

Asha is looking for more work and maybe lighter work. But it is difficult with only a minimum of schooling. She has expenses related to her elderly parents and would like to give her two boys a good upbringing and subsequently a good education.

 

Murals in Mahim February 14, 2023

Filed under: INDIA,Travels — benjamuna @ 11:52 am
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Mahim East is perhaps not an area in Mumbai that attracts tourists in hordes. As the train approaches Mahim Junction, I’m struck by the extreme and poor settlements along the railway line and the amount of garbage is overwhelming.

Mahim East is also home to Dharavi, for many years known as Asia’s largest slum. Slum is a broad term and not always about poverty, but also entrepreneurship and – surprisingly for many – wealth, as in parts of Dharavi. The way people choose to live doesn’t always reflect their general standard of life.

We are on our way to Mahim to look at street art, largely huge murals in strong colours and vigorous expressions. We walk around with our necks bent towards the sky to be sure not to miss anything, and we admire what we see.

What primarily characterizes the murals is their size. Entire end-walls of many buildings are covered with colourful drawings and you must have a good wide angle on your camera to capture it all. Over the years, the rainy season has been putting its mark on the buildings’ facades. The rain, mixed with pollution, has mixed new lines into the art and given it a completely new texture.

The Mahim Junction railway station is entirely devoted to the pandemic and the paintings go by the name ‘covid fighters’. As long as these paintings remain, it will be difficult to forget these years.

Mahim East, like so many other districts in Mumbai, is almost a city of its own. The lower middle class as we know it in India lives and works here, and the district is partly characterized by poverty. The large murals are part of a project that wants to beautify the decrepit expression of the district and many different artists, including foreign ones, have contributed.

Some tour guides will take you to Mahim East as part of a visit to Dharavi.

The Zamorin of Bombay took me to Mahim East.

 

Come to Madh Island! February 8, 2023

Filed under: INDIA — benjamuna @ 3:55 pm
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It’s no point denying it, I’m not fond of fish. Or the smell of it. But the sight of it …? Give me an Asian fishing village and I’m ready to go any minute. Madh Island in the north of Mumbai is such a place. Here, you’ll find clean beaches and expensive resorts – but also a smelly and heavily polluted fishing village. If you’re new to it, it might be quite a challenge to your senses!

Going from Versova to Madh Island takes just a few minutes!

I’m travelling in an autorickshaw with my guide through another fishing village, Versova. Roads are narrow, lanes even more so. It’s crowded, people carry heavy loads on their heads or transport even bigger loads by handcarts accompanied by likewise heavy shouting and everybody seem to be in each other’s way. Dogs are scuttling here and there, on the look-out for a free meal – which shouldn’t be hard to find.

Endless quantities of shrimps!

The barge that is going to take us across makes me slightly apprehensive. People stand shoulder to shoulder and jump off together with a few two-wheelers. Next, it’s our turn, we board and the crowd is less – which means that my idea of sinking becomes less intrusive … And before I know it we have reached the other side, a few steps lead us to a turnstile where we pay the fee which is so small I have to look twice! (ten rupees if I’m not wrong). And we’re at Madh Island.

An autorickshaw takes us along the main thoroughfare of the fishing village which is lined with stalls. People are selling fish and other food, after a while we jump off and walk the last part to get a better feel of the atmosphere and to speak to people on our way. It’s crowded, it’s smelly, it’s energy at high speed! Just what I was looking for!

We’re aiming for the pier where boats unload fish. Today there seem to be shrimps and more shrimps! All the way along the pier people, mostly women, are working with shrimps. Some children are helping, or maybe they just want to be close to their mothers.
The ground is full of shrimps. Together with the setting sun the world takes on a pink-ish look. Beautiful wicker baskets, waiting to be filled, surround the women.

I have forgotten all about the fierce smell pushing its way through my nostrils as we make our return to the wharf. The market is still lively, buying and selling – and cooking – will take place for many hours still. A barge is on its way as we reach the jetty, we stumble on, ready to return to the city.

