Dogster: Bumbling thru Kolkata
Oct 5th, 2008, 08:26 AM
#25
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I can tell I'll have to divert this conversation. This image; cigars, speedos - it's too horrible.
Kathie; you'd have to be very very stupid to fall into the Bagmati. But, if I can do it, so can you.
Now, as it's the weekend and I'm busy tomorrow, here's a double helping. This counts as two servings but, I warn you, adult content.
I've cut all the swear words and some rather too graphic descriptions but it's still kinda... nasty.
Forgive me if I offend.
Still, we've lived through worse, you and I. If you've got this far, I guess you'll get through this... and if this post is gone tomorrow, I guess we've all gone too far...
Kathie; you'd have to be very very stupid to fall into the Bagmati. But, if I can do it, so can you.
Now, as it's the weekend and I'm busy tomorrow, here's a double helping. This counts as two servings but, I warn you, adult content.
I've cut all the swear words and some rather too graphic descriptions but it's still kinda... nasty.
Forgive me if I offend.
Still, we've lived through worse, you and I. If you've got this far, I guess you'll get through this... and if this post is gone tomorrow, I guess we've all gone too far...
Oct 5th, 2008, 08:27 AM
#26
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‘Australia-a-a-a-aaa...’
‘Hey,’ I said and held out my hand.
He took it and shook it and didn’t let go.
Kolkata’s a bit like the internet. There are all these layers of crap you have to get through before you find the good stuff.
‘Hey, what you want today, eh? Charas, Weed, Speed, Ecstasy, you want Coke?’
‘Nah, nah, nah – you know I don’t buy.’
His voice hushed, ‘Girl tonight? Little girl? Boy? What are you looking for? Tell me, c’mon, tell me, you can say.’
‘What I’m looking for right now...’ I said, looking around, ‘is a cup of chai.’
In Sudder Street the hustlers come thick and fast. Dogster rather enjoyed it all. He saw it as a challenge.
‘Sit, sit. Two chai!’ the hustler shouted to the street boy.
‘Two chai!’ the urchin shouted in reply.
‘What a day, what a horrible, horrible day...’ he said.
I laughed. ‘How’s business?’
He pulled a face. ‘Stupid Japanese girl. She wants to screw. I tell her no, I don’t screw. I said I find her someone to screw but she wants me. What to do? I don’t screw.’
‘Why not?’ I said, curious. ‘You’re a very handsome man, why not?’
He wasn’t in the least handsome, but Indian men are very vain. Tell an Indian man he’s handsome and he’ll believe you, even if incontrovertible evidence to the contrary stares him in the face every morning when he takes a shave. Perhaps that’s why there are so many barbers in India.
‘I never mix business with pleasure,’ he said, with a perfectly serious face. ‘I find the girl, I find the boy, I find the place to go, I bribe the man, I get the room, I wait, I bring beer, I bring smoke, whatever they want. I don’t do the screw, I sell the screw. That’s different.’
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wallet bulging with bills.
‘Here. My card. My name is Jimmy,’ he tapped the card. ‘Jimmy the Fixer. That’s me.’
‘Looks like your business is going O.K., Jimmy,’ I said. ‘You don’t need me.’
‘I’ve been looking for my uncle,’ he said, sweeping the streets with a glance, ‘I’ve been expecting him but he doesn’t give me a call.’
He opened up his wallet and prized out a dog-eared photo.
‘Here he is. My uncle.’
‘Hey,’ I said and held out my hand.
He took it and shook it and didn’t let go.
Kolkata’s a bit like the internet. There are all these layers of crap you have to get through before you find the good stuff.
‘Hey, what you want today, eh? Charas, Weed, Speed, Ecstasy, you want Coke?’
‘Nah, nah, nah – you know I don’t buy.’
His voice hushed, ‘Girl tonight? Little girl? Boy? What are you looking for? Tell me, c’mon, tell me, you can say.’
‘What I’m looking for right now...’ I said, looking around, ‘is a cup of chai.’
In Sudder Street the hustlers come thick and fast. Dogster rather enjoyed it all. He saw it as a challenge.
‘Sit, sit. Two chai!’ the hustler shouted to the street boy.
‘Two chai!’ the urchin shouted in reply.
‘What a day, what a horrible, horrible day...’ he said.
