The Kolkata Report #12
Rant Alert!
It is hot and humid. Not much can be done about that. The month of Jaishtha is typically hot. This year, there have been big fat storms, full of lightning, thunder and rain, every few days. For a brief few hours after the storms, the temperature drops to bearable and even enjoyable levels, Then the heat begins to rise as the day begins.
Yesterday, I had just finished my daily work inspection of a home being renovated. Things were moving along slowly, but according to schedule. Well almost.
This month, has seen the closure of the banks for 4 days at a stretch, elections in the rural areas, from where the work force come to work from, and the aforementioned storms. Yet, the construction industry needs to move along regardless of interruptions. i have great admiration for the men and women who have to slog through this almost unbearable heat, to set food on the table for their families. I understand that they need to rest frequently and hydrate. With them I have no complaints, I am just grateful that they show up and do their work. I never quibble about their wages. And they respond to the smallest kindnesses in ways with such gratitude, that it breaks my heart. If I have a rant about this, it is that Life is so unfair for many. I have a rant too, about the squeeze that employers force upon their employees at times. A spike in productivity is not sustainable if the people responsible for that spike are not able to sustain that effort. The number of work shirks are actually not as many as we imagine, I believe. Most people enjoy working, if they can do what truly interests them.
On the way back from my inspection site, I decided to stop at and examine an open air shopping complex, set up by the local government, to showcase the emporia of different Indian states and and also other businesses that lend ancillary support to them. This complex has a thriving southern sibling, which is one of my favorites. Perhaps it was the blast of heat, or perhaps the sight of a lot of shuttered shops, or even the rabbit warren like corridors flanked by stores selling cheap, poor quality merchandise, that irritated me. A few people ambled through the space, with less than reasonable cleanliness. The whole place smelled of impending failure. I made one purchase at the Garvi Gujarat store, from an unsmiling manager, and fended off the smiling saleswoman, who insisted on showing me what I did not want to see; while blithely telling me that there was only limited stock here.
Then I went to Park Street, the supposedly swank area of town. I am quite familiar with this part of town, not because I have anything to do with swank, but because my school is right around the corner from here, the steeple of St. Thomas's Church, visible easily. The church is a part of my school's complex. School has broken for summer vacations, and the street in front of it is now a giant parking lot, managed by the city of Kolkata. If you have a lot of cars in this part of the world, you also have a lot of blaring car horns. Even to park a car, people blow the car horns.It is an universal phenomenon though, when a car is backing into a spot, some pedestrian will appear and step into that place, even if it for a couple of seconds. That never fails.
Park Street broke my heart. The whole place looks shabby,with a crass jumble of stores, many of which are shuttered and many plastered with unwanted posters. The pavers on the sidewalks are uneven, broken and dangerously misaligned. The 'flower beds' now with an assortment of shrubs and blighted trees, are littered with styrofoam pieces of broken packaging material, foil packs and even broken terracotta cups.
Street hawkers have proliferated, now there are at least half dozen, selling grimy magazines and sensational best sellers with pot boiler stories.
I step into Flury's, a 'Swiss confectionary' store, the once elegant old world place of impossibly delicious cakes and pastries. I am ushered in by a smartly dressed set of security guards at the door, with a crisp salute. These security guards are now commonplace at every mall and department store. they carry screening wands, and the women guards inspect handbags. The spectre of theft is obviously hovering about all the time. I don't object to this, but I find it unsettling. I stroll in and after an indifferent waiter in a brown uniform- vaguely motions in the direction that I should sit, I find a place in the center of the 'tea room'. Another man comes along and sits at the next table. He summons the waiter loudly, and places his order. He looks like he is a regular here. Then he takes off his sandals, and sits cross legged on his seat. In the long ago past, I would do this surreptitiously in the cinema halls; but never in the glare of the public eye.
No one takes my order, though quite a few waiters stroll past listlessly back and forth. One comes and fills my glass with water and is never seen again.
I decide to summon a waiter like my neighbour. One turns up, looking a bit surprised that I called him. I place my order, I want a bowl of soup- mushroom, and a croissant. He nods and writes down the order and disappears. I wait for 25 minutes. It has been about forty minutes that I have been here, and waited. It isn't even busy. No reason to give excuses for being busy. Then my exasperation rises and snaps. I walk to the cashier and demand to see the Manager. He's 'not available at this time', I am told. Now I'm angry. He must be available, a customer wants to complain, I counter, in a manner that is not characteristic of me. I mean business and lock my eyes with the cashier, who is the de facto manager. He blinks in the stare down, but is saved somewhat from utter ignominy, by the appearance of the manager, who appears with a few other people, laughing and joking. He senses trouble but before he can escape, I accost him. I hurl the verbal equivalent of boiling hot oil in his direction. He looks uneasily at my waiter, who tries to stammer an excuse.
