2014 ‘The Black Hole?

’ in Nilanjana Gupta (ed) Strangely Beloved: Writings on Calcutta,

New Delhi: Rupa Publications pp27-36

THE  BLACK  HOLE?  

JOHN   H UTNYK  

THE  BLACK  HOLE  REVISED  

That   meaning   changes   is   not   without   meaning.   A   plaque   for   the   infamous   ‘black   hole   of  
Calcutta’   is   housed   in   the   Philatelic   Museum   behind   B.B.D.   Bag.   A   monument   to   the   alleged  
site   is   tucked   away   in   a   remote   corner   of   St   John’s   Church.   This   is   not   the   original  
monument,   which   had   been   erected   by   the   storyteller   Holwell   about   1760,   but   a  
replacement  built  in  1902  by  order  of  Lord  Curzon,  and  moved  to  its  present  site  after  an  
agitation  in  part  led  by  Subhas  Chandra  Bose,  in  1940.  The  black  hole  has  travelled,  shape-­‐
shifted   and   transformed   across   time   and   place,   as   is   well   documented,   most   recently   by  
Partha   Chatterjee   in   his   book   The   Black   Hole   of   Empire:   History   of   a   Global   Practice   of  
Power.    

Debuting  as  a  dark  day  in  colonial  history—a  fabricated  and  exaggerated  story,  devised  by  
Hollwell,   cultivated   and   maintained   to   justify   revenge   with   both   imperial   and   nationalist  
ends—it   remains   much   debated,   still   not   discarded.   Chatterjee   says,   ‘we   might   have  
forgotten  the  black  hole  if  not  for  the  essayist’s  skills  of  Thomas  Macaulay.’  In  Capital  Marx  
called  Macaulay  a  ‘systematic  falsifier  of  history’  but  also  had  much  to  say  himself  about  the  
‘sham  scandal’  of  the  black  hole  (as  we  shall  see).  Yet  others  too  insist  that  the  black  hole  
story   has   come   down   to   us   as   if   by   accident:   Jan   Dalley   writes   in   The   Black   Hole:   Money,  
Myth  and  Empire  that  ‘If  it  had  not  been  for  Curzon,  we  might  never  have  heard  of  the  black  
hole’.   The   currency   of   the   phrase   circulated   far   and   wide,   and   is   even   now   a   name   for   a  
black  metal/grindcore  band1  and  a  throwaway  line  for  any  cramped  adversity—as  far  back  
as  1862,  in  Hootem  Pyanchar  Naksha,  Kaliprasanna  Singha  had  compared  a  third  class  train  
carriage  to  the  fabled  Fort  William  dungeon.    

Like   the   story   of   the   hole,   it   is   by   now   standard   to   note   that   the   entire   city   has   been  
renamed  and  remade.  Revolutionary  once  again,  but  not  in  the  same  way.  Of  course  a  place  
with  such  a  venerable  history  will  multiply  its  designations,  but  now  six  words  serve  where  
there  was  once  only  one:  Calcutta  today  is  'Kolkata-­‐the-­‐new-­‐name-­‐for-­‐the-­‐city',  which  just  
                                                                                                                                   

 http://bhoc.bandcam.com  
1
rolls   off   the   tongue.   This   mouthy   appellation   joins   a   tradition   of   multiplication-­‐
transformation.  Dum  Dum  airport,  named  after  the  explode-­‐on-­‐impact  bullet  devised  by  the  
British   to   kill   Afridi   tribesmen,   is   now   grandly   designated   Netaji   Subhas   Chandra   Bose  
International   Airport—the   same   Bose   of   the   aforementioned   agitation   against   Curzon’s  
plinth.   Plain   old   Chowringhee   became   Jawaharlal   Nehru   Road,   adding   some   sixty   per   cent  
more   words.   Harrington   Street   became   Ho   Chi   Minh   Sarani,   adding   humour   and   politics.    
BBD  Bag,  Rafi  Ahmed  Kidwai  Road  and  Dr  Suresh  Chandra  Banerjee  Road  and  many  others  
provide   a   Hobson-­‐Jobson   glossary   of   examples.   Lower   Circular   became   Acharya   Jagadish  
Chandra   Bose   Road,   abbreviated   AJC   Bose.   The   city   itself   is   verbose,   as   heard   on   every  
street   corner   and   in   the   old   beloved   cafes.   A   polyglot   migrant   city,   even   if   the   samizdat  
political  wall  graffiti  has  been  rubbed  out,  the  plaques  remain  to  tell  tales,  and  are  open  to  
conjecture.  