I laughed. ‘How’s business?’
He pulled a face. ‘Stupid Japanese girl. She wants to screw. I tell her no, I don’t screw. I said I find her someone to screw but she wants me. What to do? I don’t screw.’
‘Why not?’ I said, curious. ‘You’re a very handsome man, why not?’
He wasn’t in the least handsome, but Indian men are very vain. Tell an Indian man he’s handsome and he’ll believe you, even if incontrovertible evidence to the contrary stares him in the face every morning when he takes a shave. Perhaps that’s why there are so many barbers in India.
‘I never mix business with pleasure,’ he said, with a perfectly serious face. ‘I find the girl, I find the boy, I find the place to go, I bribe the man, I get the room, I wait, I bring beer, I bring smoke, whatever they want. I don’t do the screw, I sell the screw. That’s different.’
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wallet bulging with bills.
‘Here. My card. My name is Jimmy,’ he tapped the card. ‘Jimmy the Fixer. That’s me.’
‘Looks like your business is going O.K., Jimmy,’ I said. ‘You don’t need me.’
‘I’ve been looking for my uncle,’ he said, sweeping the streets with a glance, ‘I’ve been expecting him but he doesn’t give me a call.’
He opened up his wallet and prized out a dog-eared photo.
‘Here he is. My uncle.’
Oct 5th, 2008, 08:28 AM
#27
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Leaning against the wall of a Kolkata slum stood Uncle, a white haired German in his late sixties. He was smiling broadly and holding a beer, one finger raised in that ‘don’t you take my photograph’ position. He was old and overweight, wore a loose white singlet, his gut hung over a pair of khaki shorts.
‘Uncle’s good for business. He comes here three times in a year. He stays in the same apartment, my sister goes to clean, I look after him. He has many, many girls.’
I was still inspecting Uncle. I handed the picture back with a sniff.
‘He likes the girls,’ my friend said, slurping heavily on his chai. ‘Bam! Three or four times a week. Viagra,’ he said, tapping his nose. ‘Very good business. He likes them young - very young. Ten, eleven, twelve.’
I was sitting very still.
‘He wants to screw a virgin,’ he said dismissively, as if this was not an issue, ‘so I find him virgins.’
We were sitting on a low bench, our backs to a corrugated wall, sipping chai. The passing traffic nearly rolled over our feet, it was so close. A child of ten, eleven years of age scurried across the lane, bring chai and plates of food to the others sitting round us.
‘Where do you find the virgins?’ I said, blank-faced.
‘Ahhh, they’re everywhere. Some of them have been virgins half a dozen times. He doesn’t care. He just likes them young. I bring them, two, three at a time. He loves that, two or three. He has a big...’
I held my hand up. ‘Mmmmph,’ I said, spluttering my tea, ‘too much information.’
‘I take the pictures.’
‘Wha...?’
‘That’s what I do. That’s my job. I take the pictures.’
I gasped. Jimmy seemed blissfully unaware there might be something wrong with this scenario. He scanned the crowd. A herd of white goats, each with a fluorescent smudge of pink on their rump, turned into the lane from Sudder Street, blindly heading for death and the market.
‘Ooh, gotta go,’ said Jimmy the Fixer and with a leap he was gone. ‘See ya!’ he shouted over his shoulder. Maybe he saw Uncle.
The goats ambled closer, driven on by four men with sticks and a lot of noise. Gobsmacked, I stood up on the bench to let them pass, fifty or sixty goats filling the road, a bobbing sea of fluorescent pink, felt their sticky flanks brush up against my feet, heard a ‘mwa-a-a-a-a!’, a ‘me-e-ee-eh!’, another whack!
‘Chai! Chai!’ shrieked the little boy.
‘Go on!’ hissed the goatherd. Whack! He slashed at the nearest goat.
‘I take the pictures...’
‘Phhht! Whoa! Go On!’
‘I take the pictures...’
That was all I could hear.
‘Uncle’s good for business. He comes here three times in a year. He stays in the same apartment, my sister goes to clean, I look after him. He has many, many girls.’
I was still inspecting Uncle. I handed the picture back with a sniff.
‘He likes the girls,’ my friend said, slurping heavily on his chai. ‘Bam! Three or four times a week. Viagra,’ he said, tapping his nose. ‘Very good business. He likes them young - very young. Ten, eleven, twelve.’