Does it take forty five minutes for a customer to get a bowl of soup at lunch time? I demand loudly.
Pinned down, he shakes his head- No ma'am. He is at a loss for words.
Then he glares at the waiter, who disappears. In the meantime, the cashier has alerted the kitchen, and someone has placed the bowl of soup at my table.
I go back and sit down. Suddenly, the waiters seem to have got a recharge on their batteries and are whizzing around, quite differently from their earlier somnolent manner. I summon my waiter, and this time he comes immediately.
'Where is my croissant?' I ask. I carry on the demanding customer act. He apologizes and vanishes, to return with a soggy microwaved croissant. I debate with myself about sending it back. But now, I am worn out. I let it pass. But not without giving his rather grimy apron a withering look. Standards have really fallen, and people just accept that. hus, they won't improve.
The taste of the food is good. At least that bit is alright.
Lunch over, I walk to my favorite book store on the other footpath. A particularly dirty glass store front catches my eye. It the the flagship store, I suppose, of an Ayurvedic empire, headed by a supposed Yogi. Ironically, he loudly champions the Clean India campaign.
The entrance to the hoary old Asiatic society property is now jammed with illegal ramshackle stores, selling water, chewing tobacco, potato chips and other 'tiffin snacks'. A car is coming through the crowd of people milling about the entrance, I count them- one horn blast per second for the minute it takes to get through.
Just ahead, a tree has been enclosed in a chequered tile plinth, and has a makeshift temple with 6 unidentifiable idols, A torn black umbrella hangs from the tree, supposedly shielding the Gods and Goddesses from the elements. The whole ramshackle and ugly spectre holds no charm.
My favourite book store is now a multipurpose boutique like place. The shelves where there were translated Bengali classics, now houses a tea collection. Slowly the books have been shunted to the back of the store. My horror and outrage though, is kept for the front of the store, where the music and film section is now filled with shelves of cheap plastic toys and pink Chinese made teddy bears, wrapped in cellophane.
I give up.
We don't know when and how to treasure the best parts of the city and our lives. Flashy, bright, cheap and convenient has taken over everything. I look to the heavens and see a hugely tangled and messy bunch of electrical cables.
I have to escape from this dead, grimy place of today, that lives in my memory as beautiful.
So utterly sad.
Rant Alert!
It is hot and humid. Not much can be done about that. The month of Jaishtha is typically hot. This year, there have been big fat storms, full of lightning, thunder and rain, every few days. For a brief few hours after the storms, the temperature drops to bearable and even enjoyable levels, Then the heat begins to rise as the day begins.
Yesterday, I had just finished my daily work inspection of a home being renovated. Things were moving along slowly, but according to schedule. Well almost.
This month, has seen the closure of the banks for 4 days at a stretch, elections in the rural areas, from where the work force come to work from, and the aforementioned storms. Yet, the construction industry needs to move along regardless of interruptions. i have great admiration for the men and women who have to slog through this almost unbearable heat, to set food on the table for their families. I understand that they need to rest frequently and hydrate. With them I have no complaints, I am just grateful that they show up and do their work. I never quibble about their wages. And they respond to the smallest kindnesses in ways with such gratitude, that it breaks my heart. If I have a rant about this, it is that Life is so unfair for many. I have a rant too, about the squeeze that employers force upon their employees at times. A spike in productivity is not sustainable if the people responsible for that spike are not able to sustain that effort. The number of work shirks are actually not as many as we imagine, I believe. Most people enjoy working, if they can do what truly interests them.
On the way back from my inspection site, I decided to stop at and examine an open air shopping complex, set up by the local government, to showcase the emporia of different Indian states and and also other businesses that lend ancillary support to them. This complex has a thriving southern sibling, which is one of my favorites. Perhaps it was the blast of heat, or perhaps the sight of a lot of shuttered shops, or even the rabbit warren like corridors flanked by stores selling cheap, poor quality merchandise, that irritated me. A few people ambled through the space, with less than reasonable cleanliness. The whole place smelled of impending failure. I made one purchase at the Garvi Gujarat store, from an unsmiling manager, and fended off the smiling saleswoman, who insisted on showing me what I did not want to see; while blithely telling me that there was only limited stock here.
Then I went to Park Street, the supposedly swank area of town. I am quite familiar with this part of town, not because I have anything to do with swank, but because my school is right around the corner from here, the steeple of St. Thomas's Church, visible easily. The church is a part of my school's complex. School has broken for summer vacations, and the street in front of it is now a giant parking lot, managed by the city of Kolkata. If you have a lot of cars in this part of the world, you also have a lot of blaring car horns. Even to park a car, people blow the car horns.It is an universal phenomenon though, when a car is backing into a spot, some pedestrian will appear and step into that place, even if it for a couple of seconds. That never fails.