For   a   viewer   who   does   not   live   in   the   city,   reading   the   significance   of   signs   is   a   puzzle.   Sure,  
across  the  far  west  side  of  India,  Mumbai  also  changed  its  name,  but  that  city’s  reputation  
has  flip-­‐flopped  so  much  in  thirty  years  it  is  no  longer  sport.  Yes,  on  the  one  hand  Bollywood  
films,  on  the  other  cinema  slums—plus  the  terror  bombings—but  not  so  much  in  the  way  of  
revolutionary   tradition   to   which   to   draw   attention.   The   passage   from   Mira   Nair’s   Salaam  
through   to   the   dogged   Millionaire   does   not   raise   the   same   urgent   questions.   Bombastic  
Bombay   chroniclers   had   clock   hands   join   palms   at   midnight   while   the   world   slept,   though  
Nehru’s   rhetorical   turn   at   independence   was   as   much   fabulation   as   Rushdie’s,   since  
midnight   was   timed   to   be   already   well   towards   morning   in   Calcutta,   and   the   rest   of   the  
world  was  already  awake,  or  just  about  to  sleep.  There  are  twenty-­‐four  hours  in  a  day,  but  
in   Calcutta-­‐Kolkata   twin   palms   mean   twin   faces,   and   the   double   visage   of   stereotype   and  
revolt  is  much  harder  to  knock  here.    

And  when  I  say  here,  I  mean  abroad  and  in  the  mind,  the  Calcutta  in  my  head.  Sure,  within  
the  city  all  is  change,  but  in  the  global  imaginary  where  the  rumour  of  Calcutta  circulates,  
that  old  Mother  Teresa-­‐enhanced  image  of  teeming  poverty  is  fixed  on  the  one  side,  and  the  
rumblings  of  dark  political  intrigue—terror,  communists,  corporate  killings—stand  ready  on  
the   other.   Singur   and   Tata   announced   the   fall   of   the   Left   Front,   but   Mamata   has   not  
displaced   that   other   Ma   that   rules   like   a   wizened   deity   over   a   place   that   is   ‘built   on   silt,   but  
[is]  gold’.  

The   point   is   that   if   names   and   reputations,   memories   and   monuments,   can   be   changed,  
then   the   conceit   of   reading   the   ordering   of   cities   in   interpretive   schematic   is   also   on   the  
cards.   When   it   comes   to   the   memorialisation   of   black   holes   and   atrocities   far   away   in   space  
and  time,  it  is  necessary  to  see  at  work  a  tug-­‐of-­‐war  of  interpretation,  a  dialectical  narration  
machine,  versioning  and  versifying,  defying  death  with  words—a  la  Scheherazade.  Consider  
that   the   first   printed   edition   of   the   1001   Nights   in   1814   edited   by   Shaikh   Ahmad   ibn-­‐
Mahmud   Shirawani   was   set   in   type   in   a   print   room   at   the   rebuilt   Fort   that   had   allegedly  
housed  the  black  hole.  The  new  Fort  William,  a  building  started  by  Clive,  and  completed  by  
the  East  India  Company  thirty  years  later,  was  also  where  a  second  four-­‐volume  edition  of  
the   Nights   was   printed   edited   by   William   Macnaghten   in   1839.   This   edition   was   used   by  
Richard   Burton   for   his   translations   (1885–86).   We   should   at   least   also   remember   the   old  
Forts  for  this  legacy,  even  if  it  belongs  to  a  literary  exoticist-­‐menagerie,  and  has  ossified  into  
an  army  camp  still  in  use  today.  