I was sitting very still.
‘He wants to screw a virgin,’ he said dismissively, as if this was not an issue, ‘so I find him virgins.’
We were sitting on a low bench, our backs to a corrugated wall, sipping chai. The passing traffic nearly rolled over our feet, it was so close. A child of ten, eleven years of age scurried across the lane, bring chai and plates of food to the others sitting round us.
‘Where do you find the virgins?’ I said, blank-faced.
‘Ahhh, they’re everywhere. Some of them have been virgins half a dozen times. He doesn’t care. He just likes them young. I bring them, two, three at a time. He loves that, two or three. He has a big...’
I held my hand up. ‘Mmmmph,’ I said, spluttering my tea, ‘too much information.’
‘I take the pictures.’
‘Wha...?’
‘That’s what I do. That’s my job. I take the pictures.’
I gasped. Jimmy seemed blissfully unaware there might be something wrong with this scenario. He scanned the crowd. A herd of white goats, each with a fluorescent smudge of pink on their rump, turned into the lane from Sudder Street, blindly heading for death and the market.
‘Ooh, gotta go,’ said Jimmy the Fixer and with a leap he was gone. ‘See ya!’ he shouted over his shoulder. Maybe he saw Uncle.
The goats ambled closer, driven on by four men with sticks and a lot of noise. Gobsmacked, I stood up on the bench to let them pass, fifty or sixty goats filling the road, a bobbing sea of fluorescent pink, felt their sticky flanks brush up against my feet, heard a ‘mwa-a-a-a-a!’, a ‘me-e-ee-eh!’, another whack!
‘Chai! Chai!’ shrieked the little boy.
‘Go on!’ hissed the goatherd. Whack! He slashed at the nearest goat.
‘I take the pictures...’
‘Phhht! Whoa! Go On!’
‘I take the pictures...’
That was all I could hear.
Oct 5th, 2008, 08:29 AM
#28
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I paid for the chai and followed the goats, through the lane to the square in front of New Market. The sun was coming down, it was rush-hour, the streets awash with people but somehow that flock of goats made it through, over the road chock-full of honking and snarling, through rickshaws and children, down Fenwick Bazar Street to the crossroads of life.
A smart little goat would have run away right then and there in the confusion, dashed sideways and into the slum – but goats aren’t really very smart, I was discovering, not where matters of imminent mortality are concerned.
Oct 5th, 2008, 08:29 AM
#29
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Jimmy counted them off on his hand.
‘I’ve had Japanese girls and Chinese girls, Spanish and Italian girls, French and Belgian, American and Swedish...’
This is a different Jimmy. These hustlers are all Jimmy to me.
He lost count. ‘How many is that?
We were both squashed up on the floor in a clothing cubicle at the back of his tiny shop in New Market, a cup of chai in hand, killing time.
‘Eight nationalities!’ he said proudly.
I expressed the requisite amazement.
‘Why not?’ he said and shrugged.
I was starting to see it from their eyes, this flood of backpacker girls, the fresh meat of New Market. They were everywhere; young, British, blonde and gap-yearing, diverted by Mother Theresa on their way down to Goa; the Europeans, bronzed, independent and fiercely naive, the Asian students, wide-eyed, no-brained and relentlessly facile, inexplicably drawn to India and not-so inexplicably drawn to Indian men.
I could see why – Jimmy was a prime example. Softly charismatic with innocent wide brown eyes, a spruiker, a fluker, a joker, a thief – this Jimmy could lie with the ease of a child, stare you down with a flash of those guileless eyes; a charmer of epic proportions, a rogue. Jimmy was of an age and temperament that found the hunt much more interesting than the trophy – the pleasure was not in the fish itself but the fishing, the trawling, the dangling hook.
‘What kind of girls do you like?’
He thought for a moment. ‘All kinds,’ he said.
‘Backpacker girls?’
‘Phfwahhh! Beggars,’ he scoffed, ‘they live in cheap hotels and work for Mother Theresa, they buy Indian clothes and eat Indian food. They are beggars. No money. I like tourist girls.’
‘Do they give you money?’
‘Well, not exactly...’
‘Pocket money?’
His eyes brightened. ‘Yes, pocket money.’
‘A lot?’
