Kolkata: The Rise, the Fall, and the Lingering Betrayal of a Once-Great City

Kolkata, once the nerve center of British India, a city that brimmed with ideas, commerce, and the very essence of modernity, now stands as a cautionary tale—a monument to the dangers of resting on past laurels. My family’s journey from the flood-prone fields of Ballia, Uttar Pradesh, to Kolkata was more than just an escape; it was a leap into what was then the capital of culture, opportunity, and dreams. Back in the early 20th century, Kolkata wasn’t just another city; it was a beacon of ambition, the land where India’s brightest minds collided, creating a symphony of ideas, trade, and power.

Kolkata’s streets were paved with the grand aspirations of an empire. From the shimmering halls of the Standard Chartered Bank, once the second most prominent financial hub in Asia after Tokyo, to the lively debates at Coffee House, the city thrived on its economic might. It was the heart of India’s intellectual and commercial pulse. My family, like many other migrants, became part of this evolving tapestry, contributing through hard work, taxes, and a willingness to embrace the city’s cosmopolitan ethos while holding on to our roots.

My grandparents, who bore witness to Kolkata’s transformation, are no more, save for my youngest dadi. Yet, much like the city itself, she has lost her memory, unable to recall the days when Kolkata stood tall and proud. Her fading memories starkly reflect the city's abandoned grandeur, as if both are relentlessly haunted by the ghosts of what once was.

Many pinpoint Kolkata’s downfall to the British decision in 1912 to shift the administrative capital to Delhi—a masterstroke of imperial strategy that some say was the first nail in the city’s coffin. Or was it? My grandfather witnessed firsthand how the British baton passed seamlessly into the hands of the elite Bhadralok, Kolkata’s self-anointed intellectual aristocracy. They swaggered into power with eloquent speeches and lofty ideals but displayed an astonishing blindness to economic pragmatism. The city stumbled from one political mishap to another, weathering multiple President’s Rules, skillfully honing its disdain for leaders from the Hindi heartland, as if such rivalries would substitute for governance.

Then came 1977, and with it, the grand promises of the Bengali Communists, who took charge with the flair of revolutionaries determined to usher in a proletarian paradise. Yet, their much-touted new dawn quickly turned into a suffocating fog of red tape and regressive policies. For 34 years, they wielded power like a blunt instrument, rejecting industrial progress as if it were a bourgeois plague. Under their watch, Kolkata didn’t just slow down; it fossilized, morphing into a museum of faded glories. Businesses fled, industries withered, and the once-thriving city was left to rot in its own nostalgia, stuck in a permanent rerun of yesterday’s triumphs.

By the 1980s, Kolkata had become more adept at organizing strikes than producing steel—a city where labor unrest was the only industry showing any real growth. While other cities were catching the IT wave, transforming themselves into global tech hubs, we in Kolkata were locked in endless debates about ideology, as if Marx himself might suddenly rise from his grave to offer a bailout. The statistics tell a grim tale: between 1977 and 2011, the city experienced a staggering 60% decline in major industries, with thousands of factories shuttering their doors. Unemployment soared, but instead of adapting, Kolkata clung to its Marxist doctrines with the tenacity of a sinking ship clutching its anchor.

As India’s economy liberalized in the 1990s, cities like Bengaluru and Hyderabad sprinted ahead, embracing the new opportunities. But Kolkata, ever the stubborn idealist, chose to stay behind, muttering Marxist mantras while its GDP growth limped along at a meager pace. By 2023, Kolkata’s GDP growth rate had barely reached 6%, a distant third behind Bengaluru’s robust 9.5% and Hyderabad’s 8.2%. Once a powerhouse of industry and culture, Kolkata now contributes a paltry 3% to India’s overall economic output, its influence reduced to a historical footnote, clinging to its faded legacy while the rest of the nation moves forward.

For my family, these figures weren’t mere statistics; they were lived horrors. My father, Barmeshwar Nath Tiwary, a stalwart figure in the business community as the General Secretary of the iconic Chowrangee Traders Association, was a dedicated man of integrity and diligence. He had dedicated himself to making the most of Kolkata’s left trading opportunities, pouring his heart and soul into the city’s commercial lifeblood. But Kolkata’s gratitude came in the form of a brutal assault that nearly cost him his life, plunging him into a coma for an entire year. He couldn't ever recover completely.

As a fifth-grader, I witnessed firsthand how political violence had become the city’s grim language of trade and the supposed welfare of hawkers. This violence didn’t just leave physical scars; it permanently altered his health and our family’s relationship with Kolkata. Once a respected leader of the traders, my father’s incapacitation led to Chowrangee’s swift descent into chaos. The area, once a thriving center of commerce, fell prey to hawkers and goons who claimed every pavement as their own, turning what was once a bustling marketplace into a battleground of disorder and extortion.

Our family’s livelihood teetered on the brink. We survived on our savings, clutching desperately to the remnants of a city that had promised so much but delivered so little in return. Kolkata’s repayment for our years of hard work and contribution was a cold reminder of its descent into lawlessness and decay—a city that took from us without ever giving back, where disorder became the new normal and memories of better times faded into the shadows of an unforgiving reality.

Eventually, I too found myself compelled to leave. Unlike my great-grandfather, who fled from the natural floods that ravaged our ancestral lands, I was escaping a different kind of deluge—one of violence, lawlessness, and a city whose streets had turned hostile and inhospitable. Kolkata, once a beacon of promise and opportunity, had become a battleground of its own making, where the charm and potential of the past had been swept away by waves of disorder. My departure was not merely an economic necessity; it was a bitter acknowledgment of the city’s betrayal, a place that had once welcomed me but had transformed into a treacherous landscape where hope had dissolved into disillusionment, and where the promise of a brighter future had been eclipsed by the shadows of its own failures.

Walking through Dalhousie Square today feels like a journey through a forgotten empire. The grand entrance of the Standard Chartered Bank, once a symbol of prosperity, now stands draped in cheap banners and tangled wires. It’s a stark visual metaphor for Kolkata’s decline—a city that once traded with the world is now reduced to a shadow of itself. The art, culture, and intellectual pursuits that once defined Kolkata are struggling to survive in a landscape of economic neglect. College Street, the city’s intellectual heart, feels like a relic, hanging on as if unaware that the world around it has moved on.

Kolkata’s decline reads like a tragicomic farce, a city once revered for its cultural and economic dynamism now limping along under the weight of nostalgia and ineffective leadership. The city’s infrastructure is deteriorating, with crumbling roads and dilapidated buildings that serve as grim reminders of a bygone era. Economically, Kolkata has stagnated; the growth rate lags behind other major cities, and unemployment remains stubbornly high.

Current political reality paints a grim picture: goons and political operatives have established their dominance, with party offices and tea shops doubling as centers of power and influence on nearly every corner. The syndicate economy is a parallel system that thrives on violence, controlling local businesses and markets through connections and muscle. It’s a system where extortion and corruption thrive, feeding off the city’s vulnerability and contributing to its economic malaise.

Yet, amid this landscape of decay, there’s a bittersweet irony. Every household still eagerly anticipates the annual Pujo celebrations, a time when the city’s youth return home, momentarily escaping the daily grind of disillusionment. Kolkata remains a place where dreams are pursued with fervor, even as they are often betrayed.

The stories of my grandparents, my father, and my own journey encapsulate this broader narrative: one of squandered potential, unfulfilled promises, and a once-great metropolis now mired in its ruins. Kolkata, despite its flaws, still clings to hope, as if waiting for a revival that feels both inevitable and impossibly distant. It is a city where history weighs heavily, where every corner and every building tells a story of what was and what might have been.