Burton’s   exoticism   is   not   all   that   is   phantasmagoric   here.   The   imaginary   Calcutta   in   our  
heads   will   always   be   subject   to   a   duplicitous   phrasing.   I   want   to   argue   that   another  
Calcutta—beyond  architecture  and  storytelling,  but  reliant  on  these—can  be  understood  as  
the   major   metropolis   of   the   early   colonial   period,   co-­‐constituted   in   a   global   system   with  
London,  Paris  and  perhaps  New  York.  Calcutta  as  the  first  city  of  Empire,  the  site  of  so  much  
surplus-­‐value   extraction,   profit   accumulation,   and   dispatch   of   mercantile   and   industrial  
booty  to  the  banking  godowns  of  Manchester,  Liverpool,  London.  We  do  well  to  remember  
where  the  wealth  of  the  subcontinent  flowed,  through  which  silted  port,  as  more  than  gold.  
A  vast  treasure-­‐house,  exceeding  the  factories  of  the  East  India  Company  or  the  emporiums  
of   latter-­‐day   traders,   the   Calcutta   of   the   colonial   period   was   the   site   that   made  
incomparable   fortunes.   And   much   was   lost   in   the   wealth   transfer   that   marks   the   name.  
Kolkata   still   is   that   international   exchange   hub,   and   perhaps   more   so   despite   the   years   of  
Central   Government   investment   constraint   and   the   damaged   reputation   yet   to   be   fully  
thrown   off.   To   ask   what   might   change   a   view   of   the   city   that   keeps   returning   unchanged,  
despite  change,  misses  the  point  that  it  is  both.    

It  may  be  that  Calcutta  can  be  seen  as  the  first  city  of  empire,  the  site  through  which  passed  
the  wealth  of  the  East  India  Company  and  the  British  Raj—‘city  of  Palaces’—it  is  true  Kipling  
also   had   worse   things   to   say   about   the   city.   But   to   think   of   globalization   from   Bengal  
recognizes   a   primacy   of   the   sites   of   extraction   that   remains   under-­‐researched   and  
insufficiently   acknowledged.   There   is   much   to   be   done   to   dislodge   and   complicate   the  
Global  Calcutta  myth  in  the  black  hole  of  the  mind.  Rethinking  Empire  is  on  the  cards,  but  
also   ongoing   pantomime   cover   for   plunder   and   wealth   extraction.   If   the   first   globalisation  
was   subsumed   labour   power,   appropriated   labour   in   the   service   of   originary   colonial  
accumulation,   it   is   possible   to   see   this   accumulation   still   in   its   fixed   capital   forms   in   the  
architecture   of   buildings,   infrastructure   and   ideas   that   belong   to   the   two   ends   of   the  
colonial   encounter.   A   memorial   will   remind   us   of   this,   even   at   St   John’s.   But   I   see   them  
everywhere.  Every  mention  of  a  black  hole,  without  direct  reference  to  Calcutta  or  Kolkata,  
demands   reassessment,   as   if   the   astronomical   gravity   that   contracts   and   condenses   to  
infinity   redraws   all   concerns.   In   London—second   city   of   Empire   in   this   rethinking—the  
decorative  pillars  that  hold  up  the  canopy  roof  of  the  old  London  bridge  railway  station  are  
stylized   opium   bulbs.   I   see   identical   architecture   in   the   buildings   of   Calcutta   and  
Manchester,  remember  the  publishing  history  of  the  1001  Nights  –  and  recognise  a  negative  
weight  in  place  names  and  black  hole  associations—all  to  be  read  from  the  other  end  so  to  
speak,   as   original   accumulation   in   a   mode   of   production   that   is   continually   reproduced   in  
the  animation  of  fixed  capital  by  living  labour,  subsumed  more  and  more  to  the  monopoly  
rent  of  periphery  and  metropole.  