Park Street broke my heart. The whole place looks shabby,with a crass jumble of stores, many of which are shuttered and many plastered with unwanted posters. The pavers on the sidewalks are uneven, broken and dangerously misaligned. The 'flower beds' now with an assortment of shrubs and blighted trees, are littered with styrofoam pieces of broken packaging material, foil packs and even broken terracotta cups.
Street hawkers have proliferated, now there are at least half dozen, selling grimy magazines and sensational best sellers with pot boiler stories.
I step into Flury's, a 'Swiss confectionary' store, the once elegant old world place of impossibly delicious cakes and pastries. I am ushered in by a smartly dressed set of security guards at the door, with a crisp salute. These security guards are now commonplace at every mall and department store. they carry screening wands, and the women guards inspect handbags. The spectre of theft is obviously hovering about all the time. I don't object to this, but I find it unsettling. I stroll in and after an indifferent waiter in a brown uniform- vaguely motions in the direction that I should sit, I find a place in the center of the 'tea room'. Another man comes along and sits at the next table. He summons the waiter loudly, and places his order. He looks like he is a regular here. Then he takes off his sandals, and sits cross legged on his seat. In the long ago past, I would do this surreptitiously in the cinema halls; but never in the glare of the public eye.
No one takes my order, though quite a few waiters stroll past listlessly back and forth. One comes and fills my glass with water and is never seen again.
I decide to summon a waiter like my neighbour. One turns up, looking a bit surprised that I called him. I place my order, I want a bowl of soup- mushroom, and a croissant. He nods and writes down the order and disappears. I wait for 25 minutes. It has been about forty minutes that I have been here, and waited. It isn't even busy. No reason to give excuses for being busy. Then my exasperation rises and snaps. I walk to the cashier and demand to see the Manager. He's 'not available at this time', I am told. Now I'm angry. He must be available, a customer wants to complain, I counter, in a manner that is not characteristic of me. I mean business and lock my eyes with the cashier, who is the de facto manager. He blinks in the stare down, but is saved somewhat from utter ignominy, by the appearance of the manager, who appears with a few other people, laughing and joking. He senses trouble but before he can escape, I accost him. I hurl the verbal equivalent of boiling hot oil in his direction. He looks uneasily at my waiter, who tries to stammer an excuse.
Does it take forty five minutes for a customer to get a bowl of soup at lunch time? I demand loudly.
Pinned down, he shakes his head- No ma'am. He is at a loss for words.
Then he glares at the waiter, who disappears. In the meantime, the cashier has alerted the kitchen, and someone has placed the bowl of soup at my table.
I go back and sit down. Suddenly, the waiters seem to have got a recharge on their batteries and are whizzing around, quite differently from their earlier somnolent manner. I summon my waiter, and this time he comes immediately.
'Where is my croissant?' I ask. I carry on the demanding customer act. He apologizes and vanishes, to return with a soggy microwaved croissant. I debate with myself about sending it back. But now, I am worn out. I let it pass. But not without giving his rather grimy apron a withering look. Standards have really fallen, and people just accept that. hus, they won't improve.
The taste of the food is good. At least that bit is alright.
Lunch over, I walk to my favorite book store on the other footpath. A particularly dirty glass store front catches my eye. It the the flagship store, I suppose, of an Ayurvedic empire, headed by a supposed Yogi. Ironically, he loudly champions the Clean India campaign.
The entrance to the hoary old Asiatic society property is now jammed with illegal ramshackle stores, selling water, chewing tobacco, potato chips and other 'tiffin snacks'. A car is coming through the crowd of people milling about the entrance, I count them- one horn blast per second for the minute it takes to get through.
Just ahead, a tree has been enclosed in a chequered tile plinth, and has a makeshift temple with 6 unidentifiable idols, A torn black umbrella hangs from the tree, supposedly shielding the Gods and Goddesses from the elements. The whole ramshackle and ugly spectre holds no charm.
My favourite book store is now a multipurpose boutique like place. The shelves where there were translated Bengali classics, now houses a tea collection. Slowly the books have been shunted to the back of the store. My horror and outrage though, is kept for the front of the store, where the music and film section is now filled with shelves of cheap plastic toys and pink Chinese made teddy bears, wrapped in cellophane.
I give up.
We don't know when and how to treasure the best parts of the city and our lives. Flashy, bright, cheap and convenient has taken over everything. I look to the heavens and see a hugely tangled and messy bunch of electrical cables.
I have to escape from this dead, grimy place of today, that lives in my memory as beautiful.
So utterly sad.
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