How Christmas In Kolkata's Bow Barracks Celebrates Nostalgia, Community

The halogen bulbs shone from the gaps of the slatted windows, giving away the clothesline, toothbrushes, and some bric-a-brac from the intrinsic Bengali architecture of the leftover Anglo-Indian community at Kolkata’s historical Bow Barracks. Among the dilapidated buildings, the dates of the structures stood like relics lost in translation.

The rusty iron grills seemed to mock my fragility for the numerous nor’westers they had withstood in the city. In the myriad history of weather, politics, and culture lay the little ghetto as a testament to the city’s colonial past.

As you peer closer, like Charu of Satyajit Ray’s classic, sans the binoculars, you will find the shattered dreams of the “Brown Sahibs” in their little homes, placidly set against the fading eastern sun.

This is poetic. Yet, in all the lyricism remains one lost stanza: that one can’t encompass the longing or articulate the bittersweet taste of resilience in the letter boxes, neatly arranged in a row, standing stoic in hope for the letter of appointment or an invite from the cousin who left the country for a better future.

The grotto with the Virgin Mary holding infant Jesus has a little tear hanging against the corner of her eye, at her inability to light up the faith among the seekers and the devout.

The candle too flickers in the resilience, where prayers are not always met, yet it stands in solidarity with the people of the barracks in their hope and faith.

Bow Barracks is nestled among the city’s burgeoning population of migrants in the neatly painted rows of green slatted windows with red walls of British army barracks that still retain the class and structure of its ranks.

I marvel at how these buildings have seen the mass migration, and the locals took over the homes that once belonged to the British army of the 18th century.

Bara Din at the Barracks of Kolkata

Kolkata, to me, is fascinating—a city that is like a tune lost in time, yet stuck to my broken ribcage, from the kitchen of my childhood home that has condiments and stories of its history in the quintessential Bengali idiosyncrasies of my late Baba and Ma.

The recalling of the term Bara Din (Big Day), which refers to Christmas, a major festival celebrated by the city’s diverse Christian communities, which include British, Armenian, Greek, etc., since the late 18th century, is like an imaginary middle finger stuck out to the current religious intolerance all around us.

Bara Din is marked by large dinners (Bara Khana) and festivities, while other communities also join in the music and generosity of the Brown Babas and Babies.

I naturally flung myself between the labyrinthine lanes of squalor, poverty, and tea shops of Bow Bazaar and the decrepit lanes that led me to the celebrations at the iconic Bow Barracks of Kolkata.

Between the little makeshift al fresco restaurants, I met my friend Jeremy, who has lived in the barracks for generations.

Jeremy stood in front of me, a reformed man who, in the past, had been chased by the cops for multiple nefarious activities in which he was involved. He has now matured and settled into the humdrum of domesticity that has totally shifted his personality.

Fatherhood had shortened his long, half-bleached hair into a neat cut as he hugged me to tell that old Jeremy is now a sports warden in a hostel in Tamil Nadu. As he spoke, the unmissable cut above his lips revealed his wild past.

He walked me through a narrow lane into the famous J. N. Barua’s hole-in-the-wall bakery for the distinctive winter-time treat known as Chhanar Cake. This culinary delight was pioneered by Jatindra Nath Barua (J. N. Barua) and traces its origins back to the late British period. 

Originally from Chittagong (now in Bangladesh), Barua came to Kolkata in search of fortune. His Chhanar Cake quickly won the hearts of the Anglo-Indian community in Bow Barracks, and there was no looking back since then.

I was overwhelmed with the generosity and clout Jeremy had as the bakers offered the soft cottage cheese cake (chhanar cake) to me and my friend, Tee. 

As I turned to leave, a large piece of sugar icing from the cake fell to the ground. I whispered a prayer that the scavenging ant would find its small miracle, just as I searched for my own balance, because my heart was heavy with love and a quiet ache.

I knew then that Jeremy’s home would remain forever rooted in Bow Barracks, while mine would drift endlessly—lost among memories, nostalgia, and the unbearable tenderness of places that once felt like home.

Mohua Chinappa is a poet and an author. She runs two podcasts, The Mohua Show and The Literature Lounge. She is member of an award winning, London based think tank called Bridge India.

Views expressed by the author are their own.