He proceeded to list names, dates and amounts. It was clear this was a thriving cottage industry. Jimmy was just one of many stall-holders with a range of goods not obviously on display. More to the point, there was no shortage of customers.
‘I’ve had Japanese girls and Chinese girls, Spanish and Italian girls, French and Belgian, American and Swedish...’
This is a different Jimmy. These hustlers are all Jimmy to me.
He lost count. ‘How many is that?
We were both squashed up on the floor in a clothing cubicle at the back of his tiny shop in New Market, a cup of chai in hand, killing time.
‘Eight nationalities!’ he said proudly.
I expressed the requisite amazement.
‘Why not?’ he said and shrugged.
I was starting to see it from their eyes, this flood of backpacker girls, the fresh meat of New Market. They were everywhere; young, British, blonde and gap-yearing, diverted by Mother Theresa on their way down to Goa; the Europeans, bronzed, independent and fiercely naive, the Asian students, wide-eyed, no-brained and relentlessly facile, inexplicably drawn to India and not-so inexplicably drawn to Indian men.
I could see why – Jimmy was a prime example. Softly charismatic with innocent wide brown eyes, a spruiker, a fluker, a joker, a thief – this Jimmy could lie with the ease of a child, stare you down with a flash of those guileless eyes; a charmer of epic proportions, a rogue. Jimmy was of an age and temperament that found the hunt much more interesting than the trophy – the pleasure was not in the fish itself but the fishing, the trawling, the dangling hook.
‘What kind of girls do you like?’
He thought for a moment. ‘All kinds,’ he said.
‘Backpacker girls?’
‘Phfwahhh! Beggars,’ he scoffed, ‘they live in cheap hotels and work for Mother Theresa, they buy Indian clothes and eat Indian food. They are beggars. No money. I like tourist girls.’
‘Do they give you money?’
‘Well, not exactly...’
‘Pocket money?’
His eyes brightened. ‘Yes, pocket money.’
‘A lot?’
He proceeded to list names, dates and amounts. It was clear this was a thriving cottage industry. Jimmy was just one of many stall-holders with a range of goods not obviously on display. More to the point, there was no shortage of customers.
Oct 5th, 2008, 08:30 AM
#30
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About the only thing the Baldwin Piggery has going for it is the look of blank confusion on the face of the owner when I come in to visit. There’s a wall-size mural there of Red Indians chasing pigs across the wide prairie which I find strangely compelling – then, on the opposite side, staring disapprovingly at the marauding Red Indians, a large and unflattering portrait of Mother Theresa.
A display on the wall lists fourteen different pork items for sale. ‘Frank Futter’ is 160 rupees.
The pink goats were ushered past the Piggery, past the public urinal, along Chicken Row to the butchery halls of New Market. Now they were under cover in a vast crumbling hall, moving through a Dickensian display of dangling sides of beef, dead chickens, pig’s trotters and offal.
There was probably a sign that said ‘Goat Futter: 100 rupees’ but luckily none of them looked up to see their future, they all trotted calmly to the end of their lives and bunched themselves contentedly in an aisle at the far end of the market. Every so often a man would drag one goat away and slip it secretly into a black door. A minute or so later, another goat trotted off into the tunnel of doom. I was sitting directly on top of this. Another goat. Another goat. Where did they go?
The tunnel, of course, led along under my feet into the neighbouring alley where the goat would soon get a brief and terrible shock. Tomorrow morning a plump Indian lady from down the road will amble in and look around.
‘Mmmm,’ she’ll say, ‘I think I need some nice Goat Futter for dinner tonight.’
And, exclusively on her dietary whim, one confused goat with a pink patch on his back will be called to perform his final duty, plucked from the tunnel and slaughtered, especially for her. She might wobble off over to Nahoum’s for a cheese pastry; by the time she was back her pink goat would be futtered, packed and ready to go.
Down in Sudder Street another bunch of fresh goats, already marked pink for sacrifice, waited in a huddle.
Under an umbrella in the garden of the Fairlawn Hotel three young German tourists leant together sharing secrets.
‘His name is Jimmy...’ one gushed to her friends.
A display on the wall lists fourteen different pork items for sale. ‘Frank Futter’ is 160 rupees.
The pink goats were ushered past the Piggery, past the public urinal, along Chicken Row to the butchery halls of New Market. Now they were under cover in a vast crumbling hall, moving through a Dickensian display of dangling sides of beef, dead chickens, pig’s trotters and offal.
