Can Kolkata’s street life survive India’s record-breaking heatwaves?

By Sudipto Sanyal

On a sweltering Ramadan morning, Mohammad Noor Islam Mondal wipes the sweat from his face and lops the crown off a coconut with a menacing billhook (below). He gouges a hole, drills in a straw (which he calls a “pipe”), and hands it to me with a gap-toothed smile. “Try it,” he urges in Bengali, “it’s very sweet.” The coconut water is indeed sweet, but it is as hot as a cup of tea.

It is 42°C – seven degrees warmer than the average high for this time of year – and Mondal has been pedalling all over Salt Lake, a satellite town in north-east Kolkata, since 7am. He is a daabwallah, selling tender coconuts, or daab, from his thela, a modified cycle cart. His black-and-white gamchha, a thin cotton plaid that he’s wrapped like a turban around his head, is soaking wet. The heat index – what the temperature “feels like” in the shade when air temperature is considered alongside humidity – hit 48°C soon after sunrise. To make it through the day, Mondal has bought orange-flavoured rehydration salts and mixed them into five bottles of water that he has stuck into a corner of his cart.

The heat index – what the temperature “feels like” in the shade when air temperature is considered alongside humidity – hit 48°C soon after sunrise

Many of the perfectly edible coconuts in his thela have deteriorated outwardly in the sun; others remain a beautiful golden green but are rotten inside. A few potential customers notice the browned daab, crinkle their noses and walk on.

“Look at this mess,” Mondal complains. “This damn heat is ruining my business. As it is, I have fewer coconuts to sell these days, because they are all being sent to other cities, to Patna and Delhi and I don’t know where.” He grunts. “On top of that, this sun! Why is this happening in a month as blessed as this?”

Ramadan – the holy month of fasting in the Islamic calendar – derives from the Arabic root ramad (meaning scorching heat). Because the Muslim calendar year is shorter than the Gregorian, Ramadan moves through the seasons over a 33-year cycle. But in recent years, it has coincided with the longer and hotter heat waves singeing the Indian subcontinent. True to its etymological roots, Ramadan has become the “scorched month”.

Roughly 200m Muslims live in the Indo-Gangetic plains, which encompass eastern Pakistan, northern and eastern India, and most of Bangladesh. During Ramadan, observant Muslims stay away from food and drink from dawn until dusk; many refuse even to swallow their own saliva. But the practice of fasting – known here as roza, from the Persian word for “daily” – has become increasingly arduous for those who work outside. “I stopped doing roza after two days,” Mondal sighs. “How am I supposed to do it in this heat? It’s so hot I can’t even spit anything out. My spit has turned to dust.”

His cousin, who is also a daabwallah, has stopped going out so that he can stick to his roza. But Mondal does not have that luxury. He gestures to the heavens: “I hope He understands. Perhaps it’s a test. A very cruel test.”

Home to an estimated 20m people, the Kolkata Metropolitan Area is one of the most densely populated places on the planet. It is also heating up fast. Since 1950 Kolkata has recorded a 2.6°C rise in near-surface air temperature, the highest among the 20 megacities studied in a report released this year by the United Nations’ Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. The IPCC report shows that Kolkata is particularly vulnerable to becoming an urban “heat island” – the term for when cities suffer far higher temperatures than the surrounding countryside, owing to factors such as land use, building materials and emissions from human activity.

Many of the perfectly edible coconuts in Mondal’s thela have deteriorated outwardly in the sun. A few potential customers notice the browned daab, crinkle their noses and walk on

The effects of climate change on the city, and on India generally, have already been dire. Although there are big discrepancies between the data gathered by the Indian government and independent observers, it’s clear that heat-related deaths in India have increased in recent decades. Kolkata itself has become more prone to natural disasters. Super Cyclone Amphan in 2020 was the most powerful tropical storm to hit the Ganges delta in recorded history. Scientists are particularly concerned about the fact that, over the past 20 years, sea levels have risen more quickly than the global average in the Sundarbans, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the largest mangrove forest in the world, located barely 100km from Salt Lake. A large number of the area’s approximately 7.5m residents, on both the Indian and Bangladeshi sides of the border, could lose their homes and even their livelihoods within a few decades and be forced to move to Kolkata or Dhaka, Bangladesh’s capital.

Kolkata has long been a destination for climate refugees. Mondal, who is 53, moved here from Basirhat, a town on the Bangladesh border, almost 20 years ago, after the rains failed and the crops he had been farming died. When he started out as a daabwallah, a coconut cost 5 rupees; now, thanks to inflation and changing consumption patterns, he sells one for 50.

Mondal’s day begins at 4.30am, when he picks up his consignment from the wholesaler. After showering and having breakfast at home, he’s off on his thela by 7. He ranges across ten square kilometres every day, stopping to sell coconut water whenever a thirsty pedestrian hails him. (He makes a point of getting to the nearest spot of shade before he applies the brakes.) He also delivers standing orders to 126 addresses; at some houses, he asks for cold drinking water, or to douse his head under a backyard tap. “Not that it helps much”, he says, “because the tap water is almost boiling.”

