It is as if the people who inhabit the streets, inspired by some mysterious wisdom, realise that the true history of Calcutta has always been written in the invisible tales of its spirits and unspoken curses.
Carlos Ruiz Zafón
It all began with a simple announcement—my sister had to travel to Calcutta for an important interview. My parents, of course, decided to accompany her, eager to be by her side. Ever since she moved to Bangalore for her big girl job, they’ve clung to any excuse to see her.
I was told about the plan the following weekend, and at first, it seemed like just another family trip. I asked all the usual questions—when, where, why—until the dates were revealed. The timing was perfect, aligning seamlessly with the weekend after my midterms. That’s when the longing set in. I had to be a part of this journey. I pleaded, I cajoled, I insisted. My persistence paid off—my father not only agreed but extended the trip by two extra days. I was overjoyed and started packing right away (before anyone had the chance to change their mind).
The journey began with a cab ride from the airport, a passage through the heart of Kolkata’s soul. The driver was an extraordinary man—sharp-witted, politically aware, his words laced with humour and insight. Outside, the streets pulsed with life. White and blue railings stretched endlessly, a signature of the city’s aesthetic. Yellow taxis wove through traffic like golden fish in a restless stream. Mamata Banerjee’s posters adorned every possible space, staring down at us with quiet authority. Kolkata had a scent of its own—a mix of old books, incense, frying oil, and the occasional waft of something sweet, like melted jaggery or fresh roshogullas. It was a city where time walked at its own pace, neither rushing forward nor standing still, but perhaps swaying to the rhythm of an old Bengali song. The next day passed in a blur of responsibilities—my sister’s interview, familial visits, the obligatory small talk exchanged over steaming cups of tea. But it was on the third day that we finally started exploring the city.
The morning began with a visit to Dakshineswar Temple. To enter, we had to surrender our shoes and walk barefoot to offer our prayers. The temple hummed with devotion—voices murmuring prayers, bells chiming in intervals, the fragrance of hibiscus flowers mingling with the smoky trails of incense. From sacred echoes, we moved to regal whispers—the Victoria Memorial stood before us, an epitome of grace frozen in time. Its domes gleamed under the sun, its grand halls filled with paintings, sculptures, and relics of an era long past. The surrounding gardens, lush and endless, stretched like a green sea. As big history nerds, the museum absolutely fascinated both me, and my sister. Just a short walk away was St. Paul’s Cathedral, a place of stillness amidst the city’s perpetual motion. The air inside was thick with whispers of history. Light streamed through stained-glass windows, painting the marble floors in soft, coloured hues. The walls bore tributes carved in stone, ensuring they were never forgotten. Even for those who didn’t believe, it was a place where one could sit, breathe, and listen—to silence, to history, to the quiet beating of one’s own heart. No journey is complete without the taste of its land. At Vardaan Market, I eagerly reached for my first phuchka, the Bengali cousin of golgappas and panipuri. I had imagined a burst of new flavours, a revelation—but to my disappointment, it tasted the same. We tried multiple stalls, hoping for it to be different, but were met with no luck. The crisp shells, the tangy water—it was familiar, comforting, but not extraordinary. Bengali cuisine, however, was an experience of its own. We ventured into a small, local eatery, where the menu was a love letter to the region’s flavours. The starters arrived—mocha chops, delicate and crispy, made from banana flower florets. Then came the main course, and soon we noticed a theme—everything, everything, had a touch of sweetness. Even dishes we expected to be savoury carried an undertone of sugar. We exchanged amused glances as we realised the truth: the restaurant wasn’t slow; they were simply ensuring that every bite carried Kolkata’s signature sweetness.
That evening, we boarded a ferry, an experience both simple and profound. The boat swayed gently as we floated down the Hooghly River, the city unfolding on either side with the live band singing all 90’s bollywood hits.. The wind tousled our hair, the sun dipped lower, and then we saw it—Howrah Bridge, a magnificent silhouette against the twilight sky <3
As the trip neared its end, we ventured into New Market, a maze of colours, textures, and voices. Sarees in a riot of hues spilled from tiny shopfronts, jewellery sparkled under dim lights, the air thick with the mingling scents of street food—fried momos, spicy chaat, and something sweet I couldn’t quite place. The market was chaos, but it was the kind of chaos that made you feel alive. Our final stop was the Mishti Hub, a heaven for sweet lovers. There, amidst trays of sandesh, cham cham, and mishti doi, we found what we had been searching for—the perfect roshogulla. Soft, spongy, soaked in just the right amount of syrup, it melted on my tongue like a whisper of something divine.
And just like that, our time in Kolkata came to an end. But the city had left its mark—on our taste buds and our memories.
Kolkata is not a city you simply visit; it is a city you feel. It lingers in the folds of your clothes, in the stories you carry home, and in the sudden pang of nostalgia when you taste something remotely similar to its flavours. It is old and new, loud and silent, chaotic and poetic—all at once.
As our plane took off, I looked down one last time at the winding streets, the slow-moving river, and the tiny yellow taxis dotting the roads. I smiled to myself, knowing that this was truly a bittersweet goodbye.
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