Remembrance of things past

Calcutta is a rorschach test. for some it is a festering orifice, for others a fierce and soured love that one never gets over. Then there are those who imagine a veil, lift it and are possessed by their personal sliver of Calcutta. Joanne Taylor belongs in this last group. In The Forgotten Palaces of Calcutta she wants to show the world her find: a collection of mansions, once home to the über-rich Bengali families who were landlords, merchants and entrepreneurs in late-eighteenth to early-twentieth century Calcutta.

 

Taylor seems to be an intrepid digger, in the throes of a demanding muse. Sparks should have flown. Instead this book is strangely bereft of spirit. Large, glossy pages brim with lifeless photographs of unpeopled edifices, of voluptuous arches and balustrades, of louvred rotund verandahs, of opulent interiors blitzed with her flash. What gaze is this? The goal couldn’t have possibly been to show the orifice-brigade that Calcutta has grand palaces replete with chandeliers of finest Belgium crystal. These buildings have stories to tell, each more incredible than the next. If that is what had drawn Taylor to them, her camera lets her down.

 

And what of her pen? Taylor’s Calcutta explorations were surely somewhat colourful. The photographs would have greatly benefited if the accompanying text had a few experiential anecdotes. Instead, we get potted history that reads like a term paper.

 

Taylor’s urge to peel back Calcutta’s carapace and look within is admirable. But sadly, the urge is what is best about her book.