In the upcoming issues of AwaaZ, we shall be serializing articles from Indian Voices – Vol 1, an anthology of prose and poetry by emerging Indian writers around the world. In this issue we bring to you ‘Welcome to Calcutta’ by Braz Menezes.

It is October 1976.

My flight from Bangkok arrives at Calcutta’s Dum Dum Airport on schedule at 0230 hours.  An Indian gentleman in Row 1B stands up. No taller that five feet and five inches tall, in his crumpled black suit and a gold watch, he reaches into the overhead bin. He glances around the cabin, grabs a transparent plastic duty-free bag and places it on his seat. I notice it contains among other items, at least three liquor bottles and four cartons of ‘Gold Leaf’ cigarettes. He reaches up again and lifts an overnight bag, straightens his suit, and walks to the exit. He faces the door with the anticipation of a diva waiting for the curtains to rise. I follow suit and stand behind him as the male flight attendant swings open the door.
On the apron below, I see three men push a mobile staircase roughly against the belly of the plane, while a fourth shouts instructions. In the background a tanker positions itself to start re-fuelling. The two elegant sari-clad flight attendants smile, bow and press both palms in a Namaste greeting.

Black Suit ignores them and begins to descend the stairs.  I step onto the threshold and look out into a ghostly, milky fog. A blast of hot, moist air greets me. It is thick and tangible. The first whiff turns into a pungent blend of burning garbage, decaying matter and putrid fecal matter from raw sewage. I recognise that smell from the squalor of Nairobi’s infamous Mathare Valley. I also detect the unforgettable wafting fumes of leather tanning.

“Welcome to Calcutta, Sir,” one of the sari-clad flight attendants snaps me back into the moment. “It has been a pleasure to serve you. Please come back again.” 
I

thank them and descend the stairs.Three black Ambassadors are parked at the foot of the stairs; each driver clad in a white cotton uniform and white gloves. These cars are a replica of the Morris Oxford made in England in the mid-fifties. As I discover later, Hindustan Motors has been spewing identical black cars by the hundreds of thousands since 1958.

All three drivers salute as Black Suit steps down the stairs. He enters the first car. The door to the next car is held open for me, so I enter. As nobody else leaves the aircraft, the third driver turns towards the plane, offers a Namaste to the attendants still in the doorway, and joins our convoy driving towards some specks of light in the fog. I assume that is the terminal building.

All three drivers leap out of their cars when we arrive at the entrance and salute Black Suit again. He ignores them. White clad immigration and customs officials variously bow or salute as he passes by. He ignores them as well. Finally, a man emerges from a group of waiting people and grabs both bags from Black Suit. This man is the Trusted One. Black Suit let’s go. Both bags are immediately handed over to the Trusted One’s driver, for safe passage to his vehicle.

A sign reads ‘Calcutta Police. Passport Control’. A uniformed officer notices me. 
“Welcome to Calcutta Sir. Are you with the Minister?” 
“No,” I reply.
“Why did you travel in the Minister’s car?” he asks.
“There were no other vehicles. I thought this was ground transportation,” I reply.
“Where are you going, Sir?”  He asks. The other officers gather around. I have now become the sole object of their attention.
“This is Calcutta isn’t it?” I ask. I think it is an odd question as I have just arrived.
“Yes this is Calcutta,” he says. “This flight is only refuelling. No passengers are expected tonight.”
“Yes, they told me that in Bangkok,” I reply. ”There are serious political problems there. They told me only two passengers would get off here. The Minister was number one, I must be the second.” 
“And Sir, please, what is your business in Calcutta?”
“World Bank mission. It starts tomorrow. Here is the telex.”  I seem to have struck a tuning fork. ‘Wold bank, wold bank, wold bank, wold bank’ reverberates around the group of officials, as all heads start to rock gently from side to side in unison.
“Atcha, your passport Sir, please?” he says. He carefully places a purple-ink rubber stamp on a page; writes ‘9/X/76’ over it in a blue ball-point pen; and hands my passport to his colleague, who politely signals me to his wooden table, barely five feet away. “Customs,” the officer grins.
“Welcome to Calcutta, Sir, do you have more bags?” he asks. I look around.
“I am waiting for my bag,” I say.  He becomes alarmed.
“If it is not here already, then Sir, surely it will have gone to Bombay?  Stop the plane, please somebody. Stop that flight!” he shouts.

