It was mid-afternoon on the day before New Year’s. I had been idly ensconced for two months in a coconut wood, palm-thatched bungalow along the shores of an island in the Gulf of Siam. For some peculiar reason I woke up one morning thinking it would be an interesting experience to spend New Year’s Eve in Calcutta. I’d never been there before…only heard that it was, quite possibly, the most ghastly city on this planet. ‘The asshole of the world’ as somebody had so graphically described it to me. Perhaps I figured that if I woke up on January 1st in a place like that then the rest of the year could only get better.
Anyway, my plane had touched down at Dum Dum International and by 2:00 P.M. I had checked into the Lytton Hotel on Sudder Street which is only two blocks from Calcutta’s main park known as ‘The Maiden’. After tossing my bag on the bed, I stepped out of the hotel and started walking. Strangely enough, Calcutta is a pretty good city to walk. It was only accidental that I found myself strolling down Park Street. It’s one of the major thoroughfares and rather swank by Calcutta’s standards…nice hotels, shops, restaurants, etc. and then, there was the cemetery. I’ve always been drawn to cemeteries. Morbid, uh? I especially like the older ones and the South Park Street Cemetery is pretty damn old.
I meandered about for a while reading what were often quite poignant testimonials inscribed on the tombs. The only other person around was a young, dark-skinned Indian fellow who looked to be about thirty years old. He approached me and we started talking. Seemed like a very pleasant character…asked me where I was from, how long I’d been in Calcutta, was I on holiday, etc. He explained that he was at the cemetery to visit his mother’s grave…said she died a couple of weeks ago. I expressed my condolences which he acknowledged gratefully and then he asked me what my plans were for the evening. I told him I didn’t have any. The rest of our conversation went something along these lines…
“May I assume that you have heard of Mother Teresa?”
I replied that he could assume that and in doing so he would be correct.
“Well,” said he, “it just so happens that tonight there is going to be a benefit concert held in her honor.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir, quite really. It is going to be a very special event. Big signs have been all over the city about it. You say you arrived this afternoon?”
“Just a couple of hours ago. I didn’t see those signs.”
Pause.
“Simple to explain why, sir. The concert is being already sold out so the signs are gone. They have been taken done.”
I remember being rather impressed that a vast and chaotic municipality such as Calcutta would be capable of such efficiency.
“Have you heard of Ravi Shankar, sir?”
“The Indian sitar player?”
“That’s him.”
“Of course I’ve heard of him. He’s quite famous world wide.”
“Even in Chicago?”
“Even that world wide, yes,” I said.
“And George Harrison…have you heard of him?”
“You mean, George Harrison the Beatle?”
“Exactly.”
“Yes, I vaguely recall hearing his name while a teenager in the 1960’s. Why?”
“Why I am asking is because both Ravi Shankar and George Harrison will be playing at the concert tonight.”
“Wow!”
“Would you be liking to go?”
“Well that might be fun, yes. But you said the concert was sold out…no more tickets.”
“Not to worry yourself, sir. It just so happens that I work for Mother Teresa and I’m feeling this is maybe your lucky day.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, sir. If you would like we go now to special place where might have extra ticket…place I know where Mother Teresa nuns live. They know me…think very sure they have extra one or two ticket. What you think? You want we go and I ask?”
And so off we went.
After twenty minutes of dodging crazed motorists, sidetracking bedeviled beggars and leaping over various fetid sinkholes we came to a halt across a busy street from a gray colored two storey building with a sign above the portal that read ‘Convent of the Sisters of Mercy’.
My benefactor instructed me to remain where I was while he visited his friends at the convent to see if there were any tickets still available. He said he’d be back with me in five minutes and, by God, he was. I could see the smile on his face clear across the street.
“Oh sir,” he gushed, “this is being a very lucky day for you, indeed. The holy Sisters have two tickets left for the concert. One is costing for you special price of ten dollars and other is costing twenty-five dollars.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“The difference? Ah, let me see…oh yes, the difference is fifteen dollars.”
It’s unfortunate but true that your typical Thai would not have managed that mathematical degree of difficulty without a calculator. I’ve always found Indians to be, if not inherently more intelligent, then at least much better educated. After all, they did invent the ‘Zero’.
