Sight-seeing in Kali's hometown

Kolkata gets its name from the fiendish goddess Kali--worshipped by Hindus for her raw, naked blend of bloody power and matronly grace. Images of Kali and other Hindu deities can be seen all around the city. Kali, in particular, has an especially terrifying visage. In one store Jenna and I stopped at along Chowringhee Rd. (Kolkata's answer to New York's 5th Avenue), the vendor pulled out an ancient-looking drawing of Kali holding a severed head on a platter. The neck spouted blood and Kali held a menacing sword in the other hand, a wild grin on her face.

If Kolkata has a patron deity, Kali must be it. Jenna and I walked through the streets of this unexplainable city today for the first time since arriving. No words can describe exactly what we saw or the emotions we felt as we passed one fetid street after another. By the end of the day we came back to our apartment feeling as if we had been thrown in a dumpster then pushed down a hill into a a landfill. This is not to defame Kolkata. The city's well-earned reputation as a hovel, a hellhole, a pit, a dystopia is proudly displayed on every street corner, in every horn blast, in every whiff of garbage, feces, offal and exhaust.

Tourists do not so much "sight see" as "sight survive" in Kolkata. Walking the crammed alleyways around the Maidan--Kolkata's version of Central Park--is a lesson in human tolerance and pedestrian innovation. Where there are no sidewalks, you make one up in the gutter. Where there are no proper crosswalks, you hop a median and sprint across oncoming traffic. When you get nearly side-swiped by an auto-rickshaw, you simply smile. When you get followed for five blocks by a street vendor, you just say "No, thanks" an extra thirty-five times with a polite shake of your head.

The vibrancy of this city is stupefying and nauseating. Jenna and I walked into New Market today, famed for its meat packing arena as well as its never-ending den of clustered stalls selling all sorts of wares. On the second turn right we encountered a cavernous warehouse where all manner of half-naked men were chopping away at animal carcasses. The hot stench of half-decayed meat mixed with sweat and cigarette smoke hit us hard. Jenna dry heaved on the spot. It only got worse when we noticed that the workers' urinals were mere steps from their carving stations, feet from raw meat lying on the ground. We made solemn pledges then and there not to eat meat while in Kolkata.

After we exited the New Market, we were in desperate need of some relief. God or Kali or somebody was watching because a higher power delivered us Noor. Noor is a soft-spoken Muslim shopkeeper who spotted us on Chowringhee after our ghastly experience in the New Market. Soft-spoken does not get you very far as a vendor in this city but Noor was calm and even fatherly as he invited us into his store, which was down a well-lit hallway off the main drag. He ushered us inside a small room stacked from floor to ceiling with folded saris, salwar kameez, dishdashas, table linens, and bed sheets. He led us up a narrow staircase into another room stuffed with even more of the same items. He was persistent but not pushy, always quiet and smiling. Plus, his shop had air-conditioning and he offered us chai. We badly needed a break, so Jenna looked at the clothes and I drank some tea. Each individual item was wrapped in a plastic bag. He took several dozen items out to show Jenna. He had her place the garments in front of her body and pose in front of a mirror. "Good, huh? Looks fine, no? Great look, huh?" Noor said.

After about fifteen minutes in his store, Jenna agreed to buy a salwar kameez and a shawl for the equivalent of $25. Noor said his men could tailor it on site, so we had a half-hour to kill in his shop. We did not mind. We talked with Noor, relaxed, continued to drink tea, and forgot about the New Market. We learned that Noor was originally from Bihar, an impoverished state northwest of Kolkata. He had left his village when he was about ten after his parents died. He came to Kolkata with his uncle and he worked with his uncle and several cousins in these shops. He was married and had four boys between the ages of three and 13. We asked if they worked in the shop too. "No," he said, shaking his head vigorously. "They are in school. Education most important. Cannot go anywhere without education." Noor admitted he had never been to formal schooling. He could not read or write. Yet he had picked up English after working on Chowringhee for nearly three decades. His was the best English we had heard yet.

When the tailored garments finally came back, Jenna and I were almost sad to go, hesitant to say goodbye to this little oasis in the maelstrom that is central Kolkata. As we walked out, I asked for Noor's information--instinctually handing him a pencil and paper. Noor shook his head and handed me his business card. "Cannot write. But this is my name card. Come back. We want to see you again." We waved and walked on down Chowrighee, Noor was quickly swallowed up in the din of movement and noise.