Suddenly the airport seems to come alive. Everyone seems to be shouting instructions to each other in English and Bengali. A man by a window, overlooking the apron, announces that the plane is already on the taxiway for take off. Seconds later, another man says something in Bengali, causing a crowd of onlookers to rush to the window. Meanwhile the Customs Officer is still clutching my Kenyan passport, glancing alternatively at me and in the direction of the tarmac.

The doors open. A khaki-clad porter comes in carrying a red bag on his shoulders.
“Your luggage, Saab,” he says, placing the bag at my feet. Everyone claps and cheers. I thank him. I feel bad, as I do not have any local money to tip him. An officer explains the bag was off-loaded and left on the tarmac, and as no passengers were expected, there was no transport for luggage to the terminal. I am relieved to be reunited with my bag.
“Please Sir, where do I go next?” I ask the officer.
“Before next, comes first,” he says courteously. “You must answer questions for customs.” He proceeds to recite these, often not waiting for a response.
“You have anything to declare Sir?  Any illegal weapons or imported goods?”
“No,” I reply.
“Your pocket calculator?  Do you intend to sell it?”
“No.”
“Then, what about cigarettes? Transistor radio? Wrist watch? Camera?”
“Just this wrist watch and my camera, which I will take back,” I reply.
“No spirits? No whiskey? Gin? Brandy? No alcohol of another kind?” he asks.
“Nothing, Sir.” I reply. 
“Then, are you bringing in Indian rupees?”
“No, Sir,” I reply, “just travellers’ cheques.”
“Sir, you must change money only at the State Bank counter.” He informs me.
“Is there a bank here at the airport?” I enquire.
“Sir, it is closed now, but outside you can get satisfaction with money-changers,” he says, “of course below official rate but they also must live.”
“And what will happen if police see me?” I ask.
“Leave it to money-changer. He will bring comfort to police,” he says.
“Thank you,” I reply. “Is there transport into town at this time? I am booked at the Oberoi Grand Hotel on Chowringhee.”
“Oh…wait! Basu!” He summons a junior colleague. “Taxi drivers sleep in their cars and wait for morning customers. Basu will find you taxi. Welcome to Calcutta.”

It is 4.30 in the morning, perhaps the two hours in a day that even money-changers and police sleep. There is no one around. Basu emerges from the shadows in a taxi – a black Ambassador - painted a sunflower yellow above the window line. Its bodywork suggests it is a war veteran from Calcutta’s notorious traffic.

A drowsy driver with red paan-coloured teeth, grips my case, spits a mouthful on the pavement, pulls his shawl tighter over his shoulders, and gets behind the wheel. The fog is still thick and the odoriferous air has not abated. Immediately outside the airport gate, the driver picks up a passenger by a roadside kiosk. He too is heavily wrapped in a shawl, over a lungi and a night shirt. For accessories, he carries a long knife with an eighteen inch blade.  They talk among themselves, as if I don’t exist. I adjust my body around the metal springs in the upholstery of the rear seat.

The road from Dum Dum on the outskirts to the city centre, is both desolate and dismal. There are at first only isolated street lamps and a dimly-lit city beyond.  Then a few stores appear by the roadside with their shutters open, as the air is still too hot and humid.  Fully shrouded bodies lie asleep on the floors, as if in a makeshift morgue, awaiting collection. Some shops have raised platforms along the back which create additional work and sleep areas. There are sewing machines in almost every other shop. Others have trading goods.  In most cases, a single naked light bulb at the end of a short flex hangs from the ceiling as the only lighting. These single points of light emphasise the darkness and the shadows along the narrow and potholed road.

Soon the edges become denser, with three and four storied structures, where the upper floors are residential with commercial uses at ground level. There is a sign of movement in the predawn light. Some bodies are stirring to greet the dawn. We have been bouncing along for almost forty minutes. It is lighter now, the buildings are higher and the pavements are more crowded. Lines of handcarts are parked in batches against the curb. Their pullers cannot be too far away. A little further along, clusters of hand-pulled rickshaws are resting for the night; their handles all facing up. On one or two, a rickshaw owner is curled asleep. I see people living on the pavements. Men and women are washing their bodies from a standpipe by a street lamp post. I hear a few voices now. To my left on the pavement there is a dog’s carcass. How long dead is difficult to say. Both its front and rear legs are fully stiff. It has been propped against a lamp post, legs pointing up, so as not to further obstruct the already difficult pedestrian movement. Life continues around it. Pavement barbers in vests and lungis are already busy.

