Calcutta Page 15
Even at that date, horror stories were still being printed almost every day. On 26 March, the Hindustan Standard reported from Mymensingh: ‘The dead body of a destitute woman was found yesterday morning in a vacant house by the District Board road off Sarish station. The body was seen lying all day long without any arrangements for removal. At night, jackals dragged the body out and mostly devoured it up. The remaining part of the body is being devoured by dogs and crows in front of the eyes of hundreds of passers-by this morning.’ By this time Bengal was merely suffering from the awful after-effects of famine. Nearly a century before, Sir Bartle Frere had described in the context of another catastrophe what was happening now: ‘Men are death-stricken by famine long before they die. The effects of insufficient food long continued may shorten life after a period of some years, or it may be of some months. But invariably there is a point, which is often reached long before death actually ensues, when not even the tenderest care and most scientific nursing can restore a sufficiency of vital energy to enable the sufferer to regain even apparent temporary health and strength.’
Early in 1944 there was plenty in the land again. By the middle of the preceding November a man from The Times of India had been able to write that ‘a grim but not uncommon spectacle in East Bengal today is to find a whitened skeleton in the corner of a field bearing the richest rice crop in half a century’. By the spring a new Governor of Bengal, the Australian Mr R. G. Casey, was guilty of nothing more than an insensitive analogy when he said ‘I am convinced that there is plenty of rice in Bengal for all the people of Bengal. The difficulty is that it is unevenly spread … Our task is to spread the butter evenly on the bread.’ He might have chosen his words more carefully, but there were Englishmen open to charges much graver than that and a member of the Bengal provincial assembly had already made one of them. ‘I would like the fact to be more widely known in India,’ said Dr M. R. Jayakar one day in the chamber, ‘for few newspapers have reported it, that at the last debate in the House of Commons on the Indian food question, the attendance of Members varied from 35 to 53 out of a total of 600 and odd … This knocks the bottom out of the old superstition that these 600 and odd men can govern India from 7,000 miles away. Is it not time that this Punch and Judy show was ended?’ He was speaking in November 1943, when the effects of the Bengal famine were to be seen at their worst. And Punch, without letting on to Judy, was already losing interest in the show.
*
Calcutta has known nothing of famine since 1943, yet starvation has become a permanent factor in its life, such a commonplace that it is scarcely remarked on any more. It is very difficult for Westerners, certainly for the British, to understand quite what starvation means in terms of the person to whom it is happening. This is partly because the English language in the West has become debased at this point; the vocabulary of extreme hunger unto death has been used so flippantly so often that it has almost ceased to convey its true meaning. An Englishman will frequently say that he is starving when he means that he is ready for his second large meal of the day, and he has never in his life known the day which has not contained two large meals and several snacks. He will use the word famished as an alternative to starving in exactly the same way. There are places in the North of England where a man will say that he is starving when he is merely chilly enough to move closer to the fireplace. Famine, on the other hand, has almost sunk without trace in our understanding because it has for too long carried entirely biblical overtones or because it has become tediously associated for a generation with a number of charitable organizations which are forever making demands upon our purses and our consciences. Starvation has nothing at all to do with its contemporary English usage, and famine is quite obscured by the Christian mythology and by the publicity apparatus of charity. Starvation and famine really mean a man who dies with a stomach containing undigested grass; a child whose body has started to split open with lack of food, so that its liquids begin to trickle out; a fisherman who is so weak that a dog begins to eat him before he is dead; a crowd which goes scavenging among poultices full of blood and pus and scabs in the hope of finding something putrid but edible there, too.
It is also very hard to understand what the starvation and the other parts of Calcutta’s poverty are like, at a distance, because of the effect they have on the man who is reporting them at first hand. You find, when you have returned from the leper colony at Dhapa, or from the death shed of Nirmal Hriday, that you have the very sketchiest recollection of whàt these people actually look like in their extremity. There is something quite intolerable about peering too closely at those sores and those mutilations and most of all at the eyes (which I cannot describe) that go with them. No derelict human being should be examined as a specimen by another human being, unless it is by someone who can give him something to mend his condition; whatever that may be. For the same reason you return from Calcutta, unless you are very tough or a professional, with a camera which may be full of exposed film but which contains hardly any record of people. Quite apart from the risk of violence when the camera is raised, which is considerable, you are also deterred by the indecency of the act.
