You are invited to the Calcutta Season

New Delhi: If it’s December, it must be the Calcutta Season. A month or two of sincere frolic that is a celebration of life and love. A legacy, most certainly, but an obsession, more precisely. 

The tidings begin with the onset of the cooler winds, with aromas of bliss that provoke every imagination. We are persuaded, by dint of a heavenly force, to embrace the seduction of celebrations. We are compelled, by other-wordly judicial decree, to shed every semblance of prejudice and exclusion. Quite like a gigantic ocean liner, there is room for every soul who dares to travel on the high seas, that of civilization. 

Quite predictably, Park Street is a faithful hub, for every form of bonhomie. The lighting is fierce yet subtle, a constant reminder of a bustling invitation. While the restaurants, on both sides, delve deeply into the past to present a slice of the present. Trincas thrives on the music of the ages, Mocambo seeks sainthood with the Devilled Crabs, Barbeque succeeds smartly in building bridges with China, Peter Cat replicates the timeless Chelo Kebab, Olypub is suitably French with the Chateaubriand Steak and Kusum Rolls insists on keeping the cardiac fraternity in thriving business.

While Park Hotel is relentless in being a high-decibel hub and Flury’s, ahem, does brisk business with the air cover of nostalgia. A fine bit of rascalry is necessary to make a road into a street and Park Street has enough and more of what it takes. 

Equally logically, the clubs must stake their claim on the city’s pious party heritage. The signature events occur in the final week, kicked off by XMas Eve, and enjoy a crescendo on the first day of the following year. Tolly milks its ample premises by serving a gigantic spread, RCGC diligently attempts an encore, Bengal Club retains its occidental ebullience, Calcutta Club is taciturn as ever, Saturday Club efficiently packs the event calendar and every other entity does a respectable show-up.

Then there are the minor, yet major, singing events that occur throughout this week, escalated spiritually by monks old and new. The LCM is invariably the HCF, the commonality being an eclectic uncommonness for gaiety. 

But the most affectionate hub for every form of entertainment is the Maidan, an unending arena for human indulgence. It still belongs to the Armed Forces, ever since the Mahratta Invasion, but belies every conception of armament as we know it. For it is a magnanimous unifier, courtesy the ambient ponies and the generous candy floss.

Unified by a magnificent view of the Victoria Memorial, unless thwarted by the charms of an imposing companion. The buggies are definingly ornate and in tune with the indulgent demands of yet another era, any which way you like it. 

As the year turned to the next, the fullness of the cultural mores became even more apparent. For it was soon going to be time for the Dover Lane Music Conference, the finest ensemble of classical musicians South of the Suez. For the longest time hosted at the spartan yet eclectic Vivekananda Park, it moved to the more ample Nazrul Manch, remaining the gold standard for audience appreciation.

There were many accomplished peers, still intact, including Uttarpara, Ballygunge, Ramakrishna Mission and ITC who hosted such enriched forums. Something about the winter air made the sound rather ethereal, quite like the crunchiness of the Fried Beckti that circumscribed every such occasion. 

There are certain side actors in this period, with remarkable potency and admirable resilience. For starters, the great weddings, as most sane locals select the opportunity of being married in the welcoming winter and not the sulking summers. The caterers of the city and indeed, the florists, are abundant in their appreciation.

English Fish Fry from Bijoli Grill is in Tendulkar mode, the Mutton Biryani from Ananda Caterers has more flesh than carbs, Amber is vehement about Punjabi traditions while the new age aspirants are compelled to match form with content, the former never adequate in these discerning climes. Then there are the five star hotels, from ITC to Tatas to Marriott, striving nervously to unleash meaning to a taskmaster clientele. Oberoi Grand smiles on knowingly, having been there and still doing that. 

As an additional adhesive to such festivities, there is a largesse of candidates. Emerging cafes of the city, each boasting of a fervent desire for character and belonging. Pubs that deliver on live music, seeking the blessings of sensibilities old and new. Voluntary organisations that attempt endearingly to attract the purse strings of the well endowed, in tune with the benevolence of the season.

Movies that seek similar favours, of indulgent emotions that must lead to multiplex visitations. Pop-Ups prevail in the digestive roll calls, a penchant for experimentation being the abiding stock in trade. Everybody smells a party and the game is suitably upped. Not just for humans but for horses as well, as the Royal Calcutta Turf Club is at its finest, with Derbies appearing at prolific pace. 

The epicentre of this beautiful game, not just great, is undeniably the city of Calcutta, a past master for centuries. It revels in the beauty of community while evoking the graces of humanity. Inclusion, as deservedly feted, is not a matter of choice but a licence of liberty. Liberty, in its highest possible form, is the non-perishable acknowledgement of co-creation. Not just of the world as we know it but of the universe as we believe it. 

For those in the city, the season is a routine emotion. For those not in the vicinity, it remains an unabashed invitation. Calcutta is an irresistible addiction, the only hangover is the insistence on encores. Everybody is invited, so what exactly are you waiting for?