There was probably a sign that said ‘Goat Futter: 100 rupees’ but luckily none of them looked up to see their future, they all trotted calmly to the end of their lives and bunched themselves contentedly in an aisle at the far end of the market. Every so often a man would drag one goat away and slip it secretly into a black door. A minute or so later, another goat trotted off into the tunnel of doom. I was sitting directly on top of this. Another goat. Another goat. Where did they go?
The tunnel, of course, led along under my feet into the neighbouring alley where the goat would soon get a brief and terrible shock. Tomorrow morning a plump Indian lady from down the road will amble in and look around.
‘Mmmm,’ she’ll say, ‘I think I need some nice Goat Futter for dinner tonight.’
And, exclusively on her dietary whim, one confused goat with a pink patch on his back will be called to perform his final duty, plucked from the tunnel and slaughtered, especially for her. She might wobble off over to Nahoum’s for a cheese pastry; by the time she was back her pink goat would be futtered, packed and ready to go.
Down in Sudder Street another bunch of fresh goats, already marked pink for sacrifice, waited in a huddle.
Under an umbrella in the garden of the Fairlawn Hotel three young German tourists leant together sharing secrets.
‘His name is Jimmy...’ one gushed to her friends.
Oct 5th, 2008, 11:41 AM
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... many thanks dogster, for more brilliant writing, and for brightening yet another slightly jet-lagged day in sunny San Francisco. (For what it's worth: the past few weeks in Bangkok and Singapore, rather pleasant, and should you be in SIN for next year's Formula One race, do remember ear plugs.)
If I had any influence (obviously not, since I have the occasional time to post on a travel forum), you are my 'main man' for the Booker Prize. Well done.
And I so appreciate your venturing into, well, shall we say, the flip side, of the 's*x trade'. (And for that (those) underage 'traffiker(s)' you encountered: this fallen episcopalian is a huge believer in karmic retribution, and suspect a 'higher authority' will eventually oblige him (them) to 'pay'.)
Now, getting back to, yes, one of my all-time favourites, intimate relations. Must confess, your past few posts brought back thoughts of a wonderful UK-based caucasian female business colleague who also travels to Bangkok for work. And, wouldn't you know, she informs that every now and then, she enjoys the late-night company of various males, females and 'she males'. As she once said to me a few years back at the Bangkok Four Seasons: ~ 'who says only western guys have all the fun in Bangkok!' ... Oh my, gotta love Bangkok business travel. (And the occasional BKK living with mrs. m.)
Thanks again, dogster. Until today, my favourite trip reports were over on sqtalk: something to do with 'Leroy and Bubba' and their 'sq mummy'; nickbots and SQ F; and a certain architect and his 'coke and call girls'. (Never a dull moment, flying with those sensational Singapore Girls.)
As always, sweet and smooth (SQ) rides to you...
macintosh (robert)
... "I know one of the girls you have been seeing, and she tells me you are already dead" ...
(Room ____, Shangri-La Bangkok, July 200_)
... (long, long, before meeting the mrs.) ...
Oct 5th, 2008, 02:50 PM
#34
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Thanks for another installment. Your encounter with this part of the sex trade (and the story of the snuff movie in another report) is a reminder of what is just beneath the surface. Too often we prefer the surface to the depth.
Oct 5th, 2008, 08:38 PM
#35
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Ahhh, well I'm glad I seemed to have skated over that thin ice without quite falling thru. It's always an issue to me just how far I can go in here... not because I think you guys are easily offended, but because, it is, after all, a public forum. It's been a very useful process indeed to have to go thru stuff and remove the rude bits without [hopefully] emasculating the whole thing.
and AskOksena: let me return the compliment. Such a wonderful post. My ex-agent has been on at me about publishing. Comments like yours, she says, are incredibly useful to show to a publisher. I'm not sure quite how I'll explain your extreme passion for Singapore Airlines hostesses, tho...
Ahhh - but passion is the one thing my tiny world is lacking right now. So I have to read your posts with sunglasses on, in case I get too excited.