A   reorientation   to   Calcutta-­‐Kolkata   signs   might   be   seen   in   terms   of   architecture;   the  

buildings   of   the   East   India   Company   have   significant   resonance   with   those   in   other   port  
cities  such  as  Manchester  and  Melbourne  largely  by  way  of  shared  commercial  enterprise  in  
multiple   locations.   This   is   a   record   of   connections   amongst   the   global   sites   of   early  
colonisation   that   can   sometimes   be   seen   in   buildings   still   standing—this   is   easier   for   later  
periods   of   course,   compare   the   neo-­‐Baroque   of   Calcutta’s   Metropolitan   Building   on  
Jawaharlal   Nehru   Road   with   Manchester’s   ‘India   House’,   Melbourne’s   State   Savings   Bank   of  
Victoria,   and   the   London   War   Office   Building   on   Whitehall   etc.   With   this   in   mind,  
recalibrating  the  black  hole  of  value  extraction  might  mean  that  the  changes  in  production  
narrative   of   the   established   historians   could   be   reworked   from   the   other   end.   In   The   Age   of  
Revolution   Hobsbawm   notes   that   until   the   industrial   revolution,   Europe   had   always  
imported  more  from  the  East  than  it  had  sold  there  and  Marx  notes  the  ruin  of  handicraft  
through  the  advent  of  machine  production  which  ‘forcibly  converts  [the  colonies]  into  fields  
for  the  supply  of  its  raw  material.  In  this  way  East  India  was  compelled  to  produce  cotton,  
wool,   hemp,   jute   and   indigo   for   Great   Britain’.   The   clue   here   is   that   these   exports,   crafts,  
conversions   and   re-­‐organizations   had   to   involve   workers   in   situ—the   changes   were   not  
produced  from  afar,  but  rather  sourced  on  site.  A  history  of  labour,  labour  force,  forms  of  
work   and   workplace   change   will   look   quite   different   if   read,   in   Gayatri   Spivak’s   choice  
phrase,  from  ‘the  other  end’  of  colonialism.  

