Branching out from this main drag were Russell Street, and then, the crossing formed by the meeting of Middleton Row and Free School Street, with the fun ending at Camac Street. As a youngster, there were essentially two Park Streets – the I-Have-Some-Money Street and the I-Am-Broke-But-So-What? Street.
As a child, if your parents had briefly loosened the tap, there was Hobby Centre at one end, and Paragon Toys at the other, both yielding toys. The same spike of spending power could also trip into a raid on Flurys. As you grew older, Oxford Bookstore became one Bermuda Triangle where cash mysteriously disappeared. And then, that was joined by the cheaper bars lurking between the posh eating joints.
But you went to Park Street even when broke, just to taste city life, on the north side of the road were the 3-4 pavement magazine and paperback sellers – chhaavnis, in the ‘spread’ sense of the word – where you could browse through foreign and Indian magazines, some proper bestsellers, and lots of pirated ones, including the perennials of Mein Kampf and Kama Sutra.
These mags and books were spread on the pavement, one almost in front of Oxford, two in front of Olympia bar – which has now, in Gen Z style become ‘Olypub’ – one near Blue Fox restaurant, and one across the road near Flurys. If you turned left into Free School Street, a whole wonderland awaited you all the way to New Market: little caves holding treasures of second-hand books and LPs.
If you chose to stay on Park Street, there were, again, two sides to the street. On the south side were the pavement kiosks selling goodies that had fallen off the back of ships and aeroplanes as they dealt with the Bengal Delta’s turbulent weather – tobacco, lighters, perfumes and colognes, chewings, chocolates. These kiosks were organised and chaotic, as only Kolkata things can be. Each stall owner would have his decoration style, touches and repetitions, and visual quirks that sometimes reminded you of post-modern installations in foreign museums. As you grew into your bad habits, you formed warm mercantile relationships with one stall owner or the other. After the advent of mobiles, some people even had the man’s number on their phone. In moments of crisis, when you run out of your particular non-desi cigarettes, you reach ‘My Smuggie‘ and call.’Dunhill Menthols kitne ka, aaj kal?’ The guy would tell you. You would explode. The guy would pretend to lower the price and quote his actual price, making you feel like you’d topped Wharton Business School. You would collect the carton, or the guy would send you a delivery.
Recently, I found myself walking through Park Street and noticing changes. The pavement magazine spreads have shrunk, like coastlines pulling back from an encroaching sea. The material they sell has also narrowed in scope, with a lot more business and self-help junk cluttering the collections, replacing the sexy books as young people transfer their carnality from desired partners to craved customers.
The restaurant name boards have gone more and more tacky (see above, re: ‘Olypub’) and all sorts of stores that have no business on Park Street now elbow out the old establishments. I mean, why should a car dealership, mobile service purveyors, and shops selling horrible fluffy toys be the Kings of the Strip?
Wandering on the south side, I see that a desi tobacco company or someone has convinced the kiosk walls to go uniform. Instead of yore’s resplendently eccentric product altars, there are now ditto-to-ditto cupboards that fold open in the morning and shut at night. There are nameplates above each kiosk. Some kiosks even have a digital screen advertising the local tobacco giant’s wares. It’s progress of sorts, but it isn’t Park Street.