Beyond Comfort: Finding Connection in Kolkata

Photo by: Meghan Dineen

I watched a tiny gray gecko scurry along the chipped, faded-yellow cement walls of what would be my room for the next two months. It moved with a calm, almost indifferent confidence, unbothered by my presence. I couldn’t help but wonder where it was headed—hopefully not to my bed in the middle of the night. I shivered, pushing the thought aside. If I’d had WiFi, I might have Googled whether geckos in India were poisonous or prone to approaching humans. Alas, I did not have wifi, or any means of technological connection. Instead, all I had was my data-less iPhone 5, equipped with an extremely limited amount of pre-downloaded songs, a notebook, and a small group of travel companions. 

From where I lay on the rock-hard single cot, I could hear the world outside my open window. Shuffling feet, men shouting in a blend of unfamiliar languages, the incessant honking of cars, and the cheerful jingling of bike bells formed a chaotic symphony. The air hung thick with the mingling aromas of sweat, spices, cooking smoke, and burning trash. It was an unfiltered introduction to the reality of staying near one of the busiest markets in Kolkata, India—a city, that at the time, had a population of 21 million.

“I couldn’t help but feel like I was on another planet—completely disconnected from the ease of Western norms.”

As I drifted off to sleep to the busy hum of my new neighborhood, I couldn’t help but feel like I was on another planet—completely disconnected from the ease of Western norms. No quick texts to friends, no mindless scrolling through social media. As much as I loved traveling, I sometimes found myself retreating into the familiar—reaching for my phone, clinging to small comforts when faced with the unknown. But this time, there was no escape. And maybe that was a good thing. I didn’t know exactly what I was searching for here or what I expected to gain—only that I wanted to be present, and open to whatever this place had to teach me.

* * *

I sat rinsing the day’s grime from my punjabi in a five-gallon bucket of lukewarm water, in our makeshift laundry room that also doubled as the bathroom. Dust settled into everything, and even the simplest tasks—ordering food, washing laundry, finding transportation—felt like small battles. It was exhausting, overstimulating at times. I found myself missing the ease of home—hot showers, clean streets, conversations that didn’t require careful navigation. But as I scrubbed the delicate cotton fabric of my tunic, I reminded myself that my frustrations were temporary. Just outside our accommodation, life was far harsher for many. Families lived and worked on the same sidewalks where some had literally been born. Kolkata was vibrant, diverse, and deeply spiritual—a city of stunning beauty and overwhelming poverty. At times, it was hard to reconcile the extremes.

Photo: Meghan Dineen

I thought back to one of my first days in the city. I’d bought the punjabi I was currently washing from a shop called Sunshine. The two brothers who owned it greeted us with an incredible warmth. They helped us sort through a kaleidoscopic mess of colorful fabrics, offering chai and even gifting us anklets before we left. Their hospitality stunned me, as did the generosity of so many others I met. I’d encountered people who had so little, but gave freely to make us feel welcome.

Another time, my friends and I spent the day wandering through a local park, sketchbooks in hand, quickly discovering that art could bridge the language barrier. People, especially children, loved having their portraits drawn. With each finished sketch, we’d hand it over, watching their faces light up with pride and delight. It was a simple yet powerful way to connect—proof that words weren’t always necessary to share a meaningful moment. 

“It [travel] challenges your assumptions, forces you to adapt, and—if you let it—shows you that growth and connection often lie just beyond discomfort.”

Travel isn’t always comfortable. Even when you’re staying in luxury accommodations—which, I think I’ve made abundantly clear that I wasn’t—it still pulls you out of the familiarity of your own home, culture, and routines. It challenges your assumptions, forces you to adapt, and—if you let it—shows you that growth and connection often lie just beyond discomfort.

Photo by: Meghan Dineen

I did have one moment of weakness. If there’s one thing that has always brought me comfort, it’s music. Ever since I was little, I clung to the radio like it could save my life. So, when my friends and I heard about an upscale mall with air conditioning and strong WiFi—a luxury we desperately craved—we made it our mission to check it out. Word was that the best WiFi in the building could be found at, of all places, Chili’s. We started our day there, but eventually, my friends wandered off to explore other parts of the mall. I stayed put. I had one goal and one goal only: to download Taylor Swift’s recently released 1989 album.

At the time, I had been surviving on a meager selection of songs I had purchased before the trip—this was before Apple Music’s streaming service existed, and I was dying for something new. But as it turned out, the WiFi at Chili’s wasn’t quite as strong as advertised. I spent hours waiting for just 13 tracks to download. Still, the commitment was worth it. Over the course of my time in India, that album became my lullaby, helping to drown out the marketplace madness outside my window at night. More than anything though, it provided me a small connection to home when I needed it most.

Photo by: Meghan Dineen

On one of our final days in Kolkata, my friends and I had dinner at a cozy spot called Bluebird Cafe. Just outside, two Indian women were offering henna tattoos, and we couldn’t resist the idea. After our meal (veggie burgers with fried egg), I stepped out and sat down on the sidewalk beside one of the women as she began painting intricate patterns onto my hand with slow, practiced movements. The night air was cool, and I shivered slightly in my short-sleeved punjabi as dry leaves drifted down from the trees, their soft rustling blending with the quiet hum of the street. Looking up, I caught sight of the pale sliver of the moon, glowing faintly against the deep, royal blue sky. At that moment, it struck me—this was my life. This surreal, beautiful, messy experience was mine. 

When the women finished with our henna, they hugged us warmly and bought us small cups of chai. The sweetness of the tea and their heartfelt kindness left a lasting impression, one that made the night feel even more special, and concluded our trip in the most meaningful way. 

I remember the strain. The heat. The dust. The relentless noise. Overstimulation. The exhaustion. The packed buses and the thick, humid air. Trash-filled streets. But just as vividly, I remember the kindness of strangers. The way children’s eyes lit up when we handed them their sketched portraits—a small gesture that made them feel seen. I remember getting lost in the markets’ confusing maze and the man who helped us find our way. Kolkata was overwhelming, chaotic, and beautiful. And in its extremes, I found moments of special connection that surpassed language and culture.