A  BLACK  HOLE  OF  VALUE  

A   visitor   of   rather   different   stripe,   a   popular   chronicler   of   the   city   from   afar,   Geoffrey  
Moorehouse   renders   the   black   hole   story   in   the   received   version,   as   almost   a   copy   of   the  
Hollwell   tale   ‘though   there   is   reason   to   believe   some   of   it   is   fabrication’.   The   tale:   John  
Zephaniah   Holwell,   returning   to   England   after   fighting   in   the   Battle   of   Plassey-­‐Palashi,  
alleges   in   a   curiously   named   Genuine   Narrative,   that   eight   months   earlier,   on   20   June   1756,  
some  hundred  and  forty-­‐six  persons  from  the  British  fort  in  Calcutta  were  crammed  into  a  
eighteen-­‐foot  room  with  just  two  tiny  iron-­‐barred  windows  on  a  swelteringly  hot  night,  with  
only  twenty-­‐three  still  alive  when  the  doors  were  opened  the  next  morning.  Amply  written  
as   a   coded   fable,   this   already   seems   like   a   pantomime   fiction   doing   duty   for   a   moral  
mission—the   atrocity   brought   down   upon   a   certain   Nawab   through   the   just   retribution   of  
Clive.  It  may  be  that  writers  like  Moorehouse  do  not  spend  time  in  the  archives  but  prefer  to  
repeat  received  stories,  but  this  too  is  of  significance.  There  never  was  a  space  that  could  
confine   so   many   as   Holwell   claims,   and   those   that   were   there   were   mostly   dead   already  
from  wounds  sustained  in  the  battle  for  the   fort.  In  any  case,  they  were  not  all  English,  and  
it   was   not   the   Nawab   who   ordered   them   imprisoned,   in   what   was   the   Englanders’   own  
dungeon.   Holwell   does   not   report   the   incident   for   eight   months,   and   no   other   survivors  
come   forward   with   testimonials   until   many   years   later—yet   he   erects   the   first   memorial  
monument,   naming   more   than   forty,   with   bricks   that   crumble   away   within   sixty   years.  
Curzon   responds,   as   if   to   the   complaint   of   Mark   Twain   visiting   the   city,   by   rebuilding   the  
monument  in  1902.  By  1940,  in  another  neat  triangulation  of  myth  and  names,  the  Muslim  
Renaissance   League   joins   with   Netaji,   to   agitate   to   remove   the   monument.   Netaji   flees   to  
Germany   and   Japan   (Chatterjee   notes   this   is   ‘of   course,   another   story’).   The   monument   is  
tucked  away  in  the  grounds  of  St.  John’s  Church,  and  ever  since  everyone  must  refer  to  its  
absence-­‐presence   as   a   kind   of   embodied   rumour.   The   story   of   the   black   hole   circulates   as   a  
framing   device,   an   alibi   and   a   metaphor.   It   eventually   is   loosened   from   its   moorings   in  
Calcutta   and   comes   to   mean   any   horror.   This   also   deserves   examination,   especially   perhaps  
by   someone   attentive   to   vernacular   renderings   of   politics   and   expression.   The   vernacular  
might   not   be   specific   and   detailed   in   terms   of   fidelity   to   historical   protocol,   but   political  
efficacy   never   relied   on   such   fidelity   in   any   case.   The   rumour   of   Calcutta   survives   even   its  
gainsaying.  

If   the   black   hole   story   must   be   told,   it   should   be   in   a   critical   version:   I   imagine   Karl   Marx  
sitting   in   the   British   Library   thinking   of   India,   or   more   likely   at   home   with   friends   and  
comrades  debating  the  then  first  Indian  War  of  Independence  (1857),  or  the  ‘Mutiny’  as  the  
British   call   it.   Marx   insisted   on   calling   it   an   ‘uprising’,   ‘revolt   and   disaffection’   and   an  
‘insurgency’  in  an  article  published  on  16  September  1857  in  the  New  York  Daily  Tribune:  

However   infamous   the   conduct   of   the   Sepoys,   it   is   only   the   reflex,   in   a   concentrated  
form,  of  England’s  own  conduct  in  India,  not  only  during  the  epoch  of  the  foundation  
of  her  Eastern  Empire,  but  even  during  the  last  ten  years  of  a  long-­‐settled  rule.  To  
characterize  that  rule,  it  suffices  to  say  that  torture  formed  an  organic  institution  of  
its   financial   policy.   There   is   something   in   human   history   like   retribution:   and   it   is   a  
rule  of  historical  retribution  that  its  instrument  be  forged  not  by  the  offended,  but  
by  the  offender  himself  …  it  would  be  an  unmitigated  mistake  to  suppose  that  all  the  
cruelty   is   on   the   side   of   the   Sepoys,   and   all   the   milk   of   human   kindness   flows   on   the  
side  of  the  English.  

