Take a Bow, Barracks

Let’s play a game—what does the colour red remind you of? A pretty dress you once wore to the prom, perhaps? A cake you shared with your bestie? For me, red is a neighbourhood.?

I grew up in Calcutta (now, Kolkata) and lived there till I graduated college. Our house on College Street is not far from the Bow Barracks. Yet, I had never heard of it till I was in college, a neighbourhood which is a stone’s throw away from the school I attended for 14 years.??

The Bow Barracks are a cluster of neatly stacked four-storied buildings with red facades, primly poised along several lanes of a city block in central Kolkata. It is a lesson in diversity, and testament to Kolkata’s inclusiveness. The Barracks are home to the vestiges of the Anglo-Indian community that still call Kolkata home. Built in the colonial era to house soldiers of the British East India Company, once India gained independence, the Barracks were converted to residences for the Anglo-Indian community that was of mixed British and Indian heritage, and whose place in the newly emancipated country was still unsure. ?

So, what significance does this strange heritage of Kolkata hold in my life, so much so that it compelled me to tell its story? For it is the place that taught me to live life to the fullest, and to let live. ?

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In college, I met the Barrack boys—Francis, Leo, Mark, Emmanuel and Jason. Childhood friends, they grew up in the Barracks, attended the same school, were together in college, and members of a formidable dance troupe that picked up several accolades in the school fest circuit.?In midlife, they are still as thick as thieves.?

Francis, who is of mixed Chinese parentage, is more Bengali in every way than I am; he was already a star by the time he joined college. He sang soulfully and won every school fest contest there was to win in Kolkata. Leo, of Chinese parentage too, was shy and could shake a leg like none other. Mark’s family had migrated from Goa; he played the guitar and was studious. Emmanual and Jason were of Anglo-Indian parentage—the former played hockey and the latter was the goofball glue of the group.?

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Up until the time we met the Barrack boys, we Bengali girls had not yet been invited to any after-hours party that included members of the male gender. We had not been invited to any party, for that matter, ever since we joined college. So, when Jason did invite us over with a casual “Hey, there’s a party at my place next Friday; come over,” we didn’t know what to say.?

To begin with, it was a party for no apparent reason; the casual tone of the invite and the party itself threw us off. Was there really going to BE a party? We had only ever attended birthday bashes before—straightforward affairs at restaurants where one indulged in a feast, handed over gifts, and got dropped home. What did a just-for-the-sake-of-it party look like??

When we announced at home that we were invited to a party at the Bow Barracks, I don’t recall the reaction being entirely positive. ?A cocktail of questions, with a dollop of suspicion,?was served up—”The party is INSIDE the Barracks?” ”Whose birthday?” “Nobody’s birthday? What kind of party is this?” “Who else is going to be there?” “There are going to be boys there? Which boys?” We had to convince each other’s moms, dig into our meagre closets, fish out the shortest hemlines we could find, and prep for this no-agenda merry-making with mixed feelings. ?

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On the eve that we set foot in the Barracks for the first time, it wasn’t a straightforward find. This was a time that preceded cell phones or satellite maps. We had memorized the instructions Jason had provided. After a couple of wrong turns, we reached the first lane of the Barracks, dimly lit by the tungsten-bulbed streetlamps. Our shadows stretched and contracted as we hurried along towards Jason’s house. ?

The first thing that hit our senses upon reaching the Bow Barracks was the smell of the place. While it wore the ubiquitous mossy fragrance that pervades the old city, it bore a strong middle note of vinegar and an even stronger meaty top note. It was heady, starkly different from the fishy whiff of Bengali paras, and drew us in. Music from stereo systems descended upon us from lit upstairs windows—a waltz here, an Elvis there, The Ronettes from a higher window. Time stood still in this place, like an unrelenting ghost of the past—in its fragrance, in its mysterious light-shadow play, in its sound. And, also in its people, as we would soon find out. ?

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Jason’s house was the first building to the left as we turned a bend. We trooped up an old wooden staircase with a green balustrade to the top floor from where 90’s music beckoned to us like the Pied Piper. We approached Jason’s door in a trance. Inside, the party was in full swing. It awed us and filled us with instant joy. ?

Patti samosas, pantaras and soft drinks were flowing free. Jason was the perfect DJ. He modulated the sound and masterfully swung about the mood of the party at will. We were mere marionettes. For the first time, we were dancing without inhibition in a safe space, not fueled by alcohol or cigarettes. Right in that moment, we danced with strangers and became lifelong friends. Members of Jason’s family wove in and out of the fun, something we had not seen our own parents do. I had my first slow dance with a boy at this party. I was feeling that feel, till something entirely unbelievable happened.?

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Calcuttans love to party; they know how to enjoy life. But the lovely people of the Barracks just take the joie de vivre notches higher. As the night wore on in gaiety, the party descended to the street below. Residents of all ages poured out of their homes; the night kept getting younger and the music louder. Nobody complained to the police about the decibels, about the shouts and the whoops. ?

We learnt a new language that night—one spoken in the Barracks, distinctively different from ours, part pidgin and part a sort of openness and inclusiveness as we had never seen before. The Chinese boys were there, and the Anglo aunties, the Goan uncles, the Parsi boys, the Bengali girls, and even a few Marwaris. And, when everyone spoke and cheered and sang along in one voice, it was the language of Red—of life itself. ?

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Pro tip: If you happen to visit Calcutta (okay fine...Kolkata) do put the Bow Barracks on your agenda. Christmas is the best time to visit; you will be treated to the biggest bash in town, on the streets. Unforgettable memories are guaranteed.

? Sumanaguharay.com?