Day 161 – Varanasi, India – 8:00 am

On Sunday morning I took part in a walking photography tour near the Howrah section of Kolkata. I was joined by John, an amateur photographer from London, who was on business in India. John and I were led by Akash, a photographer, in addition to a lifelong resident of Kolkata.   We met at 6:30am outside a café on Park Street, approximately ten minutes from my accommodation. Akash hired a car and we rode through the early morning traffic. Being a Sunday, traffic was light and it was not long until we pulled alongside a curb near our destination. We hopped out with our gear and oriented ourselves. Our plan was to walk through the Malik Ghat flower market and witness the early morning rituals at a number of other Ghats in the area. The word Ghat refers to a series of steps that lead to a body of water, usually a holy river. The Ghats in Kolkata sit alongside the Hooghly River, a tributary of the revered Ganges River.

It was just after 7am and already the local area was abuzz with action. Locals sat curbside selling items of food, newspapers and statues of Hindi Deities for upcoming celebrations. Others walked in earnest carrying large sacks of unknown goods on their heads. Off in the distance, vehicle horns added an audible rhythm to the morning routine. We crossed over a small bridge and entered the southern end of the flower market. Akash found a quiet spot to explain a bit about the market. Seven days a week, flowers arrive from the surrounding area and are sold wholesale. Those that purchase large quantities from this particular market will in turn sell them in smaller markets throughout the city or from storefronts. I noticed that each pile of flowers sat atop a stack of canvas squares. A local walked towards a seller and the two haggled about a price. If a price was settled on, a canvas square was removed from the pile and the desired quantity of flowers was placed on top. The canvas was then folded up and the buyer walked off flowers in hand. Some purchased large quantities while others left with a small portion. Still others failed to settle on an agreed price and frustratingly left empty handed.

We slowly walked through the market cameras raised to our eyes. The oranges, yellows, reds and pinks drew my attention immediately. At the northern end we climbed a flight of stairs to the Howrah Bridge, the sixth-longest cantilevered bridge in the world. From this vantage point we obtained a birds eye view of the flower market below. I was aghast at the activity. Masses of people moved in all directions like ants. Men and women stood behind large piles of flowers and argued over prices with prospective buyers. Others draped rings of flowers over their shoulders and walked through the market looking for buyers. Voices quickly raised when a price could not be agreed upon or when the buyer felt they were ripped off. It is impossible to experience all this when amongst the controlled chaos. Behind us, taxis, motorbikes, buses and personal vehicles sped by as they approached the Howrah Bridge. We raised our cameras once again to document the micro-economic organism that pulsed below.

We eventually returned to the market and ducked through a tiny doorway that led us in the direction of the Hooghly River. Crowds remained heavy, but the noise level dramatically declined. Patience to capture the perfect shot was vital as passersby were numerous and we all maneuvered for space in the small alleyway. We passed a local sitting behind a boiling pot of water. Akash told us we was making tea and asked if we would like a cup. I am always willing to try new things. I nodded my head in a “why not” motion and asked Akash if it was harmless for a westerner. He smiled and nodded adding that as long as it was boiled I was safe. I reached out for a small, ceramic cup. I gazed inside and it looked like coffee mixed with milk; it was tea.

After our short break, we moved to the nearby Zenana Bathing Ghat, in the shadow of the Howrah Bridge. We walked through a decorative entryway that opened into a small courtyard that disappeared into a set of concrete stairs. The stairs fell away to the Hooghly River. The Zenana Bathing Ghat, constructed in the late 19^th Century, was originally meant for female bathers. Over time this practice subsided as we only viewed a small group of males enter the water and submerge under the calm current. The Hooghly River is a tributary of the Ganges River, the most sacred body of water in the Hindu Religion. Hindus that wash away their sins in the Hooghly believe they are in turn cleansing themselves in the Ganges. They wash not only their bodies, and thus their sins, in the Hooghly, but also their clothes and other garments.

Akash explained this to John and I as we stood by and watched a steady stream of bathers of all ages come and go throughout the morning. Aside from one silhouetted photograph of bathers entering the Hooghly at the Ram Chandra Goenka Ghat, I let my camera rest at my side during our walk through the Ghats. I thought it disrespectful to photograph individuals as they partake in such a religious practice. While different from what I have been exposed to in the States, I fully respect the Hindu religion and would never want to debase their belief system.

Akash also provided brief insight into the various spellings of the city we inhabited. During my months of research last year and finalizing minor details in recent weeks, I saw the second largest city in India spelled two ways: Calcutta and Kolkata.  I assumed the “C” spelling was popular in the western world.  Those who began the spelling with a “K” translated it directly from the Hindi language or any of the numerous dialects spoken throughout India. I believed there motivation was a sign of deference. My assumptions were partially correct.

