St Patrick’s Day, Calcutta (Kolkata), 1997

Note, 17th March 2020

I originally posted this 4 years ago, but given the lack of St Patrick’s Day parades around the world, I was reminded of this day 23 years ago. I thought of the feeling of sitting in the Fairlawn Hotel, Calcutta (now Kolkata) with a badge on my shirt wondering what the hell I was doing on my own halfway across the world on such a day, and no-one to celebrate it with.

And I thought I’d share it with you – again, for those who read it 4 years ago, or for the first time, for those of you who didn’t.

Between 1996 and 1998 – when the city now called Kolkata was still called Calcutta – I spent some time travelling around the world. The piece below is taken from my journal, with a few slight edits for clarity.

Note: This was my 2nd time in Calcutta/Kolkata on this trip; this stay was only two nights because I was flying to Bangkok on Weds 19th, after 4 months in India and 2 months in Nepal. This isn’t a reflection of how I spent those months, honest – just a snapshot of these 2 days…

Fairlawn Hotel, Calcutta, 6pm Monday 17th March 1997

Paddy’s Day in Calcutta, all the same.

Starting yesterday: after lunch I went to the train station (in Varanasi) where, after varying amounts of humming, hawing, heckling, haggling, pleading, cajoling and complaining, I got a berth on the 430pm train to Calcutta. And here at about 8am this morning.

It took a while to get a room, but I did eventually – a little room on the roof of the Hotel Paragon (note that the fancier the hotel name, the, er, less fancy the hotel). I spent the day (in order): collecting poste restante, having coffee at the Great Eastern Hotel, looking in shops for souvenirs (found none), having an egg chicken roll for lunch, buying birthday cards for D and Granny, buying Time and Stardust magazines, having an ice cream lemonade float, going back to the hotel and reading the letters.

The letter from Mam had two Patrick’s Day badges. Put one on, and got a bit emotional because I had no-one to give the other one to.

And now I’ve got dressed up in my good shirt and I’m having a pre-dinner beer (pushing the boat out for the day that’s in it!) at the Fairlawn Hotel (very swanky!). Feels odd to be on my own on St Patrick’s Day in Calcutta – the most unlikely place in the whole world to celebrate it.

A guy across the table looks oddly familiar. A bloke with crazy eyes. Have a feeling I saw him in Udaipur or somewhere like that a month or two ago. Might head across to talk to him.

Hotel Paragon, Calcutta, 8.20am Tuesday 18th March 1997

I’m hungover.

Yesterday was Paddy’s Day and there was a parade and a party and I got far too drunk and I’ve got vague memories of being carried home and there’s a bottle of water here and half a bottle of Fanta and I’ve no idea how they got here. I can’t even write properly.

This slightly blurry photo is EXACTLY how I remember it.

 

Alcohol is evil.

Flury’s Cafe, Calcutta, 12.05pm Tuesday 18th March 1997

I’m still hungover. Not so bad now as earlier, but my stomach is doing very bad things to me. I probably shouldn’t be drinking an ice-cream lemonade float. I spent far too much money last night, and lost the whistle I bought in Varanasi. I need to sleep.

Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International Airport, 11.50am Wednesday 19th March 1997

So it turns out I had met that guy in Udaipur. I gave him the second badge my Mam had sent me for Paddy’s Day, and he bought me a beer. All very civilised.

Then, a Cork woman called Imelda appeared and said there’d be a parade, followed by a party. Which sounded cool!

I joined in the parade with lots of people, many of them volunteer workers from Ireland or the UK. The music was from the Salvation Army band, but the only Irish song they knew was “When Irish Eyes are Smiling” and they only knew the first two lines of that, which they played over and over again.

Some Indian kids paraded along with us too – I’ve never seen smiles quite like them – and I carried one on my shoulders for ages. It was great, but I got really hot and when it was over I got changed (out of my lovely fancy shirt) and bought a bottle of whiskey for the party.

Bad idea. I don’t think I drank that much, but by the end of the party I was asleep under a table. Apparently I missed a speech by the British Consul, who came to our little shindig sometime in the wee small hours. Got carried home (me, not the Consul), and the rest you know. Probably better than I do.

I’m still feeling a little unwell, but that serves me right, I suppose. Indian whiskey is a cruel, nasty invention. I think maybe Director’s Special is even viler than Thums Up cola.

I suppose the main thing I’ve learned is that St Patrick’s Day is everywhere, even in the most unlikely places. Everyone likes to have something to celebrate, and we like to give them an excuse, and it’s pretty great.

Never drinking Indian whiskey again, though, and I’ll strangle someone the next time I hear “When Irish Eyes are Smiling”.

Dublin, 2016: With a wife and 2 young kids, St Patrick’s Day these days is a lot tamer and more predictable. But it’s still a special day, and it’s nice to think that somewhere out there, in the most unlikely of places, there are kids who will never be in Ireland – maybe know next to nothing about it – that are dancing happily through the streets of a faraway city, celebrating the life of a Welshman, himself a slave as a child, who grew up to bring a form of enlightenment to a small island off the west coast of Europe.