Aro-o-o-o-o-oooo - hear the dog howl.
and AskOksena: let me return the compliment. Such a wonderful post. My ex-agent has been on at me about publishing. Comments like yours, she says, are incredibly useful to show to a publisher. I'm not sure quite how I'll explain your extreme passion for Singapore Airlines hostesses, tho...
Ahhh - but passion is the one thing my tiny world is lacking right now. So I have to read your posts with sunglasses on, in case I get too excited.
Aro-o-o-o-o-oooo - hear the dog howl.
Oct 5th, 2008, 11:28 PM
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Oh thank you Dogster - you've made my day - been off line a couple of days but usually check each day to see if there is anything new from you. What a nice bit of fun to come back online to. So so much fun to read your reports.
Oct 6th, 2008, 02:54 AM
#38
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lol Gpanda: the Jimmys find ME. The sight of a single male traveler of certain years with a kind face and a thick wallet is like an illuminated Christmas tree walking down the street.
But I like my Jimmys - they have the life force coursing through their veins too. Corrupt and slick they may well be - but their extraordinary energy, their entreprenturial drive is inescapable. You can't beat 'em, you can't join 'em, you know what they want - they know you know. So it's kinda like chess.
Remember, they only way they win the game is when I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. I have to do that. My arm has to bend and reach into my pocket. Me. I have to take out the money. I have to hand it to them.
The best, the most extraordinary of these men are magicians, miracle men - they can, by force of pure guile, MAKE me raise my arm, reach into my pocket... they magic me into giving them their money. They MUST be magicians - either that or I'm very very stupid.
As for thin ice, gpanda, as is probably evident by now, Dogster could find thin ice at the North Pole. The very act of Dogster stepping on ice is enough to produce localised global warming.
This is why he continually falls through. It must be. The only other conclusion I can come to is that Dogster is very, very stupid.
Q.E.D. India is full of thin ice and magicians.
But you've diverted me Gpanda. I only came in here to say thank you to MaryW. I love the thought of being checked for. Her kind words have inspired me to finish off this next bit. I'll post it in a while.
But I like my Jimmys - they have the life force coursing through their veins too. Corrupt and slick they may well be - but their extraordinary energy, their entreprenturial drive is inescapable. You can't beat 'em, you can't join 'em, you know what they want - they know you know. So it's kinda like chess.
Remember, they only way they win the game is when I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. I have to do that. My arm has to bend and reach into my pocket. Me. I have to take out the money. I have to hand it to them.
The best, the most extraordinary of these men are magicians, miracle men - they can, by force of pure guile, MAKE me raise my arm, reach into my pocket... they magic me into giving them their money. They MUST be magicians - either that or I'm very very stupid.
As for thin ice, gpanda, as is probably evident by now, Dogster could find thin ice at the North Pole. The very act of Dogster stepping on ice is enough to produce localised global warming.
This is why he continually falls through. It must be. The only other conclusion I can come to is that Dogster is very, very stupid.
Q.E.D. India is full of thin ice and magicians.
But you've diverted me Gpanda. I only came in here to say thank you to MaryW. I love the thought of being checked for. Her kind words have inspired me to finish off this next bit. I'll post it in a while.
Oct 6th, 2008, 07:04 AM
#39
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Here's today's post - a continuation of my search for the minorities - the elusive 0.42%. These are four separate little pieces that go together with Stella and the Armenian wrestlers. More musings, really, than wild doggy near-death adventures - that's to come.
I'll stick them in over the next two days. Here's the first one. Finally, a bite of Parsi.
I'll stick them in over the next two days. Here's the first one. Finally, a bite of Parsi.
Oct 6th, 2008, 07:05 AM
#40
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‘The vultures are back,’ he said dryly. ‘Now I can die.’
The gateman belched and rolled his eyes. He was making a Parsi joke. I smiled witlessly. He was a big-boned fellow wearing a large white singlet over loose black pants and thongs. His gut bulged out in a languid fashion, just sitting there, minding its own Parsi business. He wore a little black skull-cap over a broad, fat face. I had no idea what he was talking about.
I was still hunting down the minorities. We were in the doorway of Agni Mandir in Metcalfe Lane, the only functioning temple for the Parsis of Kolkata. Who were the Parsis of Kolkata? I had no idea either. Beside us bluish-grey stuccoed plaster walls, over our heads the second floor painted bright red, domed and vaulted, enormous columns reaching high – but, unless you looked heavenward in the narrow lane, you could walk by it and never notice it was there. The only clue hung on the wrought-iron gates; a gold rim enclosing a silver circle that held a golden goblet. From the goblet spring fifteen bright red flames. Together those fifteen flames make up the sixteenth flame, the 'Fire of victory', Atash Behram.
