Kolkata for the First Time: A Stroll Through History, Heat, and Eats

Some places you visit. Others, you feel. Kolkata was the latter for me—a city that didn't just open its arms, but invited me into its memory, its warmth, and its whispers. What began as a trip quickly became something deeply personal. With Immersive Trails as my guide and the city as the storyteller, I wandered through colonial streets, wartime tales, sacred silence, and vibrant markets—finding not just the past, but something quietly profound within myself.

A Colonial Heartbeat at Dalhousie Square

Our journey began in the heart of old Calcutta: Dalhousie Square. Surrounded by grand colonial buildings—the Writers’ Building, General Post Office, St. John’s Church—I felt like I’d stepped into a black-and-white film. But the city doesn’t just preserve architecture; it preserves anecdotes, oddities, and quiet revolutions.

One such story: in 1833, blocks of ice were shipped from Boston’s Tudor Ice Company, packed in sawdust, all the way to Calcutta. When it arrived, people queued just to see it, touch it, and marvel at its strangeness. For a city that sizzled under the sun, it wasn’t just refreshing—it was wondrous.

Wartime Whispers: Dance Halls, Coke, and Cinema

The Calcutta in WWII tour revealed a different city—caught in war, yet brimming with longing, survival, and unexpected joy.

At Town Hall, we heard about “Spinster Nights”—lively dances for young English women sent to Kolkata during the war. They had three months to find an English husband—or be left behind for the next ship of arrivals. The hall echoed with music and mingled desperation, a place where love was almost…scheduled.

              

Just around the bend, we came to Metro Cinema. Faded now, but once dazzling with glamour. Built by MGM Studios, it was the first of two cinemas designed in India, meant to promote their movies to both troops and locals. American soldiers stationed here received three free movie tickets each week, along with Coke and ice cream—a slice of America in India. It didn’t take long before they began selling their surplus tickets to eager locals. This is where the Kolkatan love for cinema first sparked. The soldiers sold their tickets to locals, and the queues grew. Kolkata didn’t just watch movies; it embraced them.

                  

The Famine They Tried to Hide

Kolkata has known joy, but also unspeakable sorrow. In 1943, it bore witness to one of the darkest chapters in history—the Great Bengal Famine. A man-made disaster, it was triggered by British wartime policies that cut off food supplies and transport to prevent Japanese forces from advancing. Over three million lives were lost in a single year.

The word "famine" was banned from being printed in the press. But Ian Stephens, editor of The Statesman, broke that silence. If he couldn’t write about the famine, he would show it. He published full-page photographs of the skeletal, starving victims. The world could no longer look away. Standing on that tour, holding replicas of those haunting images, I felt something tighten in my chest. A sorrow too heavy for words. Kolkata doesn’t erase pain—it remembers, with dignity.

Walking Through Stillness: South Park Street Cemetery

One of the most quietly moving places I visited was South Park Street Cemetery. Beneath a canopy of trees and surrounded by weathered tombs, I walked through a silent city of the dead. Many names, many lives—cut short by the absence of medicine, before antibiotics changed the world.

I paused before the graves of Sir William Jones, the brilliant linguist who founded the Asiatic Society, and Rose Aylmer, the young woman whose tragic story inspired poetry. But what shook me most were the rows of tiny tombstones—babies lost just months after birth—and headstones marking lives that ended in their 30s and 40s. Many were my age. Back then, 40s and 50s were already old, and tropical diseases claimed lives swiftly. The cemetery wasn’t eerie—it was tender. It told stories of fragility and fleeting time.

A Celebration of Diversity

The Diversity Walking Tour opened a window into the soul of Kolkata. We wandered past Chinese temples adorned with red lanterns, the Armenian Holy Church of Nazareth with its rich silence, and synagogues echoing memories of Baghdadi Jewish families. We stepped into a serene Buddhist monastery, where I saw monks quietly preparing for their onward journey to Myanmar. Their suitcases were lined up in the hallway, waiting for tomorrow’s flight. It struck me how these sacred spaces were also homes—temporary shelters for wandering souls. Kolkata, in its own way, shelters them all.

Monuments and Morning Chaos

At the Victoria Memorial, with its majestic dome and marble gleam, I felt like I was inside a poem. The galleries were filled with colonial relics—letters, oil paintings, voices from the past. From there, we crossed the iconic Howrah Bridge, never sleeping, always alive. Below it, the Mullik Ghat Flower Market burst into life: piles of marigolds, rose petals, lotus buds—carried on heads, spread on burlap, strung into garlands.

Later, I wandered down to the ghats. Once built with beautiful colored marble, they still stood with quiet elegance—but now cracked, faded, and sadly unkempt. The potential was there, but so was the neglect. Still, even in disrepair, they carried beauty—like an old song you still hum.

         

Tastes of Kolkata

My Kolkata was also found in its food. At Flurys on Park Street, I had buttery croissants and steaming Darjeeling tea under chandeliers—like breakfast in a classic film. For lunch at 6 Ballygunge Place, I savored hilsa fish cooked in mustard sauce and tender mutton curry, served alongside luchi and daab chingri. Each bite was a tribute to Bengali kitchens and tradition.

In the Eid evening rush, I squeezed into Nizam’s for a kathi roll—flaky, spicy, unforgettable. And from Balaram Mullick, I picked up sweets that tasted like home: roshogolla, sondesh, mishti doi. Kolkata’s food didn’t just feed me—it embraced me.

                     

                  

Books and the Divine

Inside Oxford Bookstore, I found Autobiography of a Yogi. A spiritual classic famously gifted by Steve Jobs, it somehow felt right that I discovered it in the very city where Paramahansa Yogananda’s journey began. Its pages spoke of stillness, soul, and simplicity—just like Kolkata itself.

Where I Stayed: A Piano, A Pause

I stayed at The Lalit Great Eastern Hotel—a grand, graceful place once known as the ‘Jewel of the East’ and the oldest luxury hotel in Asia. But what made it unforgettable was a moment. One night, descending into the lobby, I heard piano music drifting through the air. It was Raj Jain, a blind pianist who plays from memory and feeling alone. His fingers danced over the keys, filling the space with delicate, aching beauty. Everyone stopped. I sat there, quietly, letting the music wrap around me. It wasn’t just a performance—it was a blessing.

A Quiet Goodbye on the Tracks and by the River

On my last morning, I decided to take the tram—one of Kolkata’s oldest living legacies. The tram groaned gently along its tracks, moving slowly through the city like a dream that refuses to end. The worn wooden benches, metal handles, and open windows told stories of another time. It felt like riding through history. These trams, which have been a part of Kolkata since 1902, are now being considered for phase-out. Sitting there, I felt both lucky and a little sad—grateful to be part of something that may soon only live in memory.

            

I got off near the ghats and walked down to the river. The sun rose slowly. The Hooghly shimmered. Priests chanted. A ferry drifted past. I watched people bathe, pray, and begin their day with quiet resilience. I stood there at the water’s edge, heart full—not just from the beauty of the scene, but from the city’s rhythm, patience, and soul.