Traffic report

Spending half an hour outdoors in Delhi induces a coughing fit; an hour in an auto-rickshaw in Chennai traffic left me choked up for the rest of the day. The pollution in Calcutta is different, somewhat less onerous as far as the respiratory system but still the daily harbinger of a thick, unglamorous sheen of cuticular filth. I thought I’d arrived in Calcutta on an overcast day. The sky was silvery grey and, out of the glare of direct sunlight, walking wasn’t uncomfortable. A few days later, I realise that the perpetual gloom is composed of polluting gases and that the heaviness in the air is not that which precedes a storm, but the filtered fallout from those celestial pachyderms.

Vast anarchic columns of vehicles belch out ominously dark fumes: yellow Hindu Ambassador taxis, autorickshaws, rickety old lorries, brightly painted buses, Enfield motorbikes, all swerving and weaving Stravinsky style. There are cooking fires and makeshift waste incinerators on every street and piles of rubbish and building materials throw up dust at the slightest provocation. My feet are sticky with grime from walking around the city for hours today. I managed to dodge the piles of ordure and dubious looking puddles but even so, the air down there clings to my feet more tenaciously than it does to my arms and face and neck. It’s quite amazing. Still, when I arrive back in my hotel room and slough bucketloads of dirt off my exposed skin, I can breathe easily enough.

In spite of the grime, I’m quite taken with Calcutta, quite sorry that I’ll be jumping on the overnight train to Gaya tonight. It’s the first big Indian city I’ve visited which it’s possible to wander around and experience at street level. So for hours these last few days, I’ve been tramping up and down avenues lined with enormous dilapidated colonial buildings.

The pedestrian experience of Calcutta’s architectural record of monumental imperial aspiration, its decline and transformation is tiring, not least because of the effort of figuring out how the hell to respond to the extremely visible grinding poverty. I’ve been confronted by various manifestations of poverty and inequality around the world but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a concentration of people living dreadfully tough lives on the street. Walking and driving past slums is one thing but walking over and through people’s lives as they sleep and wash and shit on the streets is quite another. Pushed into my path by their parents, children grab my sleeve and sing out ‘Madame, Madame, ten rupee’ again and again as they follow me along the path. Often, my motives in giving them coins have less to do with charity and more to do with irritation and embarrassment. Who knows where the money goes? I’m sure the right-headed would chastise me for responding to persistence rather than need. Each time I give money to a beggar, another equally needy person pops up and stakes their claim.

Anyway, anyway, it’s always enough already with the liberal guilt, n’est-ce pas. Back to the views, back to me. Keeping clear of the traffic, staying out of puddles, declining invitations into shops selling men’s underwear, deciding who to follow across the road, not getting lost, trying to imagine the transformations within and without these extraordinary buildings over the last couple of hundred years, it’s all hungry work. Fortunately, Calcutta street food is delectable and thus far I haven’t been struck with the gutrot.

The ubiquitous snack is the roll, Calcutta’s answer to the felafel, I guess. Fresh flat bread is cooked on a griddle, sometimes with egg, and rolled up with onion, chilli sauce, lime juice, spicy paneer or veges or chicken. They’re fantastic. I’ve made a solid commitment to the roll and the best I’ve found is at Kusum’s. Follow this sign a few metres down a little lane off Park St at the Maidan end, just before Oxford Books. Order a paneer roll and you will encounter happiness. I was by far the most conspicuous customer on my visits and so couldn’t quite bring myself to take a photograph.