Maybe these are among the reasons why comparatively few Western hippies are to be seen in the city. They are to be found in hundreds at places like Benares, where they live in boats moored in the Ganga for months on next to nothing, where they idle along the interminable ghats in their blue jeans and with their embroidered satchels, and where occasionally a Western face may be observed gliding by in a rickshaw, a vision of flowing muslin and long hair who has lately been dignified there as the Italian swami. But in Calcutta hippies are few and far between and they do not stay long even when they come, though Allen Ginsberg spent months here a few years ago, becoming curiously obsessed with the spectacle of incinerated corpses at the Nimtallah burning ghat. The reputation of the city has stopped most hippies in their tracks elsewhere in India; and on first acquaintance it is enough to destroy any romantic illusions about gentleness and brotherly love and a dominating concentration upon the beatific vision. It is a place where disagreeable statistics are translated into men and women and children without number. The Reserve Bank of India published a report in 1970, pointing out that if the baseline of poverty be taken as a calorific rather than a financial measurement (this being agreed upon in India’s case by experts), then seventy per cent of the nation’s people live in absolute poverty, an increase of eighteen per cent in seven years. In Calcutta you can see this for what it is in almost any hundred yards you care to choose from; you can see it, you can feel it as it brushes past you, you can smell it, you can almost taste it. Most of the time you struggle with yourself and with the poverty-stricken to avoid bumping into it or treading on it.
Calcutta is a place where people devise the most ingenious methods of adding to a pittance if they have one, or of acquiring one if they have not; at the Zoo in Alipore, across the road from Warren Hastings’ old house, a keeper has trained his elephants to take coins, not biscuits or sweets, in the tip of their trunks from the visitors. And a Zoo keeper is not nearly at the bottom of the human pile in Calcutta. At the bottom of the pile are those who squat upon its pavements, scarcely noticed in life by the people walking by, claiming attention in death only because the kites have started to circle overhead or because the crows have begun to prod at their bodies. In the end they have not even had the energy or the willpower to destroy themselves, as some do. If it were not lost in the far bigger problems of Calcutta, there would be the problem of those who jump off the Howrah Bridge in despair. A man leaps in front of a train pulling into Sealdah Station and, misjudging the angle, merely loses both legs at the thigh; whereupon he is taken to Nirmal Hriday and there, eventually, he dies. In 1967, 4,682 people were known to have committed suicide in West Bengal; in 1968 there were 5,800; in the first six months of 1969 there were 2,873.
All these things are terrible in themselves. They are made much more terrible in Calcutta because they are t
o be seen alongside all the signs of opulence. One day you pass an emaciated man standing outside the window of a fashionable shoe shop on Chowringhee. He is without shoes himself, but that is as unremarkable as the grimy rags that hang upon his body. It is his stance that catches your attention. His knees are faintly bent, his shoulders are curved forward, his head hangs almost upon his chest while his eyes gaze unblinking at the lowest row of shoes. His hands dangle by his sides but he is utterly motionless. He suggests not envy, not anger, not desire, but absolute incomprehension and total defeat. He is still there, not having shifted an inch, when you return half an hour later. It is at about this time that you are struck anew by the memory of something seen on your journey into the city from the airport. It dawns on you that the messy collection of packing cases and tin sheets standing in the shade of the BOAC hoarding was not a couple of chicken coops at all, but the best that a handful of people could manage in the way of a house. The ironies of such wealthy advertisement next to the deepest deprivation in Calcutta are so huge and so frequent that you might almost suspect someone of gigantic and tasteless caricature very deliberately carried out. Down in Ballygunge there is a long and gleaming metal hoarding, from the same stud as ‘Try a Little VC-Ioderness’, and it invites all-comers to ‘Dial Panam and Ask for the World’. Smoke drifts across its surface in the evening, for within fifty yards there are half a dozen families cooking by the gutter. Somewhere else the bedtime people are catching the eye with ‘Ever Thought of Dunlopillo as a Gift?’; and five yards below the lights which keep the thought uppermost through the night, a man is sleeping on the pavement without even a blanket to his name.