While   writing   the   drafts   of   Capital   in   the   late   1850s   and   early   1860s   Marx   also   pens   ten  
years  worth  of  journalism  on  India  for  the  New  York  Daily  Tribune—with  Engels  he  discusses  
colonial   troop   movements,   East   India   Company   finance   and   debt,   mocks   Lord   Canning,   who  
‘despite  sneers’  and  a  ‘notorious  incapacity’  sticks  to  his  well-­‐paid  post  as  a  ‘good  boy’  (30  
April   1859,   New   York   Daily   Tribune)   and   turns   focus   often   on   Calcutta   and   the   development  
of  trade  there.  With  all  this  in  mind,  how  pleased  should  we  be  that  in  notes  taken  in  the  
last  years  of  his  life,  Marx  is  still  thinking  of  India  and  calls  the  black  hole  incident  a  ‘sham  
scandal’?  In  an  extensive  collection  of  notes  made  on  Indian  history,  Marx  comments  that  
on  an  evening  in  June  1756,  after  the  Governor  of  Calcutta  had  ignored  the  order  of  Subadar  
Suraj-­‐ud-­‐Daula  to  ‘raze  all  British  fortifications’  in  the  city:  
 Suraj   came   down   on   Calcutta   in   force...   fort   stormed,   garrison   taken   prisoners,   Suraj  
gave  orders  that  all  the  captives  should  be  kept  in  safety  till  the  morning;  but  the  146  
men  (accidentally,  it  seems)  were  crushed  into  a  room  20  feet  square  and  with  but  
one   small   window;   next   morning   (as   Holwell   himself   tells   the   story),   only   23   were  
still   alive;   they   were   allowed   to   sail   down   the   Hooghly.   It   was   ‘the   Black   Hole   of  
Calcutta’,  over  which  the  English  hypocrites  have  been  making  so  much  sham  scandal  
to   this   day.   Suraj-­‐ud-­‐Daula   returned   to   Murshidabad;   Bengal   now   completely   and  
effectually  cleared  of  the  English  intruders.  

Marx   also   reports   on   the   subsequent   retaliation   against   and   defeat   of   Suraj-­‐ud-­‐Daula   by  
Lord  Clive  at  Plassey,  ‘that  Great  Robber’  as  he  calls  him  elsewhere,  and  Clive’s  1774  suicide  
after  his  ‘cruel  persecution’  by  the  directors  of  the  East  India  Company.  Even  more  reason  to  
conclude   that   the   black   hole   incident   is   counterfeit   concocted   to   justify   Clive’s   savage  
response   to   Suraj-­‐ud-­‐Daula’s   occupation   of   the   fort—a   justification   forged   to   deflect  
criticisms  of  brutality  on  the  part  of  the  British  retaliatory  expedition.  

The  black  hole  as  ‘sham  scandal’—only  three  dead  in  some  reports,  no  reliable  narrators—is  
just   that   sort   of   myth   that   could   be   worked   up   as   a   parable   of   our   own   times.   Say,   for  
example,   the   retribution   that   follows   an   attack   on   a   monument   to   capital   in   the   shape   of  
two   towers.   In   his   Black   Hole   of   Empire   study,   Chatterjee   makes   passing   reference   to   Iraq  
and   the   deployment   of   violence   and   culture   as   the   evangelical   creed   of   empire   but   perhaps  
he   is   too   subtle.   And   anyway   he   is   talking   of   the   1857   war   of   independence,   not   the   pairing  
of   the   black   hole   and   the   Battle   of   Plassey-­‐Palashi,   or   of   the   Twin   Towers   and   the   war   of  
terror.   Towards   the   end   of   the   book   he   makes   a   diagnosis   that   links   the   current   war2   in  
Afghanistan  to  ‘memories  of  the  times  when  imperialism  meant  the  annexation  of  colonial  
territories’  but  at  times  the  historical  detail,  yet  another  measure  of  the  black  hole  (this  time  
fourteen  by  eighteen  feet),  obscures  the  allegory.  