“What I meant,” said I, “is why is there a difference in the cost?”
“Oh, very sorry. I misunderstand. Here is why…ten dollar ticket is for seat with general audience and twenty-five dollar ticket is for VIP seat. Please allow me to explain…VIP seat is sitting with Mother Teresa…perhaps even next to her. Also, with VIP ticket you have honor of meeting Ravi Shankar and George Harrison at very special private party after the concert…free good food and whiskey too. I think you like that very much but, never mind, ten dollar ticket is also being nice for you. Twenty-five dollars, I know, is a lot of money.”
I mulled it over for a moment and figured, what the hell? Chance of a lifetime and all that sort of thing.
“Tell you what, my friend,” I said, reaching into my pocket, “here’s twenty-five dollars. I’ll take the VIP ticket.”
“Oh excellent, sir! Now, just like before, you please wait for me right here. Five minutes from now I am being back with your VIP ticket.”
Smiling broadly, he darted across the street, disappeared through the front door of the convent and, to this day, I have never seen him again.
I waited around for twenty minutes or so feeling more and more like a chump and headed back the way we’d come. Then I got lost for awhile. The fading light of dusk was beginning to shroud the city as I re-entered the South Park Street Cemetery. An elderly white man sat on a stone bench just inside the gate.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “The cemetery will be closing shortly. May I be of assistance?”
“Evening. You work here?”
“Oh, I don’t exactly do much work. I’m too old for that now. It’s more a matter of overseeing work. I rather superintend the maintenance of this cemetery. A sort of historical heritage foundation in London provides funds to see that the place doesn’t go entirely to ruin. I’m in their employment…having been for quite a few years. There’s a great deal of history about these hallowed grounds. This your first visit?”
“Not exactly. I was here a couple of hours ago.”
“Oh? You forget something?”
“No. I met a young man here. He took me away on a bit of a lark. Rather amusing as I think about it now.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. It’s my first day in Calcutta…just arrived early this afternoon. Checked into a hotel on Sudder Street and started walking. Came upon this place and decided to stroll around inside. Old cemeteries fascinate me.”
“Oh, good for you. They fascinate me, as well. Such soulful stories these old stones have to tell. A veritable pathos seems to pulsate through some of them. Please…sit down with me. I’d like to hear your story about the lark this young man took you on. Amusing, was it? He was an Indian fellow?”
“Yes.”
“And what was he doing here?”
“Visiting his mother’s grave. Apparently she was buried here two weeks ago.”
“Apparently or allegedly?” asked the old man laughing.
“Well, ‘allegedly’, I guess. I never actually saw her grave. Why are you laughing?”
“May I tell you later? First, I’d like to hear your story. It’s going to be most amusing…that I am already certain of. Please, the stage is yours.”
So I lit a cigarette and took the stage. He was a delightful audience…gave me his rapt attention from start to finish.
“That,” said he, “is one of the most amusing stories I’ve heard in a long time. Now, let me ask you something…Are you angry with that young man for what he did?”
“No. Of course, nobody likes to be played for a fool but he was a very polite fellow and, needless to say, quite charming.”
“Oh, I am so happy to hear you say that. Good for you. May I assume that the loss of twenty-five dollars is not going to alter your life for the worse in any great way?”
“Not in the least.”
“Whereas, on the other hand, twenty-five dollars for that young man might very well keep him and his family fairly well fed for a fortnight.”
“Well that’s a pleasant consolation.”
“Plus, you got a wonderful story out of it all. Told with a good deal of panache, I don’t mind saying. Stories like that one aren’t often had for a mere twenty-five dollars. Tell it often. I hope others enjoy it as much as I did.”
“So, why did you start laughing when I mentioned that the guy had said he was here visiting his mother’s grave?”
“He said she was buried here two weeks ago?”
“Yeah.”
“My dear fellow, nobody has been buried in this grand old cemetery SINCE 1892.”
“I see.”
“Welcome to Calcutta, sir. It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” said I. “Love your cemetery.”

Excerpt from: 'A Grand Old Dame'