Thanks to our friend, the Corona Virus Disease, I am still back in the States and may be so for some time to come. (Take a bow, COVID.) Fortunately, a writer friend of mine (the headmaster of my old alma mater) has agreed to fill in. His name is Indi Sundaram and he will be expounding upon India from a far more authentic point of view.
A Touch of Whimsy on New Market by Indrajit Sundaram
Any intrepid traveler visiting Kolkata, the proud capital of West Bengal state, would, no doubt, need some reorienting because of the overwhelming sense of history and stories crying to be told in the city. I am sure that once reoriented, they would remember that they were an intrepid traveler, and had New Market on their bucket list of places to visit. Then, having dropped off their even more intrepid luggage at the hotel, guesthouse, hostel, friend’s place, or wherever it was they were going to be staying, would, then, head off to New Market, making their way, somehow, through traffic and people, in jerky and lumpy fashion, much as this sentence is doing, with the intrepid expectation that intrepid travelers, often, have.
I suppose, they would not quite head off with such alacrity if they arrived in Kolkata sometime in the night, or even to New Market, first thing, after what would possibly have been a tiring journey. However, one must assume that intrepid travelers have somewhat more sense than this little treatise in story-telling has.
Anyway, our intrepid traveler has gone out with the boldness of Star Trekkers sans the split infinitive that has annoyed scores of grammarians through the decades. At this point, I would deem it appropriate that you, dear reader, know that such an intrepid traveler with such a lack of sense, was, in fact, me visiting for a quick two days on work, with an unfortunate shopping list haunting my phone (gone are the days when they would haunt pockets, sometimes for weeks), and this little story of my quick visit to New Market is my fleeting snapshot of this fascinating sprawl of very old buildings and intense layers of trade and commerce, driven by the power of the shopping list.
These days when I visit Kolkata, I’ve started to stay at a little backpacker’s den called, strangely, Bubble Beds at a place called Kalighat. I can assure you the beds there have no bubbles, thankfully. I had discovered the place quite by chance on the Net, and still can’t imagine how the rates can be so reasonable, especially since they include breakfast! I mean, $7.50 for a 4-person dormitory bed with an AC in the room, including a simple, substantial breakfast, and $17 for a double-bedded room with an AC and breakfast, is almost unbelievable. It’s really well located, with the Lake Mall within walking distance and the Metro just a couple of minutes away. I found the Metro took me straight to New Market at a fraction of the cost it takes to take a cab or an Uber. Well, not quite straight to it, but close enough to walk comfortably to it.
It’s always seemed an oxymoron to me that New Market is so old, or at least parts of it. I doubt my brilliant idea of renaming sections of it as Old New Market and New New Market would go down well with whatever governing body names (and renames, as is the trend these days) places. Once I had fought my way through the milling crowds of people, I found myself suddenly aimless, having forgotten which of the many entrances to go through, especially since I had only a vague idea of the shops where I could use my shopping list being ‘somewhere’ in the sprawl.
It was a long time since I had last visited. My subsequent wanderings, still through endless crowds, finally led me to the familiar sign of Hogg Market, named after a Sir Stuart Hogg from India’s colonial era. Being there was still an interesting experience, if one could drop one’s guard a moment to just imagine scenes from the thick layers of history. The buildings reeked of colonial British presence, the architecture still enduring, though very worn and shabby now. Strange to see buildings from the age of tramcars and gaslights, where being privileged meant that one would wear a top hat and tailcoat, rubbing uneasy shoulders with malls and electric lit brand names.
In I went. Past the stores where I used to buy barley sugar, the famous Kolkata candy I used to like as a child, and spicy Kolkata dalmut and chanachur, the fried mixtures of crisps, pulses and nuts generously sprinkled with spices and rock salt, finally having the sense to ask my way to Nahoum’s Bakery. Good old Nahoum’s! As enduring as New Market, still in the same place, still with the same entrance with the tilted mezzuzot fixed in the doorways that I always touch, thank God for his grace and ask for blessing on the house of Nahoum. And I still can’t believe how Nahoum’s has managed to keep the taste of their famous vanilla fudge the same, the chicken patties stuffed with so much chicken and the marzipan still with the actual taste of almonds, not just dough with essence for flavouring. Well, anyway, did I mention that I had picked up some of that spicy dalmut mixture on the way in? Maybe not, but I had, and added some things from Nahoum’s and then made a beeline (not quite), for the little shops that sell Bandel cheese. These are little round blocks of smoked and salted local cheese that are made in Bandel, on the outskirts of Kolkata. You have to soak them overnight, so that they become soft enough to spread on homebaked, toasted bread over some just melted butter, and you have bites of that between sips of smoky tea from Darjeeling, and that makes life look a little sweeter, especially in the morning when you’re not quite ready to go.
By this time, I was hungry and tired and decided to get back to my hotel with the bubbleless beds. I found my way to one of the exits, batting away a couple of seedy looking men with wicker baskets who sidled up mumbling in an extraordinary language, that I think they thought was English. I’m allergic to sidling men, and didn’t need any help whatsoever in carrying my small shopping bags, which I assume those wicker baskets were for (besides for them to carry my small bags very far away from New Market entirely). I made my way out as quickly as I could, bravely resisted by the still milling crowds. God alone knows what they were milling about for, and headed to the Metro, feeling now a lot less intrepid than I had at first. However, I was now well stocked with Nahoum’s vanilla fudge, marzipan and mince patties, Bandel cheese, and spicy snacks. Sir Stuart Hogg’s Market, now not as new as it had been then, had made sure that I was bringing home the bacon.