Inside, upstairs in a secret room, a flame really was burning, as it had been continuously since 12th October, 1912. This was quite a young flame, really - there was one in Yazd that had been burning continuously for 1,200 years. Kolkata’s flame was an Atash Adaran, the 'Fire of fires' - the next class down from the Atash Behram. Kolkata’s might have been a second class fire, but was tended to with as much devotion as if it had come direct from the hand of Yazdegard the Third himself. Yasdegard, as we all know, was the last Zoroastrian Emperor of Persia.
Well, you might know. I’d never even heard of Zoroastria, let alone Emperor Yazdegard the Third. All this was like a fairytale to me.
From the minute I walked into the courtyard I was hit with a barrage of bizarre information. I could tell you it all but you’d have to kill me. It was a pretty non-descript courtyard and, as a non-Zoroastrian infidel dog, I was not permitted to pollute the temple by setting foot inside, so there was nothing to see. It was a unique combination of fascinating and dull. In the gateway, standing mutely on the street looking in on us was a man with a withered leg leaning on a stick. In that most elegantly simple of gestures he held out one skinny arm, opened his palm to the sky.
‘M-a-a-n-e-e-e,’ he mouthed. I shook my head and looked away.
The priest appeared, a very charming man. He guided me conscientiously to the few doorways I was allowed to peer into while trying to confuse me with extraordinary facts I couldn’t process. I put my ‘oh yes, oh, how interesting...’ face on and nodded a lot but really, I wasn’t listening.
I was still thinking about the vultures.
The gateman belched and rolled his eyes. He was making a Parsi joke. I smiled witlessly. He was a big-boned fellow wearing a large white singlet over loose black pants and thongs. His gut bulged out in a languid fashion, just sitting there, minding its own Parsi business. He wore a little black skull-cap over a broad, fat face. I had no idea what he was talking about.
I was still hunting down the minorities. We were in the doorway of Agni Mandir in Metcalfe Lane, the only functioning temple for the Parsis of Kolkata. Who were the Parsis of Kolkata? I had no idea either. Beside us bluish-grey stuccoed plaster walls, over our heads the second floor painted bright red, domed and vaulted, enormous columns reaching high – but, unless you looked heavenward in the narrow lane, you could walk by it and never notice it was there. The only clue hung on the wrought-iron gates; a gold rim enclosing a silver circle that held a golden goblet. From the goblet spring fifteen bright red flames. Together those fifteen flames make up the sixteenth flame, the 'Fire of victory', Atash Behram.
Inside, upstairs in a secret room, a flame really was burning, as it had been continuously since 12th October, 1912. This was quite a young flame, really - there was one in Yazd that had been burning continuously for 1,200 years. Kolkata’s flame was an Atash Adaran, the 'Fire of fires' - the next class down from the Atash Behram. Kolkata’s might have been a second class fire, but was tended to with as much devotion as if it had come direct from the hand of Yazdegard the Third himself. Yasdegard, as we all know, was the last Zoroastrian Emperor of Persia.
Well, you might know. I’d never even heard of Zoroastria, let alone Emperor Yazdegard the Third. All this was like a fairytale to me.
From the minute I walked into the courtyard I was hit with a barrage of bizarre information. I could tell you it all but you’d have to kill me. It was a pretty non-descript courtyard and, as a non-Zoroastrian infidel dog, I was not permitted to pollute the temple by setting foot inside, so there was nothing to see. It was a unique combination of fascinating and dull. In the gateway, standing mutely on the street looking in on us was a man with a withered leg leaning on a stick. In that most elegantly simple of gestures he held out one skinny arm, opened his palm to the sky.
‘M-a-a-n-e-e-e,’ he mouthed. I shook my head and looked away.
The priest appeared, a very charming man. He guided me conscientiously to the few doorways I was allowed to peer into while trying to confuse me with extraordinary facts I couldn’t process. I put my ‘oh yes, oh, how interesting...’ face on and nodded a lot but really, I wasn’t listening.
I was still thinking about the vultures.
