Category: Travel

I had heard bits and pieces about Chandernagore over the years. It was one of the first outposts of India’s colonial past, a French colony rather like Puducherry. The taxi driver we hired for the day from Kolkata stared blankly when we told him our destination. When realization dawned he said: “Oh…Chandonnogar. But there is nothing there,” advising us instead to go during the time of Jagadhatri Puja. My husband and daughter were ready to change plans, but though daunted, I stayed firm.

At first sight, it looked like any small town in India. There were people, cars, and signboards for mobile connections and bank loans everywhere. Small shops with colourful wares spilled onto streets. There must be a French Quarter I thought, with charming old homes and a French café, but no one had heard about any of these. All we were told was to “go straight.” Straight led to the Hooghly River, an important distributory of the Ganga. The river-side promenade was grandly named the Strand. We walked along it, looking for the Indo-French Cultural Centre and Museum.

The museum and French language school are housed in Dupleix House, a handsome cream-coloured building, once the home of the French Governor. With no one else at the museum, we wandered freely, gazing at the motley collection of maps, models, furniture, and household items. For those with patience and good eyesight, the maps offer stories of the town’s turbulent, eventful past. The French, Dutch, Danish, Portuguese, Germans, and English, all coveted the prime lands along the banks of the Hooghly, the opening to the riches of the Indian subcontinent. The French received a firman from Emperor Aurangzeb in 1688 and established Fort d’Orleans at Chandernagore, which was later razed to the ground by the British.

Chandernagore passed from the French to the British and back again until it became a part of the Indian Republic in 1952. From the condition of the museum, it seemed like no one really cares much about its history or current state. The old four-poster bed, the run-down sofas, the pretty crockery, and the odd statues and lithographs are scattered about the rooms in no particular order. They looked shabby, yet stolid and proud, all mute witnesses to another era. Behind the museum is a garden, still lovely in a wild unkempt way, where the governor may have held soirees on balmy summer evenings. (institutedechandernagor.gov.in; open 11 a.m.-5.30 p.m., closed Thu and Sat; adults Rs 5, children under ten free).

We left the museum and walked along the Strand towards a structure vaguely reminiscent of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. The peach-coloured arch combines eastern influences in the form of elephants and flowers along with slender columns and typical European stucco work. A marble slab high up on the facade says in French that the structure is a gift to the city, constructed by Shamachorone Roquitte. He built it in memory of his father Dourgachourone Roquitte, who was awarded the Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur in 1841. Who was this man, I wondered, who had rendered his name in French and now provides his countrymen with a place to relax on the banks of the river that flows through his birthplace? Few bother to read the slab, fewer still know that this is a memorial to Durgacharan Rakshit, a French Bengali who had lived here more than a hundred years ago.

Further along the promenade was yet another structure, a flash of white against the darkening sky, the Sacred Heart Church. Though the walls in the front had peeled to reveal a bare brown with bits of plaster sticking on like scabs, this is a living, thriving place. Inside, under the tall ceiling, are beautiful stained-glass windows, the colours glowing bright red, blue, and yellow. The parish priest showed us around. We saw a statue of St. Peter with a rooster at the entrance, a restored grave, altar lights which had been brought from France, just like the bell that still tolls three times a day to call the faithful to prayer. The church was built in the late 19th century to provide spiritual solace to French traders.

There was no French café anywhere in Chandernagore, but we found a tea stall and stood in the light rain sipping sweet milky tea. How do we deal with the past, I pondered. Chandernagore has moved on, shrugging off its history like an old coat. Yet, it is its unique past that makes this town special, that gives it a charm and identity different from any other town in West Bengal. And just for that I hoped whatever fragments were left of its past could still be preserved for the future.

This article first appeared in National Geographic India here

As we emerge from the cool, dark interiors of Fort Cochin’s St. Francis Church into the evening sun, my daughter declares that she wants to go to the beach. The shore holds a strange fascination for her. She feels a thrill in letting the waves lap over her legs. I have felt it too, the visceral crunch of the sand, the moment of cool surprise when the water meets my bare toes, the swift sucking of sand as the waves retreat, and the attempt to maintain a tenuous balance as the world shifts beneath my feet.

The road to the beach is flanked by strange photographs. The people in the black-and-white images drip paint, their faces blurring and congealing, their skin flowing in the heat of the Kerala sun. The pictures are part of the 2012 Kochi Muziris Biennale art festival, the first of its kind in India. I want to linger by them but my daughter tugs at my hand, impatient for the waves. The bleached eye of a portrait urges me ahead.

