Kolkata’s confused Christian theologians are torn between Western faith, colonial hangovers, and Indian cultural roots
Ah, the tragicomic opera of the Indian Christian theologian — that peculiar species of confused intellectual wandering between the Vatican and Varanasi, with a foot in each but a shoe missing on both. The story unfolds in Kolkata, that decaying colonial concert hall where faith and farce perform a duet every Sunday morning.
Here, Christianity isn’t so much a religion as it is an accessory — like a necktie, a guitar, or a faint British accent. The archetypal Kolkata Christian must be educated (or at least appear so), cultured (that is, capable of quoting Tagore and Tolkien with equal hesitation), fluent in English (with the generous help of “actually” and “basically”), able to play the guitar (preferably “How Great Thou Art”), sip wine with visible sophistication, and discuss “dating” with the air of a man who once saw a rom-com in the 1990s.
The faithful adult believer knows the holy trinity of survival: pay the church subscription, praise the Bishop’s latest imported car, and keep quiet about the land sale. Theology? Oh, that’s the mysterious word whispered in seminaries where both teacher and student pretend to know what it means — like two blind men discussing color. A few clever souls, detecting the scent of opportunity under the steeple, climb the holy ladder: they master the sacred arts of collection counting, bishop-flattering, and committee manipulation, until they are declared “leaders,” a word which in church circles usually means “the person holding the donation box keys.”
The theological colleges themselves are minor factories of ecclesiastical bewilderment. Students arrive thinking theology means explaining Jesus to Hindus in bad English; they leave believing it means quoting Karl Barth in worse English. Professors, meanwhile, are valiant champions of mediocrity — sincere yet hollow, proudly wielding master’s and honorary doctorates from the illustrious University of Nowhere, earned by producing theses so unremarkable that even their authors can’t recall the titles a year later. Publications in ghostly journals with circulation smaller than a parish choir add holy gravitas to their CVs.
Every now and then, a white visitor from England or America descends like a colonial ghost, bringing new “ideas” — which usually means new PowerPoint slides and old superiority. The brown theologians, struck by the holy light of Western validation, nod furiously and begin to dream in Queen’s English. Inferiority complex becomes their liturgical chant. Desi Kolkata Christians look at Anglo-Indians with envy — their hair, their accents, their Park Street flats, their schooling in Jora Girja institutions, and, above all, the Bishop’s unmistakable fondness for them.
And the denominations! A carnival of contradictions. The Catholics are disciplined and hierarchical, with the spiritual grace of Roman bureaucracy; the Marthomites treat church politics like a joint family business; the Orthodox wear their beards as badges of theology; the Catholics counter with their smooth chins and Latin pride. The CNI, meanwhile, clings to its real gospel — real estate. Sell the property, and lo, the church will ascend to heaven, never to return.
Identity, however, remains the eternal migraine. The first-generation converts tried to juggle Durga Puja with devotion to Jesus, a sort of liturgical cross-dressing. The second generation, ashamed of their father’s compromise, became invisible — Christians in secret, Bengalis by day. The third generation, bored with both, aims only for the promised lands of London, Sydney, or Toronto, where Christianity comes with central heating.
Attempts at creating an “Indian theology” have been as doomed as they are earnest. Poor Brahmabandhab Upadhyay tried to blend the Vedantas with the Vatican — the Catholics politely excommunicated him for his trouble, and he retreated back to Sanatan Dharma. Others tried bhakti-flavored Christianity, but church bureaucracy snuffed it out faster than incense. Then came the Dalit and Tribal theologies, brave attempts that ended in tragedy: Dalits remained Dalits, tribals remained tribals, and the European dream remained a dream.
The Indian theologian, caught between Rome and the Ganges, speaks a language neither side fully understands. The West wants numbers — more converts, more souls, more reports. The theologian obliges, funding permitting. The Hindu sees him as an awkward imitation of Hindu — chanting bhajans to Jesus, lighting diyas before the crucifix, and calling it “inculturation.” It’s neither here nor there, and both sides know it.
Then there’s the academic catastrophe — the theologians who cannot read Greek or Hebrew, yet lecture on “original meanings.” They trip over contradictions in the New Testament like children in Sunday School: Jesus says one thing, Paul says another, and faith evaporates between the verses. The master’s degree changes nothing; the confusion simply becomes more sophisticated. Protestants gloat over “victory in Christ,” Catholics romanticize persecution, and both compete to see who can misunderstand the Bible with greater confidence.
At the end of this ecclesiastical comedy, we find the Indian theologian — pious, polite, politically impotent, and existentially confused. He believes theology is about humility, not realizing it’s really about property, power, and public relations. He dreams of being Western, prays in English, and apologizes for his brownness between hymns. Yet beneath all this colonial clutter, he is still unmistakably Indian — resigned, tolerant, and too weary to care.
So he does what every good Bengali Christian does: he minds his business, plays his guitar, attends the occasional Sunday service, and knows, deep down, that whether one dies as a Hindu or a Christian in Kolkata, the cremation smoke rises the same way.
Tanmoy Bhattacharyya
16th October 2025