The http://www.zamorinofbombay.com/ took me to Madh Island.

More photos below.

 

Sassoon Docks of Mumbai March 1, 2022

Filed under: INDIA,Travels — benjamuna @ 10:43 am
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“That’s where they landed, the terrorists who attacked The Taj Mahal Hotel back in 2008,” my guide cum driver says, as he points to the right towards a small bay. He asks me if I remember and I tell him that it happened on my birthday. “It’s not allowed to stop or park the car and police are always posted”, he adds.
I didn’t see any police although our car was hardly moving. But maybe I was not supposed to.
We were on our way to Sassoon Docks, another Mumbai tourist attraction in Colaba, in the very south of the megalopolis.

Several web pages had pointed out that photography was not welcomed by the workers, some pages even used the word prohibited. I ask my guide who shrugs and says he couldn’t really tell. “You never know, maybe it depends on their mood that could be marked by the catch of the day,” he says without enthusiasm. It was clear that he wouldn’t be of any help. I tell myself to be polite, and not too intrusive.

Sassoon Docks, built in 1875, is one of the oldest docks in Mumbai and was the first wet-dock constructed in Bombay. It is also one of the few docks in the city open to the public. According to The Maritime History Society of Mumbai, the Sassoon Dock was formally inaugurated on Tuesday, 8th June 1875. The Times of India dated 09 June 1875, in an article titled ‘The Colaba Sassoon Dock’, describes the dock in the following words: “The dock is about 690 feet in length, 300 feet in breadth, 40 feet from gate to gate, has therefore an area of about 195,000 square feet, and has a 15.4 fill below the wear tide. A substantial stone bunder encloses the dock; and flood gates are provided at the entrance on the east side.”
The docks were built by David Sassoon and Co., a banking and mercantile company which was run by David Sassoon’s son at the time. The dock is no longer in private hands, that happened years ago.

We walk through the big gates and head towards the quay while trying to avoid lorries, busy men with hand-carts and the many puddles of water. More men are working outside the ramshackle buildings, while beautiful women in their immaculate working attire – a beautiful sari – are sailing past us, bowls on their heads.
I had braced myself for the smell of fish, it had been raining and the sky was painted grey. But as always in India: colours prevail. From the shining yellow boots worn by men shuffling ice, to the bright orange and blue plastic crates, the colourful trucks and boats – and again, the women in colourful saris.

The fishing boats lay shoulder by shoulder, row upon row, in the water that seems to glister with oil. They look wrecked, like a colony of sinking ships. Everywhere around us, men and women rest on plastic chairs or on the ground in front of fish unknown to me. But as I later knew would be pomfret, Indian red snapper, cuttlefish, swordfish, stingrays and shrimps. Baskets, bowls, crates – many types of storage were lying carelessly around – or placed on top of somebody’s head. The whole place is bustling, and I make it a point not to be in anybody’s way.

The fisheries are run by the Kolis, a group of people who helped develop the harbours and coastlines of Mumbai back in the days when the city was named Bombay, a scattered amalgamation of seven islands. The Kolis live in Koliwadas, modest quarters of the city, distinguished from the rest of Mumbai in their traditions and social life. I had read that the women, in particular, were aggressive and prone to shouting at tourists – especially those with cameras. I experience no such thing; the women are either smiling or busy with their work.

I sneak around, trying to make myself invisible. My guide seems uncomfortable, it’s obvious that he wants to avoid any form of provocation, I am after all his responsibility – for the time being. But nobody seems to pay me any attention, the shrewd Koli women have more important things on their mind. While the men catch the fish, it is the women who sell the catch and thus are responsible for the family economy.

