Echoes in dust: The elegies of old Calcutta

What does a city lose when its monuments fall silent, their stones eroded, their stories forgotten? It loses not merely architecture, but memory itself—and with it, a measure of its soul. A number of historic structures that were once essential to Kolkata’s cultural, social, and artistic identity now lie in ruins or have been completely erased from the heart of the city. The city that has always carried its past like a palimpsest finds itself grappling with this very question.

These lost and endangered heritages may not be a part of everyday life anymore, but they still haunt the city’s imagination, urging us to revisit a history too easily neglected. Take, for instance, the Panioty Fountain, an exquisite 19th-century philanthropic gift from the erstwhile British Governor General, Lord Curzon, in memory of Demetrius Panioty, who began his career at 16 as a writer at the Bengal Secretariat and rose to become assistant private secretary to Governor-General Ripon. Nestled once at the busy intersection of Esplanade, the fountain represented a gesture of civic benevolence and intercultural meetups. Built from cast iron, the fountain had beautiful Indo-Greek designs, serving weary pedestrians water and a few minutes’ break.

Advertisement

The monument made a brief appearance in Parash Pathar, a film by Satyajit Ray in 1958, the opening shot being filmed in front of the fountain. Today, the fountain survives only in fragments and photographs, forgotten in the haste of city planning. The Old Kenilworth Hotel, which was established in the Victorian era by the enterprising David Wilson (who also founded the Great Eastern Hotel) and later developed into a stylish address in its own right, was equally evocative. Formerly defining the Chowringhee stretch, the Kenilworth embodied the colonial-era elegance with sweeping verandas, teak interiors, and a guest list that included literary and political luminaries. The original building has been erased from the urban landscape, leaving only an echo of its former elegance, even though a contemporary hotel now stands in its place.

The rusty lanes of Bagbazar house Basu Bati, another relic whose survival remains in jeopardy. The mansion, which was constructed in the 19th century by the distinguished Basu family, once echoed with the footsteps of academics, artists, and nationalist leaders. Its magnificent Corinthian columns, sweeping staircases, and finely carved cornices served as witnesses to historical events, such as the wellknown encounter between Sister Nivedita and Swami Vivekananda. However, time has not been kind to Basu Bati. The building’s decay and neglect reflect the greater story of North Kolkata’s disappearing mansions, which were once places of unmatched cultural diversity but are now threatened by real estate pressures, legal disputes and the indifference of a generation that no longer resides there.

The loss of the Bourne & Shepherd photography studio, which was once among the oldest photography businesses in the world, is equally tragic. Established in 1863, the studio played a pivotal role in the subcontinent’s visual legacy, with its photographers documenting everything from the expanding urban life of Calcutta to the colonial viceroys. Prominent filmmakers such as Satyajit Ray and Mrinal Sen were frequent visitors. The famous S.N. Banerjee Road building sustained significant damage in a fire in 1991, and although the studio continued to operate for a few more years, it finally shuttered. Yet again, a glorious memory faded from the face of the city. The city’s once-thriving movie theatres, particularly the Chaplin Cinema and Lighthouse Cinema, are among its cultural casualties. Chaplin, formerly known as Elphinstone Picture Palace, was a cherished location on the city’s entertainment map, being one of India’s first movie theatres. In contrast, Lighthouse was an art-deco treasure that attracted audiences for decades, particularly during Hollywood’s heyday.

The closure and demolition of these iconic halls reflect changing patterns of entertainment consumption, leading to commercialization. Together, these lost and endangered heritage structures form a mosaic of the city’s cultural evolution, ranging from colonial businesses and noble homes to art centres and community spaces. Their disappearance does not diminish their significance, but it makes us confront tough questions. How do we, as citizens and custodians of a city as historically layered as Kolkata, choose what to preserve? How do we reconcile the demands of a growing urban metropolis with the need to maintain its glorious past? Kolkata has long prided itself on its intellectual and cultural inheritance. Yet heritage cannot survive on sentiment alone. It requires stewardship, policy, funding, and above all, collective will. This World Heritage Week, let us recollect our treasured past, preserving and keeping safe what belongs to our Kolkata, to us.