Kolkata

I'm in Kolkata, the center of the counter-culture intelligensia of India. The city alternates (like Barcelona, like Rome) between narrow, richly dilapidated alleys filled with primitive imagery of an antequated moment of Indian history, and glass-faced corporate buildings that loom over wide, yellow-cab-choked streets.

There is a deep, deep relationship with New York City and I feel it in the energy screaming thru these streets from the moment I first arrived. The familiarity of a certain amount of tolerance of everyone; of hordes of eunichs (half men half women castrated early doomed to wear Saris for the rest of their lives working as prostitutes, beggars and witches, haunting train stations and red light districts all over India) are totally ignored, even smiled at, even spoken to, like real human beings. Bookshops line the streets -- not just any, mind you -- real, live, English bookshops filled with fascinating books, old and new. I see copies of Kipling's The Jungle Book everywhere -- how perfect.

"America, I've given you all, and now I'm nothing. America, two dollars and twenty-seven cents, January 17, 1956. I can't stand my own mind." came on our Indian friend's computer at a random interval in the evening and I was struck, stopped, captivated. I sat weeping next to his computer for the duration of two revolutions of the poem. Ginsberg spent a great deal of time in Kolkata and is now held up, regarded as the leader of the Left, his poetry the boiling point, the historical antithesis of everything Raj, of everything collonial, of everything oppressive, intimidating, destructive.

Homosexuality is flourishing here, where in every other major metropolis it is still unspoken, silent, pervasive. Gays are regarded with a respectful disinterest. The clubs are open, the bars are wet, I've not yet arrived.

Kolkata is the center of the Durga Puja, the largest festival and religious celebration in India -- Kolkata boasts the largest and most elaborate festivities. Each village, in fact, each block, really, constructs, by hand, massive Pandels. They are architectural temple structures made from traditional wood scaffolding tied together with rope in massive grids, covered with canvas, painted inside and out, and decorated with intricately carved styrofoam freizes, corrogated cardboard silhouettes, electric lights, fans music, floors. All to worship the great, ten-armed Mother Goddess Durga astride her mount Tiger, who is always depicted slaying a demon who rides a Buffalo. She is flanked by her consort of children: Ganesh, the Elephant-headed god of luck, Laxmi, the Owl-riding goddess of wealth, Saraswati, sitar-holding goddess of music, art, wisdom, education, and one other tiny god named Kurta or something whose purpose I can't remember.

The spaces are completely immersive, decorated with twenty-foot tall, three-walls long digital prints (!?) or various kinds of light, fabric, sculptures (!?) made out of styrofoam (!!?). They're like a vastly more important Christmas display, and instead of being in department stores made by Spaeth Design, they're made and paid for by the local community. So at night throughout the 5 day festival everyone "Pandel-hops" from one to the next, the equivalent of Christmas shopping.