It’s getting warmer and the overall stench seems more persistent. The guide is ready to leave and I tug along. As he turns the car and starts to drive towards the north, he points at some shacks and tells me that many of their residents earn their living from the docks.  “They’re not poor,” he says, “although it might look like a slum. Inside these shacks you’ll find millions of rupees in cash, and gold. But this is how they prefer to live.”
It could be the truth, or part of the truth, but possibly also a myth – popular among guides.
If Sassoon Docks will outlive further urbanisation of Mumbai remains to see, so don’t miss it should you get the chance!

More photos:

 

The big laundry February 21, 2022

Filed under: INDIA,Travels — benjamuna @ 2:58 pm
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The air is hot and humid. Sweat is trickling down my spine and my sandals draw water.  I sneak through a narrow passage to the sound of clapping feet running back and forth. Loud voices come with violent outbursts and I get a feeling of being in the way. Large knots of dirty clothes hang heavily over the shoulders of the men, and every now and then I see a woman with a knot on her head. We are visiting an open-air laundry in Colaba, in the south of Mumbai. A dhobi ghat.

Tourist attraction
A little further north, Mahalaxmi Dhobi Ghat is still one of the city’s biggest tourist attractions, although the laundry has been predicted to close for many years. The area is attractive to large developers who believe this type of laundry belongs to the past.
The laundry was established in 1890 and has been presented in The Guinness Book of Records (2011) as the world’s largest open-air laundry. From the large bridge at Mahalaxmi Railway Station you get a good overview of a damp and crawling ‘anthill’ where, at the most and once, close to a thousand washermen, called dhobis, simultaneously earned a living.

Dirty clothes are primarily delivered from hotels and hospitals. The area is divided into wash pens, each fitted with its own flogging stone. It might not be the place where I’d send my summer dress.

Inherited profession
The dhobis have to pay rent for each washing pen to the Mumbai authorities. In a society still plagued by corruption, they must expect to be exposed to money collectors who ask for bribes in order to renew leases on behalf of the authorities.

The profession of a dhobi is hard and passed down from generation to generation. Mahalaxmi Dhobi Ghat spans many blocks and is seen as urban slum. Here, the dhobis live with their families in very poor conditions, and child labour is not uncommon. After all, many are born into the profession.

Dhobi ghat in the south
We chose to visit a smaller and more unknown dhobi ghat in Colaba, the far south of Mumbai. Here you can get closer, and walk unnoticed between busy men, giggling children and the ubiquitous stray dogs. Although a dhobi ghat is characterized by manual labour, there are a few large electrically powered centrifuges under cover.

Large, white or colourful sheets mixed with worn jeans hang to dry along the walls or on large racks on the roofs of surrounding buildings. You probably have to be a bit of an acrobat to get the laundry hung to dry! Flats, one of top of the other, painted in India’s candy colors, surround parts of the laundry and lighten up an otherwise grey area.

It is the middle of the day and the activity is low. Most of the work takes place early in the morning so that washing can hang to dry throughout the day. Here, there is no computer or app that registers washing in and out, but a coding system that keeps track of customers and laundry. We notice how some of the men soap themselves and shower with water from a bucket. A few minutes of respite breaks up a tough daily life – mostly about soap and water anyway.

WHERE: Dhobi Ghat off Capt. Prakash Petha Marg, Colaba

 

South Park Street Cemetery March 25, 2021

Filed under: INDIA,Travels — benjamuna @ 8:00 am
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“You should go to the cemetery,” a photographer in Kolkata once told me. “No, you must go, he added. “You’re staying just around the corner.” So I went there.

Kolkata, or Calcutta – a name with much more history attached to it, is like any other Indian city of a certain size, a beast. Crowded, noisy, confusing, at times heavily polluted. The moment I walked through the gate of the cemetery, I found peace. And now, reminiscing about my visit, I come to think of the title of an old pop song from the 60’s, ‘Graveyard Paradise’.

Photography prohibited; a sign tells me. But most things are available at a price, I motioned my camera towards the guards and upon request paid 200 rupis for potentially using my camera. I was not able to understand the logic behind the fee, but the amount was small and the guards welcoming.

