The train pulled into the Sealdah station and came to a stop at exactly 0600 hours. Oh dear! Nine hours now looked like a very long time indeed. But I had a Plan B. I had a little list.

Kolkata waking up, in Barabazaar, a few corners from our first stop.

In order to give time for the city to wake up, we headed for an eating place at the station. Barby collected three newspapers and as I scanned images of Assam-on-fire and tried to make sense of this Citizen (Amendment) Bill, Barby ordered cholay bhatura for me and idli sambar for herself. Mine was outstanding, hers was considerably less so. We lingered long enough to witness an impoverished elderly woman press her way into the restaurant. Clearly an unwelcome, habitual nuisance to some of the staff, especially the guy cleaning the floors, who proceeded to hit her in the face with his mop as she cowered on the floor, refusing to leave. We stood up. We spoke out. He lowered his face, a little ashamed. Eventually we headed for the prepaid taxi stand, with Barby offering a few gentle words to the woman and depositing some food in her hands as we left.

My little list was a bit like the ‘extras’ at the end of a cricket scoresheet, an odd assortment of sundry places that we had not yet visited in Kolkata. We negotiated an itinerary with a taxi driver, agreed to his inflated price, and jumped into a Morris Oxford reminiscent of my youth, although this one was golden, like the sun, while ours was off-white, like the moon on a smoggy night.

First stop was the Armenian Church. It is off the main road, buried in a dense small-business area, not far from the river. Intent on finding his own way there, rather than trusting me and google maps, we ended up stuck in a side street, walking the final few twists and turns. But soon the sign appeared in front of us:

Armenian Church
      Calcutta
         1707

It was open – at 7am. We were free to wander, but no photos in the church. This was a shame, as it was like the Armenian Church in Yangon, just beautiful inside.

Sadness fills my heart when the Armenians are brought to mind, a grumpy kind of sadness. I am so ashamed of my home of New Zealand, so quick to promote itself as a country concerned about injustice, and yet so slow to officially recognise the Armenian genocide. What makes it even more inexcusable is that the genocide began the night before the day we commemorate, with an increasing spiritual fervour among the young, those of our own who died at war (ANZAC Day). Some historians even argue that the two events are related…

A memorial to the martyrs who lost their lives in the Armenian genocide.

Because that is what this church represents. A lovely sign of faith. Yes, there is a small community that still gathers each week, but so much more is evoked as we wander and wonder. I know the truth about ‘the church being a people, not a building’, but I am growing in my understanding of something else. When persecution, exile, elimination, or genocide is at work – as has been the case with the Armenian community – then a church building, resplendent in its aesthetics, architecture and ambience is a welcome ‘sign of faith’ at work across the timeline of history. I will not easily scorn a church building again.

Actually I am in the middle of William Dalrymple’s From The Holy Mountain, tracking with him as he visits one (almost) extinct Christian community after another in the Middle East, be it Armenian, Syrian Orthodox, Nestorian, or Palestinian – and whoever is still to come in the book. Dalrymple’s pilgrimage is from one remote and (largely) vacant church building to another. It is his only way of finding what is left of the community. As I’ve read, I’ve made a resolution. I will always seek out Armenian churches in my travels and honour the ‘sign of faith’ which they represent.

The Armenian community in Kolkata came from Julfa in Iran in the 1600s. This church is reputed to be the oldest one in Kolkata. It was built in/on their cemetery and so the courtyard is a collection of continuous gravestones.  They entered into an arrangement with the East India Company (EIC) in which the EIC agreed to build a church and provide a salary for a priest wherever a local Armenian community reached 40 people.

‘The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned’ (Isaiah 9.2). May it be so, Lord Jesus.

Whenever I come away from a visit to Kolkata, it is the drive-by sightings of majestic mansions sitting in ruins that remain with me. I was introduced to a few of them on a camera-less walk with my friend, Paul, some years ago. This time I whatsapp-ed another friend, Peter, well-acquainted as he is with Kolkata, and asked him for his best example of such a mansion. I wanted to linger awhile and take some photos. ‘The Rajbari at Raja Subodh Mullick Square next to Lee Memorial School’. This time the taxi driver was up for the challenge and, with it still being an early hour, we were soon outside the building.

I did find a photo of the original building after our visit. Check out this balcony, through which roots are spreading and deepening. It is that portion of the balcony just above (and in front of) the car in the old photo.

If the visit to the Armenian Church draws me into the evil in our world, evoking in me a longing for a lovely sign of faith, then the visit to Raja Subodh Mullick’s house draws me into the sin in our hearts, evoking in me a longing for a lovely sign of truth and love.

[It is just such an evil, such a sin, that was present among the people in that restaurant at the Sealdah train station earlier in the morning. Each one of us was desperate for these ‘lovely signs’ to be real in our lives, even if we were not all aware yet of that longing.]

Stick with me here.

If left unattended and abandoned, deserted and emptied, a building slowly, even imperceptibly, slips into a ruinous state. Leading the way, if there are no practices and habits to eliminate them, will be these little seeds that grow into seedlings and then into trees, with spreading and deepening roots, which eventually cause the destruction of the building altogether.

Yes, Kolkata’s dilapidated mansions remind me of the power of sin. God designed us with such beauty, such dignity – a bit like this building in its early pristine condition. But if the divine tenancy vacates the building and the Spirit-ual practices fall into disuse, then that human dignity will become obscured. It can still be seen, but it will be broken down by a human depravity marked by rebellions and conflicts, abuses and addictions that take root and cause our lives to crumble, leaving our hearts crying out for restoration.

While the gates to the mansion were locked, I could see there was a gap through which I might possibly be able to squeeze. People were sitting by a small fire in the courtyard inside the property. My quizzical glance towards a self-important looking man led to a wobbling of his head and a gesturing with his hands in just the right (Indian) ways – communicating a welcome to come in.

Like at the church, the wander became a wonder. After thinking these thoughts about sin long before I reached this specific courtyard, I discovered, in a couple of places inside the gates, these words: Veritas et Amore. Truth and Love. Wow. I didn’t expect to see this. This was more than just a ‘lovely sign’. These two words were inscribed in concrete in the inner courtyard of this dilapidated mansion. And it is this combination, expressed so perfectly in the cross of Christ, that is able to uproot the sin and restore a human life, like mine and yours.

While there were a few more things on my little list, this post has become a little long…

nice chatting

Paul

PS. Because it was so early and other places were still closed, we popped across to another example of Kolkata’s dilapidated ruins. Tagore Palace, as in Rabindranath Tagore (the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, in 1913). Look carefully. Be awakened to dignity and depravity. Be ‘lost in wonder, love and praise’ at the restoration possible in the gospel.