Kolkata । কলকাতা

There is no doubt that today, the 24th of August, is a landmark day when the modern colonial city of Calcutta or Kolkata came up. True, there were human settlements in this area that were part of a zemindari possession of the famous family of Sabarna Roy Choudhury— but the great metropolis of Calcutta surely owes its founding to Job Charnock — who set up camp here.

It is needless to remind ourselves that Kolkata once famous for its large number of palatial buildings, which earned it the sobriquet: “the City of Palaces”. At present, however, except the Marble Palace, Jorasanko Thakurbari and a handful of other such well-maintained ones, the rest are all gone or are in a pitiable state of disrepair.

It is quite surprising that the claimed cultural capital of India does not have one worthwhile art museum or an international-standard exhibition space for painting, photography and other forms of visual arts. While the Biswa Bangla complex does the city proud, it is not meant for art like, say, the National Gallery of Modern Art is. This art museum is at its grandest in Delhi, but Mumbai and Bengaluru also have scaled-down NGMAs. Calcutta was obviously bypassed for the fourth NGMA, surprisingly without protest.

It is only natural for Kolkata to have some of the finest specimens of colonial architecture. After all, it enjoyed the status of being, for one and half centuries, the capital of the British Empire in India and of the East India Company’s Dominions, prior to that. We may marvel at the Gothic architecture of the High Court and St Paul’s Cathedral as great examples of this class.

The moment I read in the papers that the South India Club on Hindustan Park was closing down its famous canteen, I rushed for a last breakfast. But alas, when I reached I found it had already shut down. To make up, I went to the old trustworthy Ramakrishna Lunch Home on Lake Road, so close to where I was born and brought up. I gorged on steaming idlis, crisp vadas dipped in sambhar and a wonderful masala dosa. To me, it was not food — but nostalgia. I grew up on Lake Road that was known as Little Madras.

Classes were interrupted at will and the college shut down at sporadic intervals, which meant students lost irretrievable academic months and years. But Presidency is Presidency and some teachers dared the violence and gave tutorials in their rooms at considerable risk and others took makeshift classes in their homes.