The beach is not particularly pretty, just a thin strip of grey sand leading to a murky ocean. But the atmosphere is festive. There are throngs of people all around and the collective throb of things happening. Like most urban shores, Kochi’s beach is a hub of activity. It’s the variety of the activity that makes this beach special.

We see a banner featuring two burly torsos advertising the Kerala State Gatta Wrestling Kesari Championship 2012. A portion of the beach has been cordoned off to make space for a temporary arena. A crowd of tourists and fans sit on red plastic chairs waiting for the match to begin. We clamber on a pile of rocks to get a good look at Jhiku, with his large stomach hanging over small black briefs, and Faisal, his shorter, lighter opponent.

At first, they lightly grapple on the sand, lunging at each other, their faces impassive. The gentleness of their moves and their proximity to each other makes them look like they’re participating in an ancient mating ritual. However, the gatta crowd claps fiercely as Faisal manages a tricky manoeuvre and the lugubrious Jhiku finds himself kissing sand.

I have often seen urban beaches become a playground for children, the rocks a camouflage for lovers. The open shore offers escape from the claustrophobic clutches of the city. I had expected the usual sprawl of people and sand that I have encountered at Chowpatty in Mumbai or the Marina Beach in Chennai. But Kochi’s shore reminds me of European town squares, which bring all kinds of people and ideals together.

Near a clutch of stalls selling cotton candy and an assortment of deep-fried sins, we encounter a group of men and women who are busy painting. I see graphic works of stark naked men with nooses around their necks. Another canvas shows a prone woman, her face contorted, and blood spurting from her eyes. My daughter is suddenly silent and with the wisdom of an 11-year-old, she does not ask any questions. She slips her hand into mine and I hold tight. These artists are protestors. Their works depict the horror of abuse and the punishment they think should be meted out to rapists.

Under the shade of a large banyan tree on the beach’s fringes, another voice beckons. Behind a fiery red cloth backdrop, two ladies are throwing punches. They are slight and dark, only young girls, but there is a coiled fury behind their moves. A black braid swings beneath her blue boxing helmet as Susan is knocked down by Parvati’s well-aimed upper cut. Her opponent appears unconcerned but the noise of the crowd dies down to a hush. Some rudimentary form of first aid is administered and Susan is up on her feet, nodding her head as if to say, “Yes, I am okay. I can do it.” I am not a fan of boxing but there is something heartening about watching the women fight. Their blows seem aimed not so much at each other but at a bigger, more menacing opponent. I feel happy, even proud, of these Malayali girls in a small city who have taken up this bloody sport.

As the sun dips down into the horizon, we see a cluster of Chinese nets. The Cheenavela, as they are locally called, have been on this beach for almost 500 years, brought to India by settlers from Macau. My husband whips out his camera, intent on making most of the light. My daughter finishes the last of her pale-pink cotton candy and I marvel at the welcoming nature of this public space, one that allows for diverse expressions and experiences.

“We didn’t go to the water,” my daughter notes as we leave the beach and head back into town. “Next time,” I tell her. The next time, I will be prepared to be surprised.

Appeared in the May 2013 issue as “Kochi Kaleidoscope”.

I am not new to Kolkata. I lived there for two years at the start of my career, made the occasional trip in between and have done the usual touristy activities—from wandering around the Victoria Memorial to eating egg rolls on Park Street. I have been on a boat ride on the Hooghly, never realising that there were akharas or wrestling schools there.

A few months ago, when Kaushik Chatterjee, our guide for the Kolkata morning walk suggested that my husband and I visit an akhara, we were intrigued. The school is situated by the Mallik Ghats on the Hooghly, near the flower market. A yellow board declares it to be the Siyaram Akhara Bayam Samity under the aegis of National wrestler Guru Jwala Tiwari. Behind the akhara is a decrepit old building with peeling walls and stained windows. Beside the akhara are steps leading to the ghats, a small makeshift temple with a clutch of idols where devotees place offerings of milk, oil and flowers. The rest of the ghats seem caught up in the early morning bustle, but the akhara is calm.

An open pit bounded by white washed pillars, festooned with colourful bunting is the wrestling arena. I step into it to get a closer look, but Tiwari admonishes me.

“Remove your shoes,” he says. “This is a holy place.” The mud in the pit is not ordinary, or from the streets but a unique mixture prepared with herbs, turmeric powder, ghee, and mustard oil. Tiwari is a burly middle-aged man who is happy to talk to strangers about his passion. A receding hairline and a generous stomach belie his strength and grit. He hails from a family of pehelwans and came to Kolkata 35 years ago from Gorakhpur in Uttar Pradesh. There was too much competition there, too many wrestlers fighting for meagre amounts in local competitions. Kolkata, unfamiliar and unexplored, beckoned to a wrestler with dreams of setting up his school and churning out champions. I wonder whether life turned out the way he imagined, but he has no complaints.