And then there is the advertisement with a specially-constructed concrete foundation, half-way up Park Street, where it begins to curve from middle-classiness to the downright proletarian tramtracks of Lower Circular Road. The foundation consists of a concrete roof supported by four concrete posts on the very edge of the pavement and at first sight it looks as if it might be a bus shelter. It has been erected solely to bear the weight of the sign perched on top – ‘Fedders Lloyd, the world’s largest-selling air-conditioner!’; and a picture to go with it. Almost every day there is someone lying prone and exhausted under that concrete roof, which provides a splendid shade from the searing sun. Once, a family moved into it. There is a broken standpipe a few yards away in the gutter and there the woman would dhobi clothes and draw water, khaki though it is, for cooking. Her two small children would splash and play in the water. Her husband could occasionally be seen taking a bath in that gutter, which also accommodated two or three discarded green coconut shells. Sometimes the children would rush up to a rich pedestrian and beg something from him, and because they were generally full of smiles and giggles and did not pursue their quarry more than ten yards down Park Street, they more often than not collected a few paise. But mostly the family kept to themselves.
They had been there only a day when it was noticeable that they had made an alteration to the Fedders Lloyd shelter. On the three sides that did not border the gutter they had raised a minute wall of mud, no more than three or four inches high, which linked one post to another. It was the boundary of their home, and inside it their three tin bowls, their iron pot and their two old blankets were laid out, the only things they possessed apart from the winding sheets the parents wore and the beads that dangled at each child’s crutch. They lived there for more than a week, and when the parents were not cooking or washing they were usually, one at a time, just lying very still. Then one morning they were gone, and only their little mud wall was left behind. Possibly they had infringed the Bengal Destitute Persons (Repatriation and Relief) Ordinance of 1943, or some subsequent equivalent, by having sheltered without permission or payment beneath an advertisement they would not even be able to read. Nor would they be able to read another notice facing them on a wall just across Park Street, not so well turned-out as the one promoting Fedders Lloyd but demanding attention nonetheless. There are now many more of these in Calcutta than there are those of commercial origin and they usually come in a kind of durable whitewash or a shade of dolly-blue. This one said: ‘No hope left. Only anger.’
Notes
1 Statesman 19 November 1969
2 International Association of Co-Workers of Mother Teresa, annual report, 1969
3 Mother Teresa’s estimate
4 New Society, 20 May 1970
5 Bustee Improvement Programme; Calcutta and Howrah, CMPO and Govt of W. Bengal, 1967 rev. edition, p. 13
6 Personal inquiry on the spot
7 ibid.
8 Dixshit Sinha, ‘life in a Calcutta Slum’ (paper given at seminar of Indian Anthropological Society, 22–3 January 1970)
9 Macaulay, Essay on Lord Clive
10 The World of Goondas in Calcutta’ (paper given by Sabyasachi Mukherjee of the Central Detective Training School at IAS seminar)
11 Statesman, 14 April 1970
12 Kali Charan Ghosh, Famines in Bengal 1770–1943, Calcutta 1944, p. 20
13 Das, p. 4
14 Hansard, 8 July 1943
15 Das, p. 98
16 Associated Press, 25 October 1943
17 Hansard, 15 October 1943
18 Statesman, 16 October 1943
19 Quoted Das, p. 114
20 Times of India, 16 November 1943
21 Radio broadcast 1 April 1944
22 See Indian Journals by Allen Ginsberg, Dave Haselwood Books/City Lights Books, San Francisco 1970
23 Statesman, 14 April 1970
24 ibid., 12 September 1969
WEALTH
FOR this is a very wealthy city as well as a squalidly poor one and the two elements live so close together, they present such grotesque contrasts, the one has so frequently begotten the other, that anger is the most natural and the healthiest response in the world. In a sense, Calcutta is a definition of obscenity.
