There are spaces that you enter with your body...
and then there are spaces that you enter with your soul.
When I walked into Trincas, I didn’t feel like I had stepped into a restaurant. I felt like I had
crossed a delicate line into a parallel world, one stitched together by memory, music, and time.
The air was golden, not from any spotlight, but from a quiet warmth. That quiet kind of golden
you only find in memories you didn’t know you still held.
Then suddenly, it hit me. The smell of freshly baked apple pie. Cinnamon and butter filled the
air, laced with the sweet promise of vanilla ice cream. And somewhere behind it all, I could smell
makhmali cheese kebabs and the gentle hiss of a sizzler being served.
The red cushioned chairs with sleek black frames, the soft glimmer of chandeliers, the whisper
of jazz melting into conversation... Trincas didn’t shout. It enchanted. And within that
enchantment, I saw the quiet architect of it all.
Anand Puri.
But the first time I ever saw Anand wasn’t in person. It was on Instagram. He was telling a story,
casually and charmingly, about an impromptu trip to Nepal. He’d booked flights at the last
minute, landed there on a whim, and found himself attending a full-blown mixed martial arts
match. He smiled while describing how he incidentally sat next to a beauty pageant winner. It
struck me immediately. Here was someone who didn’t just collect stories. He lived them.
He’s tall, effortlessly handsome, and has the kind of striking presence you’d expect from a
model. Yet, there is a gentleness in how he moves, speaks, and listens. A groundedness.
Someone just as comfortable exploring mountain trails in Nepal as he is restoring brass handles
in a vintage Calcutta restaurant.
That mix of spontaneity and soul. That’s Anand.
Before he began collecting the stories of Calcutta’s past, Anand was quietly building his own. He
studied at Cornell University, spent time living in New York and Boston, and eventually returned
to India, where he ran a boutique bed-and-breakfast in Delhi. Over nine years, it became one of
the capital’s most loved and celebrated stays. Personalised, elegant, and full of soul.
And then came the moment of stillness. A shift. A gentle pull that called him back to his roots.
Something deeper was waiting in Calcutta.
When Anand returned, it was to lend his skills to the family legacy. Trincas, a heritage restaurant
established in 1927, had been under the Puri family’s care for 60 years. He stepped in to give
the restaurant a fresh digital voice and greater exposure. That was the plan.
But as Trincas prepared to celebrate 60 years under the Puri family and 50 years of Usha Uthup
performing there, Anand helped his father plan the event. It began with the idea of one grand
evening. But what unfolded was so powerful, so full of connection, that it turned into five
full-scale, deeply emotional celebrations. He helped curate everything, from the programming to
how the food would be served at the table.
And that’s when something changed. Anand began to see Trincas not as a business, but as a
living archive.
Then came the pandemic.
Park Street went quiet. The doors shut. Anand started arriving alone, entering through the back
door, walking past shuttered shops and empty streets. He sat inside the silence, thinking.
Repairing. Restoring. Reflecting. He began to notice the cracks. Not just in the paint or the
woodwork, but in memory itself. And he wanted to fix that too.
With patience and care, he began to gather stories. From old patrons. Former staff. Musicians.
Families. Anyone who had loved Trincas or been shaped by it. He listened. He asked. He
documented.
And from that silence, the Trincas Timeline Project was born.
Each entry on the timeline was crafted with detail. For a single post, Anand sometimes spoke to
30 or 40 people. Verifying facts, chasing leads, collecting memories. This wasn’t nostalgia for
nostalgia’s sake. It was about honouring what mattered.
One day, a young journalist named Reeti paused at an old brass door handle inside the
restaurant. She leaned in and said, “This was designed by my grandfather, Mr. Kamal
Mazumdar. We have the same ones at home.” Her grandfather had been a designer in the '60s
and '70s. And there it was. His touch, still here, still holding the door open.
Another time, Anand discovered a photograph from 1967 of his classmate’s parents dancing at
Trincas. He turned it into a mural, shaped like a postage stamp. A mark of permanence. “Trincas
is a stamp of the soul of Calcutta,” he reflected. And anyone who’s been there knows it’s true.
But one of the most moving discoveries came from across the globe.
A vintage sepia-tinted video surfaced online. A soft, dreamlike glimpse of Park Street in the
1960s, filmed from a balcony at Queen’s Mansion, directly across from Trincas. The clip showed
Moulin Rouge, Kwality, and Trincas glowing gently in the night. Like many others, I had seen it.
Shared it. Watched it over and over.
Later, Anand told me how he connected with the man behind the footage. William Shepard, now
in his sixties and living in England. The film had been shot by William’s father, who had just
bought a new camera and was standing on the balcony with his wife and a friend, testing it out.
Years later, William gladly shared the footage with Anand and introduced him to his sister, who
told him stories of dancing with her boyfriends at Trincas.
And then William said something that stopped me in my tracks.
“Though I live in England now, I’ll always be a Calcuttawala.”
That is what Anand Puri is preserving.
Not just a venue. Not just an era.
But a feeling.
Because Trincas has always been more than walls and chandeliers.
It’s a place where movements have begun.
This is where Usha Uthup, draped in her trademark Kanjeevaram saree, broke barriers in the
1960s. Singing Peggy Lee’s “Fever” and claiming space for women on stage. It’s where, in
2024, she belted out “Flowers” by Miley Cyrus and broke the internet with her iconic rendition.
This is where generations have found their rhythm. Where someone, somewhere, might have
fallen in love for the first time. Celebrated a birthday, an anniversary, a promotion. Where they
saw live music, danced without inhibition, tasted Continental food for the first time, or walked
into their very first grown-up restaurant.
The memories here don’t end. They echo.
Today, the stories continue to come in, one by one, piece by piece. People message Anand with
old photos, handwritten menus, matchboxes, and memories. And he treats each one like it’s
gold.
The Trincas stage has also opened to voices that once had none. Young hip-hop artists, queer
performers, poets, indie musicians. He gave them the mic before most venues would. Because
Trincas isn’t just about remembering the past. It’s also about nurturing the future.
His name, Anand, means bliss. And maybe that’s what he’s been bringing all along. To Trincas,
to those who walk in, to the memories he helps uncover, and to a city that often forgets its own
magic.
Maybe thirty years from now, on my hundredth visit to Trincas, I’ll be sitting in a quiet corner.
There will be live music playing. The chandeliers will be glowing. The laughter will sound
familiar. And someone next to me will ask,
“Have you been coming here long?”
And I’ll smile. The kind of smile that holds time.
“Yes,” I’ll say. “A long time ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Anand Puri.”
They’ll look around. At the walls full of stories, the stage still alive. And maybe they’ll whisper,
“I’m glad someone cared enough to keep this going.”
Because Trincas will still be standing.
The music will still be playing.
Not just forever.
But for as long as Calcutta stays what it has always been.
A city full of joy.
A city full of anand.