“Has anything changed over time?” I ask him.

“There are more girls now who want to learn wrestling.” Many have been inspired by the success stories of Indian women wrestlers in international competitions and come there, hopeful, ambitious, taking out their rage and disappointment on the mud floor.

“But a wrestling mat is very expensive. Almost six lakhs,” sighs Tiwari as he moves towards the pit.

The young wrestlers warm up by whirling stout wooden clubs called mudgars around their heads. A friendly match begins. I do not follow the sport and don’t understand the rules. But there is something tender about these young men with their muddy, naked bodies; the faint air of bravado tinged with despair. They grapple with each other, thrashing about like lost fish on the warm, moist mud by the banks of the river. It seems like a dance, a deceptive one where what seems like courtship ends with a deadly strike. A skinny young boy in an orange loin cloth manages to get the better of his heftier counterpart. Tiwari gets into the pit and demonstrates a counter move to the loser. The winner lies down on the floor and is rewarded with a back massage.

It is just another day at the akhara on the Hooghly.

We gaze at the Monolith, a tower made of human bodies, naked limbs and hair, entwined with each other, reaching for the heavens. It is 46 feet tall and carved out of a single stone, perhaps an ode to the noble, existential struggle of all humankind. There are more sculptures set on blocks of stone, flanking the huge monolith. A couple cradle their baby with tenderness, an old woman with shrunken breasts wants to get up and go somewhere, a small cluster of chubby babies play with each other. I put a hand on the shoulder of a baby and feel the cool speckled stone.

My family and I are at the Vigeland Sculpture Park in Oslo, Norway. It serves as a backdrop for the work of the Norwegian sculptor, Gustav Vigeland. More than 200 statues of human beings of all ages, engaged in all kinds of daily activities adorn the park. All the statues are naked. Gustav Vigeland created these over 20 years from 1924 to 1943 and then donated them to the city of Oslo. This is the largest park of its kind in the world. There are no restrictions on touching the statues or climbing on them unlike in a museum.

I have seen sculptures before: the writhing, erotic figures at the Khajuraho temples in Madhya Pradesh, the proud statues of heroes and horses that adorn the roundabouts of our cities, the cool marble figures scattered across Italy, including the magnificent David, with his fine lines and classic Renaissance curves. There is always something otherworldly about them, the bodies and poses bearing little resemblance to the unwieldy flesh that the average person carries around.

Indian society tells us that this unwieldy flesh has to be kept covered, hidden. This is what we are taught, across the world, in most countries, especially in Asia, in all religions, especially for women. We may protect it from the elements with cloth and fur, but we should never let our skin breathe fully, never let certain parts feel the sun.

I have seen my mother frown at my daughter’s shorts. The three of us have had unresolved debates on the appropriate length of her clothes. The woman who wore a short, cleavage-revealing dress to our parties in Delhi was labelled a slut. In Dhaka, where I live now, everyone dresses conservatively. I read an article in a local newspaper that condoned a harasser because the girl he targeted had stepped out of the house without an orna (dupatta). In the name of modesty and humility, the body is denied. It is gross matter, indecent, a traitorous thing, full of deceit and treachery.

The sculptures at Vigeland Park are not conventionally pretty. Here, the women have thick ankles and stout waists. The men are stocky, usually bald. The children are not always lovely little angels. The unornamented starkness, the uninhibited stance, the lack of self-consciousness in their actions makes them different. They seem so comfortable. But my discomfort with unclothed bodies arises unbidden, almost instinctively. There is nothing erotic or sensual about the sculptures, yet I want to shield my teenage daughter from the sight of the naked bodies, especially those of the men, and of women with exposed breasts. I want to gaze at the sculptures and also draw my eyes away from them. I become more aware of my own body and what I feel about it. Our relationship is complicated, veering between grudging resignation, violent dislike, and occasional tenderness.

Perhaps there is hidden symbolism, layered meaning in the stylistic arrangements that can be inferred by other artists, but to me there is a simplicity in these sculptures. There is freedom here to view the body as it is, celebrating its natural state without the artificial restrictions imposed by society. It gives me a chance to gaze upon another naked human being, even if in stone, without judgement, to endow the form with dignity. This trip is perhaps one step towards accepting my own body and allowing it a measure of compassion, perhaps even love.

Appeared in the April 2016 issue as “Body Beautiful”.