The immediate sight was overwhelming. The cemetery looked like an old, lush overgrown garden. The footpaths were flanked by weathered tombs, colonnades, mausoleums, obelisks, sarcophagi, and stone cupolas – all partly covered in moss and framed by a variety of trees, bushes and potted plants. Chirping birds made the picture complete, the traffic noise became nothing but a soft backdrop. And the whole place reeked of old history from the time of the Britishers.

This burial ground came into being in 1767, in a marshy area. To reach it, a new road had to be built – today called Park Street, and no one visits Calcutta without strolling up and down this street. But I might not have walked this far had I not known what to find …

The cemetery was in its time opened to relieve the pressure on the city’s old burial ground. It became the final resting place of the many Britishers who came to stay in India for several reasons, but many hardships had to be endured and many tombs tell stories about short lives. Tropical diseases, poor sanitation, and lack of medicines were the main reasons for all those early deaths.

Some 1600 British men, women and children are buried here, among them some notable personalities and there are quite a few military burials. The cemetery also tells stories about young women who presumably died in childbirth, as many children are buried together with their mothers.

South Park Street Cemetery covers 8 acres, and walled off from the busy streets makes it the perfect get-away for young couples. Visit any big garden or park in India, and you’ll find youngsters strolling leisurely along the footpaths, holdings hands, sitting close on benches – or they might be seen kissing and cuddling behind big tree trunks. The cemetery is no exception. I teasingly asked a young couple if I could take their picture, but they leaped up from their bench as if they had seen a … ghost!

[END of text]

 

The newspaper men in Calcutta March 20, 2021

Filed under: INDIA,Travels — benjamuna @ 4:06 pm
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I immediately noticed them when I first came to Calcutta, and never stopped doing so: The newspaper men. To me, they are men reading newspapers on the streets, in their stalls, sitting on stools and chairs, leaning onto railings, or whatever comes their way, at bus stops – simply everywhere. Yes, there are people hunched over cellphones like everywhere else in the world, but more noticeably are those who fold out broadsheets or the likes.

“Asia’s first newspaper started in Calcutta,” says Soham Chakrabarty, founder of Calcutta Capsule. “The Hicky’s Bengal Gazette (1780) was published for two years before The East India Company seized the newspaper’s printing press. Calcutta was once home to a lot of newspapers, and some of today’s newspapers are more than a hundred years old, like The Statesman.”

A quiet moment …

While Delhi, with its grand monuments, is the capital of India, and Mumbai the financial hub, Calcutta is often seen as the cultural capital of India marked by art, literature, science, politics and journalism. Bengal, especially Calcutta, was the cradle of journalism in India and till the 1880’s the main hub of newspaper publication.

“Newspapers acted as a medium to reach out to the common crowd,” says Soham. “The independence movement, but also other political issues, included a lot of newspapers through which freedom fighters and activists voiced their opinions.”

Another quiet moment at Howrah Bridge.

Till this date I haven’t seen a single woman reading a newspaper on the streets of Calcutta. Nor are there many female street vendors.
 “The streets of Calcutta are a man’s world” says Soham. “Common culture be it, or whatever reason, do not make it comfortable for women to spend too much time on the streets hence you don’t see them reading newspapers. Whereas a lot of men do spend time on the streets, sometimes for no obvious reason, where they see it fit to read newspapers. Both my grandmothers had habits of reading newspapers. They were homemakers, but always found time to newspapers within the premises of their house.”

As I go through my Calcutta photos it comes as no surprise that the men reading newspapers aren’t exactly the young generation, rather middle-aged men who, like myself, finds pleasure in something that is about to become an anachronism. And the day I was about to finish this blog post, the newspapers didn’t show up in my mailbox on a Saturday morning; the prime newspaper day of the week. A tablet was put on the table, but no matter how hard I tried I wasn’t able to digest the electronic news together with bread and butter.
[END of story, more photos below]

My Calcutta Man!