The Fateful First Landing
Smoke, skulls, thundarous noise, and a prophecy
Calcutta, 1991
My first journey to India started in 1992, arriving to Calcutta by plane from Bangkok. I had been warned that Calcutta was one of the dirtiest and hardest cities to visit, but I liked catching bulls by the horns and landed on the evening of a hot November day.
In the airport, the line of foreigners in front of the passport control table just didn’t seem to move. I was tired, and I knew that my small dog Afrika needed to pee. I waited, and waited, then edged my way in. A computerized system had just been installed, but officials didn’t know how to use it. I moved sideways over the table, observed them fumbling with the Fkeys, and offered my help.
I ended up entering all of the travelers’ passport information into the database, while teaching the officials how to do it. They were happy about it, moving their heads from side to side with a great smile of their face.
“Thank you, madam!” they repeated, apparently unembarrassed by their lack of knowledge. I knew then that I was going to love India a great deal.
A veil of smoke hung over the bag collection area, and people moved through it creating wisps and whirls. Had a fire erupted somewhere?
I collected my rucksack, put it on a trolley, and let Afrika come out of her bag and sit on top of the pile. Having already visited eighteen counties she was a savvy and fearless traveler, but that day she looked worried, her ears kept low in alarm.
Outside, the smoke was so thick I decided it was a fog, humid and smelling of sewage. Taxi touts emerged from it trying to grab my attention, and I eventually followed a turbaned, mustachioed man who had a reassuring smile. He led me to his Ambassador car, and I sat in front, Afrika leaning out the window trying to understand in which country we had landed.
The driver donned some glasses kept together by sticky tape, blew an old brass horn attached to his rear-view mirror, and set off in a faltering way, the car moving up and down every time he hit the brakes as if kitted with hydraulic suspensions. It was a bit like riding a camel, the car rocking gently then abruptly, never coming to a complete halt.
Streetlights and the oncoming traffic lit the fog in patches, creating weird shadows around those moving through it: lonely cows, tribes of goats, packs of dogs, scuttering pigs, painted elephants, dazed wonderers whose faces were painted with weird red marks, and the agitated crowds following in procession a variety of floats mounted on cycle rickshaws, bullock carts, and horse-drawn wagons.
On top were elaborate baldachins sheltering either somber-looking children and adults dressed in an extravagant fashion, their necks heavy with marigold garlands, or what looked like statues of deities, including a wild woman with a bloodied tongue and a necklace of skulls. Temporary shrines had been set up to house some of the statues, lit with a myriad line of bright lightbulbs. Real women danced in front of the statues holding pots full of incense, their smoke dissipating in the fog. There were also fireplaces, burning bright red in the haze, and people lighting firecrackers, which exploded in large bangs amid a thick cloud of smoke. Could the fog be the cumulative effect of all the fires, firecrackers, and incense?
The noise level was high and cacophonous, somewhat muffled by the smoke. Marching liveried bands playing loud drums and cymbals, music blaring from funnel megaphones tied to lamppost and shrine poles, exploding firecrackers, people screaming slogans, women chanting repetitive songs.
Afrika jolted at the bangs, but was too intrigued to hide by my feet. Her paws on the windowsill, her head moving to follow some passing figure, I could see she was as bewildered as me.
Meanwhile, the driver was asking me a great deal of private questions, as if compiling some kind of survey. When he realized it was my first time in India, his suave voice started purring with excitement.
“But Madam, today if the Kali Festival, the most auspicious day for you to land in our beloved land. You are so lucky!”I didn’t understand. He swerved the wobbling taxi to pass near a large, multi-handed blue statue of that wild woman apparently thirsty for blood. “See?” he asked, leaning towards her. “Her name is Kali, and she is more fierce than any other god. She will happily slay any demon… if she is protecting you, you need not fear!”
What a great omen, it made me gave me the chills.
“She is blessing your arrival,” he continued, “No coincidence you came today.”
He dropped me in front of the Salvation Army in Sudder Street, so thick with smoke I could hardly see the building.
“You are most lucky,” he repeated while handing me the bag. “Your journey has been blessed, no need to fear.” His prophecy came true. I travelled India for six months, and I was never robbed or had an accident. I’ve been coming back ever since, and I still feel somewhat protected.
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