From the window, the Hooghly curled like a dark ribbon under the wing lights, and the city slowly dissolved into scattered orange dots. Airports have a strange democracy — tired families, business travellers glued to laptops, a backpacker chasing Europe — all momentarily suspended between places. As the aircraft climbed into the quiet blue darkness, the television screens flickered with news updates about the escalating Iran-Israel-US conflict. Flights across parts of the Middle East had been disrupted and rerouted because of the war, a reminder that even the most personal journeys unfold against the restless stage of geopolitics.
Somewhere over the Arabian Sea, the cabin lights dimmed, and the aircraft settled into that long transcontinental silence. I thought of how strange travel is: you leave a noisy Indian city and wake up in another civilisation entirely. By the time the plane descended toward Brussels, dawn had begun spreading a pale gold across the sky. Belgium appeared first as neat fields and orderly towns, so different from Kolkata’s sprawling unpredictability. The runway glistened faintly under morning drizzle — the kind of European rain that seems to whisper rather than fall.
Brussels greeted me with the quiet efficiency of a city used to strangers. The airport train slid into the city centre, passing through suburbs where brick houses stood with the calm dignity of centuries. Soon the streets began to narrow, and the architecture changed — ornate buildings, tall windows, and cobblestone squares that looked as if history had been polished rather than erased. Brussels, after all, grew into a major European trading centre centuries ago and today stands as both Belgium’s capital and the political heart of the European Union.
Yet what struck me first was not the monuments but the pace. The city seemed to move gently, almost thoughtfully. A café owner wiped tables while humming something in French. Cyclists glided past without honking. For someone arriving from Kolkata — where traffic horns are practically a language — the quiet felt almost surreal.
Belgium itself is a rather curious country. Around twelve million people live here, but the nation is divided into distinct linguistic worlds. The north, Flanders, speaks Dutch. The southern region, Wallonia, speaks French. Then there is Brussels — the capital — officially bilingual, though the reality often feels more complicated. A Walloon might rarely speak Dutch; a Fleming might avoid French. Someone once joked that the Belgian national football team uses English because it is the only language everyone understands.
The linguistic divide seeps into politics as well. Belgium’s governments are famously fragile coalitions stitched together from multiple parties representing different regions and identities. It once took more than 500 days to form a government here, and another coalition required nearly two years of negotiations. For such a small country — one you can drive across in a few hours — the political machinery can seem surprisingly unwieldy. Yet the country functions, quietly and efficiently, as if accustomed to living with its own contradictions.
Later that afternoon, I reached the Grand Place, the famous square at the heart of Brussels. Its guildhalls glittered under the afternoon sun like elaborate wedding cakes carved in stone. Tourists wandered slowly, pointing at sculptures and towers, but the square itself had the air of a theatre that had seen centuries of performances. Belgium, for all its small size, carries a remarkable cultural legacy — folklore festivals, parades, medieval towns and culinary traditions that stretch far beyond its borders.
Standing there, I remembered another square thousands of kilometres away — College Street crossing in Kolkata. It too has history layered into its pavements, though the architecture is less polished and the chaos far more enthusiastic. In Kolkata, tea sellers shout over the rumble of buses; in Brussels, waiters glide quietly with trays of waffles and coffee. Yet both places share something oddly similar: the sense that people linger. Cities where people linger always feel alive.
One evening, I wandered into a small café near the Sablon district. The menu proudly announced Belgian specialities — waffles, fries, and beer brewed in monasteries. Belgium is famous for these simple pleasures, along with its chocolates and its deeply rooted culinary culture.
The waiter asked where I was from. When I said Kolkata, he smiled as if he knew the city only from stories.
I told him about tramlines and Durga Puja pandals glowing like temporary palaces.
He nodded politely and then said something unexpected.
“Your city must be very loud.”
I laughed. “Yes,” I said. “But the noise is part of its soul.”
Later that night, back in my hotel room, I turned on the television. News channels continued to debate the widening war in West Asia. Oil prices were surging, and analysts warned that the conflict between Iran, Israel and the United States could reshape global politics and energy markets.
It felt strange to watch these reports while sitting in the peaceful heart of Europe. Brussels, with its diplomatic buildings and careful neutrality, seemed far removed from missile strikes and airspace closures. Yet the war hovered invisibly even here — in flight paths, fuel prices, and anxious headlines.
Travel often reveals these invisible threads. You begin to see how connected the world really is. A conflict thousands of kilometres away can alter airline routes, change conversations in cafés, or even shape the mood of travellers. The global map is less a collection of borders than a network of ripples.
The next morning, I walked through Parc de Bruxelles, where the early light filtered through bare trees and pigeons strutted with aristocratic confidence. The calm reminded me unexpectedly of the Maidan in Kolkata on a winter morning — that brief hour when the city breathes slowly before the day erupts into noise.
Cities, I realised, are like people. They carry different temperaments but share similar rhythms — waking, working, worrying, celebrating. Brussels may be the bureaucratic capital of Europe, with its museums, historic squares and diplomatic corridors, but it also feels like a city comfortable with contemplation.
And perhaps that is what travel ultimately teaches. You arrive expecting difference — new food, new architecture, new languages. But somewhere between a Belgian café and a Kolkata memory, you begin to notice the quiet similarities instead.
On my last evening in Brussels, the sky turned pink over the rooftops and church towers. People gathered in small groups in the square, sipping beer and laughing softly. For a moment, the world felt strangely balanced — a peaceful European evening unfolding even as distant wars filled the news.
I thought again of that night flight leaving Kolkata, the city shrinking beneath the wing lights. Travel does not erase the world’s troubles. But it reminds us that beyond every headline there are ordinary streets, quiet cafés and conversations — small islands of normal life holding their ground against the storm.