Sonali’s laying out her wares on the pavement at Kalighat Bazar. Kali’s silver temple is set against celestial blue, its eight gabled roofs trimmed with stripes of red, blue and yellow, its walls a chessboard of green and white diamonds. The bazar, itself a kaleidoscope of colour, lies all around it, selling all your needs, body and soul: Dashakarma vermilion, flashy hibiscus garlands and shiny brass trinkets; there are the earthy tones of red lentils, green peas, beige rices and ochre spices, bright-and-beautiful Bengali cups and plates, as well as rows upon rows of Kolkata’s technicolour sweetmeats: saffron-yellow rajbhog, creamy white kalakand, deep orange gulab jamun.
The place is one riot of colour. Bikash in flamingo-pink is having his hair cut. Koushik, dressed in royal blue, sits at his wheel peeling sugarcane. Prabir’s emerald green shirt reflects the skin of fresh coconuts piled high on the back of his tricycle. An egg yolk-yellow Ambassador taxi suddenly emerges from the crowd, only to vanish again, pursued by a garish tuk-tuk. Hundreds of pilgrims in their rainbow saris and T-shirts bind together temple and bazar, as they browse the market’s offerings for the triple-eyed black goddess with the golden lolling tongue. The more vivid the colour, the deeper the fervour. And the money’s rolling in.
But in this thrilling, blinding, overwhelming visual tapestry weaving together earth and heaven, it’s Sonali’s humble stall that catches my eye. Not even a stall, in fact – just a square of cotton cloth spread out along the kerbside. Sonali, dressed in a modest navy blouse and turquoise Tant sari, lays out her fruit and veg there. One of each. One by one. A maroon begun. A pure-white mulo. An amber kumro. A rich brown yam. A scarlet tomato. And one bright green papaya, as shiny as malachite. Each one polished in turn, then laid down with care, no speck of dust to taint its natural shade of perfection.
Sonali then sits back, squatting, barefoot, to watch the crowds rush past. She’s unconcerned by their pretermission. Her wares are not for sale. I watch her raise her chin, her gaze thrown once or twice towards the silver temple and its gaudy bazar, then coming back to rest, quiet, upon her own still pageant. The square of cotton cloth at her bare feet. The earthly fruits she grew. Their pure intensity of colour. Sonali’s offerings, laid out in consecration on a Kalighat kerb, to the divine unseen.
Angharad Price, January 2026
Postcard from Kolkata
Sonali’s laying out her wares on the pavement at Kalighat Bazar. Kali’s silver temple is set against celestial blue, its eight gabled roofs trimmed with stripes of red, blue and yellow, its walls a chessboard of green and white diamonds. The bazar, itself a kaleidoscope of colour, lies all around it, selling all your needs, body and soul: Dashakarma vermilion, flashy hibiscus garlands and shiny brass trinkets; there are the earthy tones of red lentils, green peas, beige rices and ochre spices, bright-and-beautiful Bengali cups and plates, as well as rows upon rows of Kolkata’s technicolour sweetmeats: saffron-yellow rajbhog, creamy white kalakand, deep orange gulab jamun.
The place is one riot of colour. Bikash in flamingo-pink is having his hair cut. Koushik, dressed in royal blue, sits at his wheel peeling sugarcane. Prabir’s emerald green shirt reflects the skin of fresh coconuts piled high on the back of his tricycle. An egg yolk-yellow Ambassador taxi suddenly emerges from the crowd, only to vanish again, pursued by a garish tuk-tuk. Hundreds of pilgrims in their rainbow saris and T-shirts bind together temple and bazar, as they browse the market’s offerings for the triple-eyed black goddess with the golden lolling tongue. The more vivid the colour, the deeper the fervour. And the money’s rolling in.
But in this thrilling, blinding, overwhelming visual tapestry weaving together earth and heaven, it’s Sonali’s humble stall that catches my eye. Not even a stall, in fact – just a square of cotton cloth spread out along the kerbside. Sonali, dressed in a modest navy blouse and turquoise Tant sari, lays out her fruit and veg there. One of each. One by one. A maroon begun. A pure-white mulo. An amber kumro. A rich brown yam. A scarlet tomato. And one bright green papaya, as shiny as malachite. Each one polished in turn, then laid down with care, no speck of dust to taint its natural shade of perfection.
Sonali then sits back, squatting, barefoot, to watch the crowds rush past. She’s unconcerned by their pretermission. Her wares are not for sale. I watch her raise her chin, her gaze thrown once or twice towards the silver temple and its gaudy bazar, then coming back to rest, quiet, upon her own still pageant. The square of cotton cloth at her bare feet. The earthly fruits she grew. Their pure intensity of colour. Sonali’s offerings, laid out in consecration on a Kalighat kerb, to the divine unseen.
Angharad Price, January 2026