I wasn’t born in Kolkata, but I grew up there. My memories are deeply tied to Baranagar in the 1960s — a place where the city ended, and a different world began. The boundary was Kashinath Dutta Road. On its southern side lay the "urban," and on our northern side, the "mofussil" began. Their taps gushed water; we drew ours from wells. There, visiting a neighbor required permission; here, it was as fluid as crossing a doorway. Perhaps these are mere impressions of a child, but impressions are as real as reality when it comes to memory. As I said, a city doesn’t speak in the same voice to everyone or remain the same across time.
I vividly recall wandering through the winding lanes that led to the Ganga. Those streets felt like passages through history. The Dutch Kuthi — a house that boldly announced its colonial lineage — stood as a silent witness to our daily adventures. The adjacent Kuthi Ghat hummed with life as boats carrying "khod" (straw) and earthenware rings for well-fortification anchored there. We, as children, would steal small bundles of straw to make "neda" for dole (Holi). The burnt ash from the neda had a special role in the colorful mischief of dole. Adults watched with indulgent smiles, and even the police, stationed at the old colonial-style thana overlooking the ghat, watched us with amused detachment. They must have done the same as children. Today, however, such antics would probably invite POCSO charges, a stark reminder of how much the world has changed.
Do children still do this today? Probably not. And honestly, we never asked about the origins of the Dutch Kuthi. It was just there — a part of us, but not of us. I have no idea if the building still stands. If it does, I doubt it speaks the same language it did to us. It can't. The boats are gone, the thana has moved, and the culture that enveloped it all has become a memory. As Ramakrishna, who once walked these very streets and enjoyed telebhaja from the same shop like us, has now been placed within the glass case of history.
Devasis Chattopadhyay's Harry Hobbs of Kolkata and Other Forgotten Lives stirred all these thoughts in me. Reading about the ship Tuscany bringing ice from America to Kolkata in the 19th century — and the flurry of excitement it caused among the sahibs — strangely reminded me of those stolen straw bundles and neda fires. The parallels between the colonial era and my own childhood experiences weren’t logical, but they were deeply felt.
To claim that we can relate to the world of 18th- and 19th-century Bengal as if it were our own would be a stretch. But reading about Shakespeare’s kin residing in Kolkata — and learning about their relationships, exploits, and legacy — evokes a certain intimacy with that world. Facts on their own remain cold and distant, but Chattopadhyay imbues them with warmth and life, creating an emotional bridge to a time long past.
And that, to me, is the book’s greatest triumph. It connects me to my city. It reminds me of a social media post I read recently. A visitor from Delhi remarked, "I have fallen in love with Kolkata. Unlike my city, Delhi, which I love, that asks me what I can give to it, Kolkata merely gives unasked." The observation felt profound. But is Kolkata one city? No. Each of its streets carries its own identity, its own micro-culture. There is a broad cultural tapestry that defines Kolkata as a whole, but its streets and neighborhoods tell distinctly personal stories.
Take the babus of Kolkata. While their families lived in the main city, their revelries took them to the North. Imagine Michael Madhusudan Dutta, that celebrated poet, singing Dave Carson’s Bengali Babu at home. For context, Dave Carson was a popular comic figure, preserved in books most of us haven’t read but brought vividly to life by Chattopadhyay. Without Chattopadhyay’s storytelling, Carson’s spoofs of the Bengali babus might have been little more than a historical footnote. But by linking it to Madhusudan Dutta and how he loved to sing Bengali Babu´ Chattopadhyay breathes life into a cultural relic, making it feel as tangible as the Dutch Kuthi did to me as a child.
And this is where Chattopadhyay's magic lies. After reading Harry Hobbs of Kolkata and Other Forgotten Lives, you will no longer walk past old buildings the same way. They will speak to you. Their silence will crack. Just as the Dutch Kuthi once whispered secrets to a child in the sixties, so too will the forgotten lives in Chattopadhyay's book whisper to you.
Kudos, Mr. Chattopadhyay, for reminding us that no two people experience a city in the same way, and no two eras view its streets with the same eyes. You’ve made us hear voices long buried, and perhaps, if we listen closely, they will still have something to say.
Published by Paper Missile: An imprint of Niyogi Books