It has little in the way of exotic wealth. There are parts of India where a town or a village is still dominated by the presence of a local prince, whose patronage extends through hovel, market place and temple. He may be physically withdrawn, and he will certainly be taxed to the marrow by the State, but he is still there and his influence and his employment still count. A few miles upstream of the ghats at Benares there is a great white palace on the South bank of the Ganga. Part of it has become a museum and the visitor may inspect a romantic collection of objects; a shed full of palanquins and broughams, and coaches to be drawn by four horses; another packed with howdahs chased in silver, tasselled with silk and emblazoned with heraldry, in which majesty would sit and sway on top of elephants; a long gallery full of muskets and pikes and wicked swords like the one whose curved blade has ball-bearings racing up and down a channel in the middle, the more easily to decapitate a victim. But much of the palace is still a very private place, where a Maharajah and his family sit and control the considerable remnant of a king’s ransom, and from which they still carry weight in the affairs of Benares. Calcutta is not like that. It is not by any means devoid of nobility. It accommodates the Maharajah of Cooch Behar, the Maharajah of Cossimbazar, the Maharajah of Mayurbhanj, the Maharajah Ruler of Sonepur State, the Maharajah of Nattore and the lady Maharani Bahadura of Nadia. It is home for the even more exalted Maharajadhiraja Bahadur of Burdwan, Sir Uday Chand Mahtab. Yet while these people still dwell in palaces of a kind, they are distinctly suburban palaces. While Burdwan still takes the platform of the British Indian Association chiefly to lament the fact that zamindars have fallen upon evil days and to suggest that the land-holding community has been denied justice, Cossimbazar avoids publicity and keeps his feet sticking firmly to the ground in a collection of china clay mines.
And there or thereabouts lies the wealth of Calcutta. This is the wealth of the warehouse and the foundry, of the dockside and the bank, of the metropolis and the entrepôt, of the stocklist and the showroom and the ringing tradesman’s till. It depends hugely upon a peasantry toiling over the earth under the eyes of
a landlord and his men, but these are hidden from its sight behind the smoke of its factories, beyond the rumble of its overpowering traffic. Calcutta is by far the richest city in India, even though its various problems have started to turn this richness into a collapsing wealth. It is possibly the richest city anywhere between Rome and Tokyo in terms of the money that is accumulated and represented here.
To get rid of a few measurements, this is where, between 1956–7 and 1966–7, 46.9 per cent of India’s exports left the country and where 30.4 per cent of the imports arrived. It is where, in 1964, 15 per cent of India’s manufacturing industry was based, where 30 per cent of the nation’s bank transactions occurred, where 30 per cent of the national tax revenue was produced. And just behind Calcutta is a hinterland that has always swollen its wealth, that in the first place provided the excuse for Calcutta being here at all. The Mogul rulers of India knew Bengal as their Paradise on earth, and this certainly wasn’t because it was comfortable to live in. The British soon came to the same conclusion and Charles Stewart had decided by 1813 that ‘The province of Bengal is one of the most valuable acquisitions that was ever made by any nation.’ It has always been the source of profit. In 1963, West Bengal was producing 95 per cent of India’s jute, 92 per cent of its razor blades, 87 per cent of its electric fans, 80 per cent of its sewing machines, 78 per cent of its railway wagons, 74 per cent of its rubber shoes, 70 per cent of its enamelware, 56 per cent of its electric lamps, over 50 per cent of its crockery, 49 per cent of its paint and varnish, 31 per cent of its radio sets and its soap, 30 per cent of its finished steel, 29 per cent of its coal, 25 per cent of its tea and 21.5 per cent of its paper and paper boards.