City of Joy

"Evermore in the world is this marvellous balance of beauty and disgust, magnificence and rats."

- Emerson

Welcome to Calcutta, Ralph Waldo. The city of paradox, if not paradise. Long acknowledged as the cultural capital of India, Calcutta is as turbulent and fluxating as the expansive Ganges delta system upon which it lies. A complicated human estuary that vibrates with life and teems with death. A place that combines the subtle hues of a Monet watercolor with the ranting brush of an Edvard Munch. Synarchy versus anarchy - mingled moments of the morose and jocose - tasting both the wine of life and its vinegar - alternatively feeling prickled and tickled - inhaling the swirling effluvium of perfumed spices and fetid unguents - dancing with the joie de vivre and trudging through scenes less good morning sunshine - and gaping in awe at nonpareil beauty then gasping aghast at a hell more vivid than described by Dante.

Diversity personified, or rather citified. Human drawn rickshaws strain above a modern metro system. The pristine and venerated Tollygunge, the world's oldest golf course outside Great Britain, elbows against the moraine-like scars of urban sprawl. Tea sipped amongst the verdant splendor of the Fairlawn's leafy veranda juxtaposing chai quaffed in the smoky veil of a dark local pit. The immense aged wonders of British architects neighbor the ephemeral shanties of the destitute and downtrodden.

As global society increasingly bifurcates and polarizes, Calcutta reflects life as a SPECULUM MUNDI - a mirror of the world. The city seems to be a literal creation from the literary union of Percy and Mary Shelley. One part Frankenstein, the other romantic prose. A monstrous hybrid with the soul of a poet. A final word on this synthesis from another author of the isle of Albion; William Blake wrote:

"Joy and woe are woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine;
Under every grief and pine runs a joy with silken twine.
It is right it should be so; man is made for joy and woe;
and when this we rightly know, safely through the world we go."

Information for the etymological enthusiast: On a recent 34 hour train ride up the eastern coast I passed through the state of Orissa, the site of an important religious celebration. Each year a 45 foot statue of Jagganath - the 'Lord of the World' - is paraded through the streets of Puri on a huge wagon pulled by hundreds of devotees. In the past, pilgims threw themselves to their death beneath the wagon's massive wheels. When reports of the ancient custom reached Europe in the 14th century, the Westernized version of the god named Jagganath changed into 'juggernaut' and came to represent a relentless force that crushed everything in its path. Very similar in that respect to the Minnesota Viking offense this coming season (wrote the quixotic dreamer).

Further etymological inanity and insanity: The name Calcutta is the anglicized version of a nearby temple known as Kalikata. According to legend, when Shiva's wife's corpse was cut-up, one of her fingers fell here. Seems logical ... find a stray finger, build a temple, found a city. Kali represents the destructive side of Shiva's consort and demands daily sacrifices. In the morning at the temple, goats are slaughtered to satisfy the goddess' bloodlust. During the day many of the poor congregate there for a free meal. Sacrament with a Hindu spin. Colorful theology.

Old Monk tales: A seven year old bottle of India's Old Monk rum is less than a dollar. My distilled visions courtesy of said spirit, however, are not the topic of this discourse. I'll save those Old Monk tales for the memoirs so as to not jeopardize any future political aspirations. This story is about Mihailo Tolotus, a Greek monk who died in 1938 at the age of 82, who was perhaps the only man never to have laid eyes on a woman. His mother died while giving birth and the infant was whisked away the following day to a monastery atop Mount Athos.

Tolotus spent the remainder of his life among the monks - completely isolated from female society. Women and even female animals were prohibited from entering the monastery, a tradition dating back to the founding of the abbey more than nine centuries earlier. A moment of silence (or a shot of rum) in honor of the lonely and isolated Tolotus.

At times, while jangling about mother Gaia, I feel as overwhelmed by this planet's beauty as I'd imagine Mihailo Tolotus would be while wandering down Kalakaua avenue on a friday night. Pardon such randon thoughts; loperamide tablets have no effect on my cortical diarrhea.

Cries from the closing crypt: I'll conclude this scribbled essay with some historical wisdom uttered in the Reaper's shadow. While "Et tu Brutus" is timely with the Ides approaching, such is not my choice. I'll pick a hometown boy in accordance with the adage: think globally, act locally. Buddha's last words:

"And whosover, Ananda, either now or after I am dead, shall be a lamp unto themselves and a refuge unto themselves - shall betake themselves to no external refuge but holding fast to the Truth as their lamp, shall not look for refuge to anyone besides themselves - it is they who shall reach the very topmost height! But they must be anxious to learn!"

- under the tutelage of this terraqueous orb, Kevin

P.S. With the fidelity of a chronicler I'll relate this evening's dining adventure. Your standard health department nightmare hidden along the tentacular alleyways along the Hooghley river. Stools and benches (no self-respecting dive has any type of chair with a back), greyish atmosphere, and incredible parathas and lentil mash. The most delightful part of the meal was my unexpected dinner companion - a freakish river rat that streaked by my table. Absolutely perfect. Pure Emerson. I can hear him smiling in Concord.