It  is  nevertheless  the  case  that  a  cultural  project  that  runs  alongside  a  killing  war  requires  
the   performance   of   justifying   mythology.   Monuments   must   be   erected,   documents  
displayed,   plaques   attached   to   walls,   names   of   heroes   applauded,   villains   demonized,   and  
victims   erased.   The   obelisk   monument   or   tower   form,   whether   Ochterlony—renamed  
Shahid   Minar—or   pillars   of   light   in   New   York,   can   claim   to   commemorate   grander  
aspirations  than  war,  and  yet  alongside  and  parallel  to  the  spires  of  aspiration  rise  the  war-­‐
machine   proper;   alongside   John   Zephaniah   Holwell,   is   Robert   Clive;   along   with   annual  
commemoration   services   for   the   tragic   deaths   on   September   11   in   New   York,   are   the  
remote-­‐operated  killer  drones  in  the  Hindu  Kush.    

So   let   us   think   why   the   city   gets   a   bad   press.   Since   the   time   of   Suraj   and   the   myth   of   the  
black  hole,  and  the  retribution  that  followed  at  Palashi–Plassey,  Calcutta  has  been  a  threat  
to  capital.  If  we  took  another  theme,  the  punitive–fearful  transfer  of  power  to  Delhi,  think  

                                                                                                                                   
2
 The  ‘war  against  terrorism’  was  on  in  Afghanistan  at  the  time  of  writing.  
of   the   turmoil   of   Calcutta   in   1905,   1940   or   1971.   An   indisputable   aspect   of   the   global  
narrative   that   is   Calcutta,   sees   it   as   the   home   of   revolutionaries.   Disproportionately  
perhaps,   Aurobindo   more   than   M.N.   Roy,   Charu   Mazumdar   more   than   Jyoti   Basu   and  
Forward  Bloc.  Netaji,  now  of  airport  fame,  has  some  traffic  here  too;  famous  for  leaving,  his  
memory  persists  all  the  more.  Even  as  the  countryside  travelled  to  the  city  in  the  war-­‐word  
‘Naxalbari’,  which  filters  abroad  through  university  students,  the  films  of  Mrinal  Sen  and  in  
the   writings   of   Sumanta   Banerjee   among   others,   there   is   a   sense   in   which   revolutionary  
Calcutta  will  always  be  there.  The  British  forced  to  move  the  capital  to  Delhi,  of  all  places,  
and  forced  eventually  to  quit,  and  even  now  the  spirit  of  a  certain  politics  pervades.  With  
only   an   undercurrent   existence   abroad   perhaps,   a   still   not-­‐so-­‐secret   romantic   left-­‐Maoist  
and   revolutionary   Calcutta   appears   in   documentaries   by   Reinhard   Hauff   (Ten   Days   in  
Calcutta,  1984)  and  in  films  by  Mrinal  Sen  (Interview,  1970;  Calcutta  71,  1972;  and  Ek  Din  
Pratidin,   1979)   as   well   as   Govind   Nihalani   (Hazar   Chaurasi   ki   Ma,   1998)   and   Anant  
Mahadevan  (Red  Alert,  2010).  

The   changes   that   a   city   manifests   do   not   mean   the   city   changes,   but   that   a   kaleidoscopic  
perspective   sees   different   angles   for   different   ends.   Thus   while   interpretation   is   always  
political,  monuments  built  to  the  shams  are  the  scandal—they  are  built,  they  are  removed,  
rebuilt,   protested,   restored,   removed   again.   The   plaques   of   origin   and   the   inscriptions   of  
truths   may   be   challenged,   but   the   impact   of   these   challenges   still   manages   to   erect   an  
edifice  of  reputation.  Therefore  the  first  city  of  empire  is  its  most  contested,  no  longer  even  
the   capital   of   India,   or   the   fount   of   revolution—the   spirit   of   Naxalbari   has   perhaps  
permanently  shifted  to  the  west—but  it  remembers  where  value  lies.  Reimagining  political  
alliances  will  need  more  effort  if  it  is  to  also  shift  the  one  constant  of  Calcutta–Kolkata;  it  is  
always   dialectical,   always   again,   a   black   hole   of   interpretation,   made   to   speak   through   signs  
and  monuments,  in  multiple  ways,  even  as  meaning  turns  on  a  word.