When my fascination with India began piquing my curiosity during my college years, I'd come across the name of Rabindranath Tagore, who, like his contemporary, our very own Jose Rizal, was born in the same year in 1861, and together, they also shared the distinction of being a writer, poet, and social reformer.
Escaping the overpowering energy of Kolkata's streets, we followed the distant sight of the towering dome and statues that lead us to a quiet spot dominated by the sheer grandeur of this grand marble structure, known as the Victoria Memorial Hall. Dedicated to the memory of Queen Victoria, this impressive edifice started construction in 1906 and opened to the public in 1921 and now remains as one of the ostentatious remains of the British rule. Today it is one of the city's tourist attraction with a museum that houses historical artifacts of the Victorian era.
Designed by the President of the Royal Institute of British Architects at that time William Emerson, the Memorial is a typical example of an Indo-Saracenic architecture, prevalent during the British-Colonial India. Against the clear blue skies and wind swept white clouds, the imposing building provides a postcard-like material with grandeur painted all over it.
Since this was the first day of our 25-day jaunt across India, a feeling of excitement electrified through my body, knowing that the rest of our days will be filled with amazement at landmarks such as this. Not to mention the Taj Mahal waiting for us at Agra and the many Forts, old cities, colonial buildings and places of worships littered all over India, especially the route we had penciled for our journey.
Imagine how Kolkata introduced us to India. With its endless road noise and overwhelming street activities. Walking among the massive crowd was an exuberant experience so far- in a way it become a fitting welcome that washes away all of my TripAdvisor influenced preconceived fears of traveling in India.
Buoyed by our exhausting trip from Manila to Kuala Lumpur, the 12 hour lay-over and our midnight arrival in India, my friend Aileen was a bit spent as she took a short nap on one of the benches in the garden. Fighting sleep myself since we just deposited our stuff at the hostel and proceeded to explore Kolkata, I sat in a relaxed position just watching the others go about their own business.
There were a lot of local tourists as well who I wondered what part of India they came from and Kolkata residents enjoying an afternoon picnic by the spacious garden that surrounds the Victoria Memorial Hall. As the sun was about to set, we took one final walk around the vast compound and awed ourselves yet again at the building's intricate patterns and details before storing it in memory.
As I stare at the statue of the Angels of Victory perched on top of the main dome, I celebrated a victory of sorts as well. Finally, my everlong desire of visiting India is finally on its first day. Many more days ahead I told myself. That instant, I felt an unrivaled high and sheer happiness I've never sensed before in all of my past travels.
On December 8, 1930, three young Bengali activists—Benoy, Badal, and Dinesh—cloaked in European clothing, entered the Writer's Building in the former Dalhousie Square and assassinated the Inspector General of Prisons, N.S. Simpson. Though this incident was just a tiny speck in the storied history of this central district of Kolkata, it proved significant enough to create a ripple effect that enhanced the Bengali’s role in the collective fight for Indian independence. This is the reason why the place is now known as B.B.D. Bagh—in honor of the three freedom fighters who died that fateful day.
Historic colonial buildings depicting the best of British architecture are wonderfully maintained and are in full display in this square littered with street activities and rambling foot movements. The aforementioned Writer's Building, the Royal Exchange, Lal Dighi, St. Andrew's Church, The General Post Office, and Telephone Bhawan are just some of the must-see structures that would entail you to post it on your Instagram and caption it with #greatArchitecture.
On a sunny but cool morning during our first official day in India, Aileen and I wandered aimlessly at the chaotic streets of Kolkata, often finding charming nooks and crannies here and there to our delight. A short cab ride later took us to B.B.D. Bagh, which reminded me of the similar-looking colonial-dotted streets of downtown Yangon.
Crossing the streets while avoiding the iconic old-model yellow taxi cabs of Kolkata almost instantly brought me fifty years back. The whole district screams of a decades-old throwback, inhabited during the day by a massive workforce that congregates to work in the many government and private company offices, all armed with modern gadgets and technology-savvy minds.
The rest are street food vendors, ear-cleaning touts, shoe-cleaning touts, gold and silver touts, and all types of traders who will try their darndest to bother you—but once you politely shoo them away, they will give you a sincere smile in return.
Despite the swarming activities that may appear revolting to someone who grew up in a highly developed and less populous European city, I find B.B.D. Bagh more reserved than the other parts of Kolkata that we explored. I guess coming from Manila there aren't many contrasts—except during the night when we passed by B.B.D. again towards Howrah Bridge. I swear I have never witnessed such a massive exodus of commuters before, who like us, were also headed to the Howrah train station.
We regretted passing up on scores of street food stalls, because when we ended up on another street we could not locate a single dining place. We asked the locals who pointed us in different directions until we managed to find one lone restaurant beside another old building.
While waiting for our food, Aileen fell asleep for a few minutes while sitting down. Having slept at the airport the previous night, I felt completely exhausted. Maybe this is how Kolkata crept up on me. It absorbed all my senses into a state of lull; while it pleased them with new discoveries and fascinating firsthand observations of an entirely new culture, it beat me to the point I apathetically muttered to myself, "This is just our first day."
Finally, when the food arrived, I awoke from a half-slumber and so did Aileen, and we were greeted by a jovial server. I realized I should never fear nor surrender to the somnolent nature of continuous travel. This is India, Kolkata—the people here, the history teeming here, the culture oh so colorful here, the delicious food—there are so many wonderful things to experience. Benoy Basu, Badal Gupta, and Dinesh Gupta knew that very well. To the point of giving their lives so their fellow Bengalis could appreciate all of these in total freedom.
My fascination with going to India started even before I was fully bitten by the travel bug. Five or six years ago, I deemed going there as almost next to impossible, as there were so many factors to consider: the long-haul flight, the expensive airfare, being heavily tied up with a demanding corporate job, and the fact that for a country as massive as India, a mere five-day trip simply wouldn't cut it—unless you go there just to snap a photo of the Taj Mahal in Agra.
However, life circumstances have a strangely beautiful way of conspiring to bring me directly to the very country I had long sought to see.
