India: Day 4 – Learning about Kolkata in WWII and Tea

As though a hole had been torn through the clouds, torrents of rain began to pour down just before our departure from the house at half past seven. Even our brisk leap into the Uber got us wet, and as we rode on, we feared that the rain would not stop. All of a sudden, however, it did stop, and we noticed that some parts of the city were completely dry.

The plan for the morning was a tour of old Kolkata with Professor Tathagata, focussing on India in the Second World War. We met him by a local Baťa store, which stands opposite from a big market housed in a red brick colonial-era building. During the Second World War, the building was used as a silo for rice impounded by the British. Fearful that the Japanese would use this rice if they managed to invade India, the colonial administration decided to confiscate it from locals living in the countryside, which quickly triggered a massive famine across Bengal. Much of this rice was left to sit in the silos or was sent to Chinese allies in Kunming and soldiers in Burma.

The tour gradually wound its way north, covering aspects of the war and especially the famine. We stood in front of the building where many protesting students and people waiting for famine relief were shot at by Gurkha soldiers under British command. Also killed were factory workers demanding that they be allowed to take food to their families; they were paid in food as the British government was low on funds. This is also why government bonds were issued to a number of local enterprises, many of which were never repaid after India’s independence.

The tour ended near the big department store across the road from Esplanade Station, which – as one of the landmarks of Kolkata – had to be obscured by tarp to confuse Japanese pilots. The Victoria Memorial was covered by dung, as it was feared that paint would damage the marble.

Most of the group headed directly home after the tour, but I figured that since we were already in the north, I would make a little excursion. First, I walked along the broad roads of the old financial district, which houses several banks and the old post office. All around me were imposing colonial buildings with walls painted white or made of red bricks. Juxtaposing these, however, were a number of street stalls and roadside restaurants, some of them producing so much smoke that I could smell it from across the road.

Next, I decided I would visit the Maghen David Synagogue, a beautiful red brick building and the erewhile centre of Jewish life in Kolkata. Jews have lived in India from Biblical times, and the Jewish diaspora of Kolkata is very diverse. Many Sephardim Jews arrived in early modern times from the Iberian Peninsula, and more Jewish people came with the Brits in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. I also understand there was a sizeable Baghdadi Jewish population in the city.

Finding the synagogue, however, proved to be quite a challenge. The whole area around the building is a market, where stalls line the streets, obscure the entrances to buildings, and push pedestrian traffic out into the road. I forged my way through the bustling surroundings and made two semicircles around the synagogue before I finally came across an entrance: it was hidden behind a stall, and I had to gesture at the owners to ask whether they could let me through.

There was an eery silence in the synagogue. There was not a single tourist, though a few caretakers seemed to be milling about. One of them approached me and asked me whether I was Jewish. When I said I was not, I was offered a kippa, and I was told that I could walk all around the building, including the second floor. It did not look much like the pictures: the windows had no stained glass, there was no chandelier, and the fans were hanging uncharacteristically low above the ground.

As I prepared to leave, the caretaker had me sign a guestbook and mentioned a donation box, adding in very broken English that the congregation is very small. I felt obliged to leave a banknote and thanked the caretaker for his welcome, but before I left the door, the worker started asking whether I was continuing to another synagogue. I knew there was another synagogue to the south, so I lied and said that I was already there. The caretaker did not seem content with this answer and instead of letting me leave through the main exit, he helped me through the southern side door.

When I exited the synagogue and looked ahead of myself, it finally dawned on me that I had not seen the Maghen David Synagogue at all. As I would learn later, north of the Maghen David Synagogue stands the smaller Neveh Shalome Synagogue, through which one can directly enter the grounds of the former. Sitting there was a police officer, who approached me as soon as I drew near to the entrance. Again, she asked whether I was Jewish, and when I said I was not, she asked me to leave my bag at the door. I hesitated, since my wallet and camera were in the bag, but the officer would not have it any other way, so I took both out and made to take them with me.

Upon spotting my camera, however, the officer smiled awkwardly and asked one more time whether I was Jewish. I briefly contemplated lying but decided against it, as I could not imagine what the repercussions of such a lie might be. She told me to sit down and wait. A few minutes later, she appeared in the company of a custodian – a small elderly man with a white beard, a long kurta, and a forward stoop. He was similarly adamant that I should not take pictures but permitted me to take my camera inside; I slung it over my back to make clear that I would not use it. Perhaps in return for this show of good faith, the custodian permitted me to take pictures on my phone.

This synagogue was exactly what I remembered from the pictures: a magnificent building in the style of an ornate Italian church, with a multi-tiered chandelier and elegant arches. It was much larger than the first and had space for multiple rows for prayer in the upper floor, which is, I assume, where the women prayed.

The two synagogues were the only buildings I would be able to enter on this little trip. At the nearby Armenian Church, I was turned away at the gate. I was not able to find out when the opening times were, but I would likely not have been able to make them anyway. I was also turned away at the Cathedral of the Most Holy Rosary, but at least I found out that the place of worship was open on Sundays. The official who told me spoke English quite decently, and I might have been able to bribe my way in had there not been so many other people around.

I rejoiced when I managed to leave the busy market area with its narrow streets and loud salesmen. I had breathed in so many fumes and worn myself out so completely that my head was spinning; I wondered what would happen if I passed out straight onto the ground. Once I reached the wide crossing at Nakhoda Masjid, I finally called an Uber, which to my dismay did not have any air conditioning. The open windows made me a prime target for the attention of a few beggars, who tend to frequent congested crossings. One particularly insistent person even reached in a few times to touch me, and walked around the car for one more attempt when I shifted myself out of reach.

Our group ate lunch at Sienna Café, a cosy place with a very international selection of food. We stuffed ourselves so much that for dinner, we managed to consume just a few meals ordered from Peter the Cat, along with a couple of leftovers. Once our afternoon meal was over, we headed back to the north of Central Kolkata. As a well-connected tea merchant, Sparsh had arranged for us to visit the J. Thomas and Company tea auction house (the building is also known as Nilhat house, the first of these words translating to “Blue Market” in reference to indigo, which was once traded on its premises).

Inside, we were shown the hall where bids used to be placed on tea. Since the pandemic, the process has moved online, but Sparsh and the auctioneer guiding us – Mr. Bose – said they were planning to reinstitute an annual auction as a special media event. We also visited the halls in which teas are tasted: they were set out in tins with four-number digits and arranged according to various criteria like origin and oxidisation. Finally, we were brought to the fancy rooms in which important guests are received; they were decorated with auction-related memorabilia like gavels, as well as the paraphernalia used to serve tea, such as a silver samovar.

I joined Sparsh and Jeanne on our journey back to the house, making a stop by Sparsh’s office. The contracts with his Shark Tank India investors had finally been finalised, and I just happened to be there to capture the moment on camera. It was quite exciting; knowing about all of my friend’s plans, it felt like being present for the birth of a chaebol.