If it's Christmas, it must be Calcutta

Kolkata: At clubs and hotels, homes and societies, folks in Calcutta gear up to celebrate the Christmas season. Not necessarily as a prerogative of original faith, but as a demonstration of goodwill. An act of civilization, amongst other engaging virtues.

Truthfully, the panache of the occidental establishments is easily fathomable. The legacy of the past masters, departed since 1947, still haunts the souls of significant vassals, a bond forged by language and culture. In spite of diminishing bawarchis and enhanced Hindustani vibes, a spiritual allegiance is still intact. A business model cloaked in a wishful purpose, that of legacy continuity.

Bengal Club is prepping the hapless turkeys, no chance of a presidential pardon in these ruthless climes. Tollygunge Club insists on a soulful ambience, the honey-glazed ham a delightful coverage, "kobiraji" if you may. Calcutta Club has inclusiveness in its genes and thus a liberal take on viceregal tradition.

Saturday Club chooses nonchalantly to offer seasonal à la carte, the excesses of the previous night in valuable consideration. In each and every location, the crooner is standard issue, the festive livery a cheesy accompanist to Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. Of late, deeply welcoming of Disco Bhangra, as a naturalized citizen and not a trespasser.

This bonhomie is addictive, and local bakery Mio Amore has declared open "Shara Mash Christmas," a month-long promo offer that reeks of both rhyme and reason. Bapuji cakes, of rooted soil and ethnic pedigree, can well be the common man's preferred partner. As must Saldanha and Baruah bakeries, diverse traditions finding a common baking ground. Arsalan, the institutionalized slayers of goats for basmati integration, is pitching for the business of the day, through FM radio. While Flury's acts like a brazen imperialist, unleashing overpriced pretty-looking petits fours to a greedy eatocracy. Driven by perceptions of grandeur, Ray's Jalsaghar of the Park Street smorgasbord.

Park Street and its Dr. Watson, Allen Park, consume much of pop culture sensibilities. In the aforementioned park, a structured festival does occur, with rampaging music and greasy momos, and may the twain sincerely thrive. The mobile phones are in selfless selfie mode, including all and sundry in photo bombing with abundant aplomb. Kusum plays a valuable role, supplying grease in the guise of Kathi rolls, a pleasing lubricant on chilly evenings. Starbucks is in High Street attendance as well, the much-acclaimed Third Place often wondering what it's doing here in the first place. Profits must make sense, but the legacy must equally be answerable. For this is the playing field of Arathoon Stephen and J.C. Galstaun, Armenians who shaped the city and not just Americans who wish to make the most of here and now.

But the magic of Park Street resides in the uncontrollable, the rampaging crowds who operate in revolution mode. At moments closer to midnight, it resembles the Death March of Bataan, a World War II carnage of Americans by the Japanese, defying the Geneva Convention. In the mellower mornings, the Charge of the Light Brigade is a tongue-in-cheek analogy. Restaurants, and not cannons, to the right and left of them, and logically, to the front and back of them as well.

The restaurants, for the most part, have seen better days. Trincas and Flury's insist on sub-optimal fare, with aged beckti and tired roasts ruling the roost. Prices, though, belong to modern times. Charlie Chaplin would surely have been amused by the dichotomy. Mocambo, though, does an angelic Devilled Crab while Peter Cat's Cello Kebab is a melody of intrigues. Others qualify for occupational tenancy, but in the battle for the greedy mind, there can be no clear winners.

Perhaps the greatest testimony to the universality of the festival is the Maidan, the large open space which houses the Victoria Memorial, army facilities, and every possible sporting association. For no particular reason, except perhaps a tradition of convergence and convergence of tradition, the city chooses to occupy the vast fields, in a reverse coup of sorts.

Balloons are in flighty abundance, ponies and their caregivers very keen to take all for a ride, pav bhaji and candy floss engaged in blissful matrimony, and a cacophony of chaotic flutes offer helicopter sensorial cover. Everyone wears a Santa hat and has a jolly good time, a public party that rises above religion and political parties.

The churches of the city pursue their own traditional services, welcoming not just believers but visitors as well. At Christian homes, families converge to celebrate in private, as is the global norm. A community renowned for its service to education and public service brilliantly balances the insider-outsider contradictions. Belief begins and stays at home while the universe shares the magic. The multicolored Christmas tree is a leveler across every faith, a lovable mnemonic scalable across means and desire.

It will be a cliché to reiterate the inclusive magnanimity of Calcutta in a world where exclusive division is the unhappy norm. But unlike most clichés, this one is worth repeating. Come to Calcutta for the Christmas season, and you will surely keep coming.