St. John’s Cathedral : A church steeped in history

Standing at 2/2 council house street near Rajbhaban in Kolkata, I didn’t recognise it as a church at first glance. The trees almost hid it from the view. A small stone plaque at the gate informed: ‘ St. John’s Church. The church of North India.’ After a small entry fee; whose proceeds would go to the ‘ needy and poor of Kolkata and to maintain St. John’s church and Job Charnock’s mausoleum’, I entered the compound. My interest was hightend by the name of Job Charnock,- the man who, it is claimed, established the city of Calcutta ( Kolkata ) after buying three villages from the local ‘ zamindar’.
As I took a few steps over the road leading to the church, I felt calm usually associated with such places. Although being at the heart of the bustling city, the noise didn’t reach here.
The churchyard was scattered with trees and bushes. Only at the side of the building, a lawn was maintained, lined with trees and flowering plants.
The two large marble plaques at the entrance declaring the historical significance of the building greeted me as I approached. ‘ The first stone of this building was laid under the auspices of hon’ble Warren Hastings, governor-general of India on the 6th day of the month of April 1784′. – one plaque read. The other acknowledged the donation of the church land by ‘ the maharaja Nabakrishna Bahadur’.
The brick and stone structure of the church was built by architect James Agg and was commonly known as ‘ Pathure Girja’( stone church). Stone was a rare commodity in those days in Kolkata. The stones were procured from the medieval ruins of Gaur and were shipped down the Hoogly river to Kolkata. The minute books of the church office still hold the story of plunder of the ruins of Gaur to build St John church. The church was among the first public buildings erected by the East India Company after Kolkata became the effective capital of British India.
I stepped inside. The cool and deem interior of the church felt inviting after the warm afternoon sun outside. It was a large hall with a high ceiling supported by smooth doric pillars. Long organ pipes covering a portion of the wall, a replica of the Last Supper over the altar and the long aisle completed the picture.
I stood there absorbing the atmosphere. It was not an ordinary church. The men involved in its construction were the men who influenced the fate of our nation. I could see a marble bust of Marquise Cornwallis under whose ‘auspices’ the church was ‘conscreated in 1787’.
There were other marble busts too of men of importance. But my attention was particularly diverted to the stone plaques on the wall which reminded me of a turbulent time in the not-so-distant past of our country. There was mention of the battle between the ‘ Choars’ and the ‘ Sikhs’ with the British army where two soldiers were killed; two black stones still remind us of their fate. There were many such plaques around of that nature. But what touched my soul was a simple marble block on the wall. It was erected by a grieving father,- a captain, in the memory of his dead wife and child – ‘ who died on the 21 Aug 1857 from the sear want of proper nutriment during the siege of Lucknow.’
The rebellion of 1857 had made its passage into the history books. But the utterings of a grieving father and husband, and the tragedy of a little soul were still etched on a piece of cold marble.
As I was coming out intending to see the mausoleum of Job Charnock, I met with a clergyman coming out of a room adjacent to the main hall.
‘ excuse me, father,- I asked pointing to the room he came from. – is there anything to see in there? He gestured and ushered me into the room.
-‘ That’s the chair of Warren Hestings, and the writing table.’ I looked eagerly. The table and chair were well maintained.
– ‘Have you seen the last supper in the church? This is the painter. His self-portrait. He pointed to a picture hanging on the wall. The painter was the British artist of German origin Johann Zoffany. I was thrilled, never expecting the surprise!
My last destination was the mausoleum which stood at the back of the churchyard. A simple brick structure painted white with lime.
There were other mausoleums too, erected, – some for the dead British soldiers who died for the cause of their empire, and some for the individuals who contributed to building it.
I stood among them as the afternoon sun started to set in.