Kolkata itself has become more prone to natural disasters. Super Cyclone Amphan in 2020 was the most powerful tropical storm to hit the Ganges delta in recorded history

Mondal sips coconut water all day and chomps on bits of malai, the mushy white flesh lining the inside of green coconuts. It is high in fibre, protein and the good sort of fat and traditionally eaten in the summer to stay cool. By lunchtime, he stops his cart by the underground station at Karunamoyee, Salt Lake’s biggest intersection, which is chock-a-block with commuters and hordes of zigzagging auto-rickshaws. He insists that this is the hottest summer he’s experienced and points to the giant, rainbow-striped garden umbrella that he has tied to his parked cart as evidence. “I never needed an umbrella before,” he grumbles.

Despite the umbrella, the scarf, and the water and malai, he has bloodshot eyes and a scratchy throat. “I’ve been feeling sick all day,” he says. “How can anyone stay healthy in this heat?” Perhaps that is why he offers his leftover malai to the many destitute people he meets on his route. “Don’t eat too much”, he warns a homeless woman, “or you’ll get a stomach ache.”

When Mondal first arrived in Kolkata years ago, he was often harassed by the police, and was forced to move from street to street simply for doing his job. He also briefly smuggled rice and grains from Bangladesh into India as a teenager; the two experiences have made him wary of cops. “But these people are nice,” he says, pointing to the six or seven constables directing traffic at the Karunamoyee crossing. “They even buy daab from me.”

One of the traffic constables is 29-year-old Priya Mondal (no relation to the daabwallah), who has been a police officer for ten years (above). Her younger colleagues call her Priyadi – the suffix is used to refer to older sisters – and defer to her judgment on traffic violations. On the day I speak to her, she is in her pristine white uniform, fingernails painted red and gold in the colours of East Bengal FC, one of India’s biggest football clubs. Her shift begins at 2pm, when the road is hot enough to burn a lizard. She’s covered her face with an enormous scarf, and only a pair of sunglasses peeks out. “I can’t take this blistering air anymore,” she complains.

“I’ve drunk at least six litres of water today,” Mondal says, embarrassed, “but I’ve peed only once. This is one hell of a summer”

Priya spies an off-duty policewoman walking on the other side of the avenue. Immediately, she calls her colleague and berates her. “Where’s your umbrella? Drink water!” she shouts into her headset.

A high-ranking officer stops his Royal Enfield motorcycle at a red light. “How are you sir?” Priya calls out.

“I’m fine,” the officer replies. “But you folks must be in bad shape.”

The heatwave has prompted a spike in the use of air-conditioning: in April, the Calcutta Electric Supply Corporation, which has provided power to the city since the late 19th century, saw daily demand for electricity reach record levels. But for those who work outside, relief can be hard to find. This year, Salt Lake’s police department has issued “summer kits” to traffic personnel, containing a water bottle, a mask, bags of glucose, tissues, an umbrella and a pair of aviator sunglasses. Although there are fans in police booths throughout the city, they usually do not offer an effective cooldown. “It’s like the booth is on fire,” Priya tells a colleague who is about to go in for a mid-afternoon break. “And the fan is making it worse.”

The wet-bulb temperature – a measurement that expresses how effectively the human body can cool down through sweating – is almost 30°C. (Most international agencies set a wet-bulb temperature of 31.5°C as the upper limit for normal outdoor activity; at 35°C, the body starts to bake itself.) I have willed myself into hanging around the intersection for a few hours, but it’s been almost unbearable. And I don’t have to deal with irate motorists.

“My uniform is sticking to my skin, I can’t take it anymore,” Priya groans. “My throat has become dry wood.”

As if on cue, a so-called “food on wheels” police van rolls up. Although these vans had originally been intended to serve nourishing thalis, or plate meals, to traffic police operating in more remote parts of the city, they have been repurposed to deliver water and other drinks to on-duty cops all over Salt Lake.

Priya gets a cold glass of Rooh Afza, a fragrant rose-tinted syrup, which is ordinarily used by Muslims in South Asia to break their roza fast. She holds another glass out to me, and, having seen me talking to the daabwallah earlier, she walks over to offer him some.

Mohammad Noor Islam Mondal’s sickness has lasted almost the whole week. His old Nokia buzzes frequently – his family checking up on him, reminding him to stay hydrated. “I’ve drunk at least six litres of water today,” he says, embarrassed, “but I’ve peed only once. This is one hell of a summer.”

On Eid al-Fitr – the festival marking the end of Ramadan – the rain clouds finally appear. The next day, as afternoon showers begin to wash away the heat, Mondal finds a dry patch under a mango tree. He sounds happy, even though people scurry for shelter, and he has few customers. “The inner peace, shanti, that I lost during Ramadan, when I couldn’t do roza – I found that shanti on Eid.” He sighs. “This rain has brought me peace. Great peace.” ■

Sudipto Sanyal is a writer in Kolkata and the host of “Songs of Comfort for Hypochondriacs and Panicking Lovers” on Radio Quarantine Kolkata

Photographs: Swastik Pal