I am too scared to doze, but too tired to stay awake for much longer. The two men in the taxi are still talking excitedly. One raises his voice, looks around at me, and drops back to his original low tone. The driver makes a few sharp right turns along the narrow streets. In the upper floors of five and six storied buildings, I see people are waking up. Some lights come on. Window shutters crack open. Another left turn and we are in what may be a village square. There is a bustle and noise even that early. Cars honk incessantly and handcarts respond with bells.

Hundreds of people are scurrying about with sacks of produce, baskets of fruits and vegetables, live chickens, sugar cane, baskets of green coconuts, fat bananas, rolls of coir matting and brooms. People are unloading hand-carts and pick-up wagons. Everything is being taken into a red-brick building. It seems to be a market.  On the street, a flock of sheep with red dye side markings are heading towards us; they too enter the building, perhaps to be slaughtered in the ritual way prescribed by Islamic law. On the pavement, some food stalls are selling hot tea in little clay beakers. Others offer freshly made chapattis and samosas. Stick-thin people line up in front of steaming aluminum pots.
Now I am tired and angry, but suddenly not scared anymore.

“Why are you taking me sightseeing around Calcutta?” I demand. “I will only pay you what Basu has told me; not a rupee more.”
The man with the knife says something in Bengali. The driver rolls his head from side to side and jerks the car to a stop.
“Acha, Acha,” he says. The man gets out, slams the door, then leans in through the open passenger window and grabs his knife still on the seat. He borrows a cigarette from the driver, who turns around to me and points across the road.

“OK, OK, here is Oberoi’s backside. Enter from another side. OK?” He starts the car, we lurch forward. The knife man stays behind. He waves at me and grins knowingly.
“Who is he?” I ask the driver.

“Him guard for us against dacoits (armed robbers) Saab,” he says, ”because in Calcutta night time very bad for taxi-drivers.” I feel so stupid. For the whole trip from the airport, I have been speculating that at any unguarded moment, my throat will be slit for my miserable travel allowance. If he botches the job I may even have to be given tetanus shots, and God knows what else.

The taxi turns off a side street and pulls up at the entrance of the Oberoi Grand on Chowringhee Avenue. The glass doors are flanked on either side by stores, their chowkidars (night watchmen) still dozing in the doorways.  A couple of shrouded bodies on the pavement have not yet stirred into the new day. Decaying garbage is piled high on the sidewalk, though most has spilled over onto the road. A flock of noisy black crows are angrily scolding and squawking around a cow that is foraging in the pile.

The Darwan (doorman) rushes forward to open the door of the taxi. He shoos away a badly disfigured woman holding a baby with one arm, while a stub of her other limb frantically signals for baksheesh (alms). As the money-changer at the airport was closed, I slip the driver the smallest denomination note I have - a twenty US dollar bill.  He is overcome. He bows again and again, palms pressed together as if in worship. For that sum I know he would willingly drive me around Calcutta for a week. I follow my bag into the hotel.

“Welcome to Oberoi Grand Hotel, Sir.” The Darwan greets me in English with a Namaste and a bow, holding the elaborate glass doors open. He is tall and distinguished looking, dressed as he is in a white tunic and white trousers, white leather shoes, a red belt and a bright red turban with gold braids and a tassel along the side of his turban. Shiny brass buttons and gold epaulets complete the picture.

“Welcome to Calcutta, Mr. Menezes, we have been expecting you two days ago,” the sari-clad lady from ‘Guest Relations’ says. “I hope everything was OK and you have had an enjoyable trip.” I am suddenly in a world of polished marble and brass; cut glass chandeliers and intricately woven rugs. At last I have arrived at my destination. It has been the longest journey to work I have ever undertaken.

But I often think back of my first contact with the people of Calcutta. In over twenty visits over a period of six years thereafter, one or other of the officers on duty in those first pre-dawn hours would see me in line, and approach me with the words,  “Welcome to Calcutta.”

By Braz menezes
The author, Braz Menezes, retired architect and urban planner, lives in Toronto. His work has appeared in various anthologies including: Canadian Voices, Volume 1&2: Goa Masala: Indian Voices: and forthcoming Canadian Imprints.