In 1690, a merchant from the East India Company established the first British colony in the village of Kalikata, bordered by the Hooghly River. As the years progressed, the name transformed to Calcutta, as it was easier for colonists to pronounce and spell. Calcutta remained the official spelling until early 2001 when the West Bengal government approved the revision. The government believed the shift would shed a portion of Kolkata’s British-led history. The opinion of the general public has remained mixed since the decision was handed down. I was shocked to hear that this shift occurred over fifteen years ago. Up until last year, I always saw Kolkata spelled with a “C”.

We continued along the Hooghly River for a bit longer photographing anything of interest. It was nearing 10am and our tour was concluding. We proceeded back over the small bridge that we crossed earlier in the morning. Locals still flowed in both directions while others remained on the periphery selling an array of items. We stepped into the hired vehicle and drove back to our point of origin on Park Street. On the drive, Akash turned around in the front passenger seat, handed John and I two books and thanked us graciously for participating on that morning’s photography tour. The larger book provided a detailed, yet comical look at the personality of Kolkata. The smaller book was a collection of hand drawn sketches portraying well-known locations throughout the city. We arrived at our destination and I stepped from the car onto the street. Akash exited as well; I shook his hand and thanked him graciously for the tour and gifts. He smiled, thanked me for participating and wished me safe travels for the remainder of my time in India and the months beyond.

As you have read in previous posts, I prefer to avoid organized tours unless absolutely necessary to reach a location. The Whitsunday Islands off Australia were only accessible by private boat or organized boat trip. In that case a boat trip was necessary and one I am eternally grateful I joined. But, I avoided tours of Angkor in Cambodia, the Cu Chi Tunnels in Vietnam, and the well-known, yet not-for-me crowds of the Kiwi Express in New Zealand. However, I have enjoyed my two photography-walking tours. It is reassuring to spend time with a local and get a feel for the area. The day before my tour with Akash, I walked around the neighborhoods surrounding my accommodation snapping photographs of locals. I felt comfortable and would have remained confident had I forgone the tour. But, I wanted to get a local’s perspective on street-portrait photography and how other locals might react to having their photo taken.

In Vietnam, the concept of personal space is pretty much non-existent. Therefore, approaching a local in that country and taking a photograph is no problem. But, there are many cultural and religious differences between India and Vietnam. I wanted to ensure I was not being disrespectful or unsafe by utilizing photography skills I learned along the way, during my time in India. Akash reinforced my thought processes and for that I am eternally grateful.

Later that afternoon I set out to explore other points of interest throughout Kolkata. My first stop was the Victoria Memorial, built in honor of Queen Victoria who reigned from 1819-1901. Following Queen Victoria’s death in 1901, George Curzon, Viceroy of India, believed a memorial needed to be constructed. That process began in 1906 and the memorial opened to the public in 1921. Measuring 338 feet long by 228 feet wide, the massive marble structure emerges from finely manicured rectangles of grass separated by gravel walkways. A statue of Queen Victoria greets visitors before entering the memorial while a statue of George Curzon stands tall outside the rear exit.

The interior of the Victoria Memorial has been transformed into a museum that details the history of Kolkata and India. I braved the midday heat and tourist crowds to walk the halls and learn a bit about the country I call home for the next month. Placards of information lined the walls beside pictures of important individuals. Weapons and other artifacts in glass cases provided a visual, three-dimensional aspect to the written words. A temporary exhibit displayed pictures of Mahatma Gandhi, taken by his nephew. These photographs give a candid look into the life of the outspoken leader for Indian independence.

My final stop was to the former residence of Mother Teresa, another figure known around the world. Mother Teresa left her home at the age of eighteen and traveled through Ireland before settling in India. In 1950, she received permission from the Vatican to establish the Missionaries of Charity. The thirteen-member order based in Kolkata now has a membership of over 4,500 sisters and remains active in more than 130 countries around the globe. I peered into her former bedroom, the location of her death in September 1997. The room was very simple; a single bed sat against the left wall, a wooden cabinet for official paperwork remained in the corner. A desk sat opposite the bed and was where Mother Teresa sat to respond to the hundreds of correspondences she received. Maps hung on the wall and indicated each Missions of Charity chapter. Above her bed was a picture of Jesus and a crown of thorns, made by Mother Teresa prior to her death.

A room on the first floor had been converted into a memorial. Pictures of Mother growing up and during her time as a Catholic nun line the walls. Glass cases house numerous artifacts including her well-known white and blue habit, her last pair of sandals, a sweater, the pen and pencil used to reply to letters she received and a handwritten notebook used to track each donation made to the Missions of Charity Order. The next room housed Mother Teresa’s tomb. Off to the left was a small alter in front of twelve non-descript pews. To the right sat a large, marble tomb. It was adorned with candles, a statue and petals from flowers that sat atop Mother’s casket after her death. Some meditated in silence from benches that lined the wall while others entered and knelt before the tomb. I found a seat and sat quietly alongside the others.

 

* Additional photos from my time in Kolkata are accessible within the India portfolio section found on the Perpetual Footsteps homepage.