India pt. 5: Returning Home
Tangra: My Parents’ Hometown
Approaching the community on the eastern side of town, a large gate is erected to mark the joyous upcoming celebrations. Right outside this entrance is the popular Chinese Kali Mandir (temple). It’s a landmark Bethany and I would use to orient ourselves throughout our stay in Tangra, or Dhapa, as true locals know it.
The abundance of leather tanneries that once defined what is known as Kolkata’s second Chinatown, have all mostly been turned into Chinese restaurants or repurposed for a different industry. Sometime in the early 2000’s, the government ordered for industry shut down and relocation due to the high levels of contamination produced by the tanning process. Factories that haven’t been converted still serve their original purpose, operating on their own accord; there’s proof in the stagnant drainage water around town, tainted blue and the pervasive fumes that rise from it.
Given the time of year, storefronts, factories, and homes are ornamented in red and gold lanterns, banners, and red envelopes, all stamped with the Chinese characters for prosperity, luck, health, longevity..
Before leaving for this trip, I was told that this period would be the best to visit; many would be returning home from all corners of the globe to be with their families. With a palpable buzz of excitement and lightheartedness in the air, our timing is opportune. This was our first time setting foot on Tangra soil, but in a sense, Bethany and I are amongst all those who have journeyed home all the way from Canada.
Chang Residence and Tannery
After unloading the van, our uncle leads us down a narrow, unpaved alley. From the closest road, it’s a left, then a right, and then another left turn. At the time, I’m not sure I knew that where we would be staying was the exact building where our dads grew up. In fact, the now run down tannery is the building that housed our great-grandparents, grand-parents, great-aunt and uncle, as well as all of their children.
As we approach the building, my Bak Bak from Delhi explains that due to the monsoons, the building has sunk over the years. There’s been a gradual process of filling in order to level the building from where it originally stood. We step in past the red gate and hanging lanterns guarding the entrance. Like most other leather tanneries, this building has always served both commercial and residential purposes. While my uncle and aunt both live upstairs, the tannery space is now rented out to other locals.
The ground floor is occupied by old machinery, furniture, barrels of treating chemicals, and piles of greyish blue cow hide. At the back, there are several gigantic drums, where through their continuous turning, I learn, the hides are processed. Not too far from that, on the right, there’s a man feeding hide into a machine. This is the reason for the methodical click-clacking sound that eventually becomes part of the background noise of everyday Tangra life. This machine is what removes the hair from the hide, before it’s put through the chemical treatment. The sharp fluorescent light that illuminates the space is balanced by the daylight that grazes the weathered factory windows and creeps in through the holes in brick and concrete.
Turning the corner, we walk past two men folding and piling cow hides. Mounted on the brick wall to the right, the portraits of my great-grandparents and grand aunt and uncle sit on a red shelf. This is the first sign that tells me that I’m home. Above their faces hangs a lone red bulb that never goes off. Just in front, a red bowl in which burning incense is regularly placed to honour them.
I notice that the background in my great-grandparents’ portraits is a mint-coloured green, which then draws my attention to the mint-coloured door standing to the left. Below what seem like bars wrapped in barbed wire, the characters fu, luk, and su are embossed, signifying success, prosperity, and longevity.
Behind this door and these characters lies a piece of my family history. This was the space where my grandparents, my father and his 5 siblings all slept while growing up in Tangra, as my great-grandfather and his sons ran the family tannery. Inside, however, there don’t seem to be any remnants from my father’s past. The room is strewn with leftover hides, tools, and materials that don’t feel the least bit familiar. Similar to how I felt at the burial ground, I want to stay here, close my eyes, listen, and feel until I can sense and grasp something, anything from the past, but over my 5-day stay, there never seems to be a right time.
Following the staircase that leads upstairs, this is where my uncle and aunt have built another floor, serving as their living quarters. The colour of the walls lining the stairwell, hallway, and kitchen, is also a shade of minty green. The spacious kitchen and dining area almost have a canteen feel to it. The bedrooms, bathroom, and family room are separated into another unit down the hall.
Climbing another flight of stairs, we reach the open air roof, where it’s clear that over the decades, the surrounding landscape has changed drastically from the marshy wetlands and fish pools of my father’s childhood (he often remembers these fish pools fondly). The high rise buildings surrounding the area are signs of “growth” and a more modern civilization.
After our visit of the accommodations, our elder Bak Bak takes us on a walking tour of the neighbourhood. On our way, we run into some old neighbours. My uncle explains whose daughters we are and its a quick stroll down memory lane as they remember their younger days; one of the men says that I look like my mother (interesting — I’ve always thought that I looked more like my father).
As we move on, we enter the courtyard of the former Pei Moy Chinese school, where my parents, their siblings, and cousins all studied for some time. The property is now just the ghost of what once hosted a bustling community of Chinese youth. My dad finished his schooling here up until grade 5 before being transferred to a boarding school in Dum Dum — without fail, whenever he mentions this name, I can’t help but laugh. Dum Dum is a district north of Kolkata. My mom, on the other hand, completed elementary at Pei Moy before moving on to another school.
Pei Moy‘s doors have long been shut as an educational institution, due to the decline of the Chinese population over the years. The property, however, still shows some signs of life as teens shoot hoops on the basketball court and some older adults quietly sit and chat. On the grassy field, there are also the remnants of a wedding celebration; a banner with the newlyweds’ faces plastered on it gives it away. And on the second floor, my Bak Bak mentions the temple that now occupies the space; soon, it will be flocked with people in the days and nights to come.
Our local tour comes to an end too soon. Later this evening, there is a pre-New Year dinner organized by my Bak Bak and Bak May and we must get ready. There are so many other things I want to know about this place and so many questions that I want to ask, but I haven’t even had the time to formulate them. I’ve stepped into a time warp of my family history and the feeling is surreal.
