The mobile clock has just turned four. A Chinese woman is feeding a flock of pigeons at the entrance to Bow Barracks - one of the original addresses of the Anglo-Indian community of Calcutta. Bow after Bowbazar, the area it is located in, and barracks, because the quarters dating back to the 1900s were originally meant to house British troops.

The three-storey buildings arranged in a rectangle with their little balconies, and bottle-green fenestrations, clearly belong to a different era. As the eyes surveyed the architecture, they spied an old lady in pink with a silver head in one of the top floor balconies, bending over with curiosity.

Is there someone here who can talk about Bow Barracks past? The Chinese woman directs us to Felix Augustine, secretary of the Bow United Organisation that has been looking after the place for more than a decade now. Felix redirects us to "Uncle Phillips". "He is 83; remembers everything," he says.

Iva Phillips, a much-retired engineer, lives on the third floor of one of the apartment clusters. It is a steep, dark climb to his place. But every landing has a window and though heavily netted, light comes streaming in through these. The nameplate on the green wooden door reads B.R. Phillips, after Phillips' father - Bertram Russell. He had taken this very flat on an annual rent of Rs 45 from the Calcutta Improvement Trust, the oldest urban development agency of the city.

We are ushered into a medium-size drawing room by a young woman. Uncle Phillips grants us an audience, but he is treading on the side of caution, saying all the right things and not for the asking. "Bow Barracks has been well-maintained by the members of the organisation. It has remained almost the same from what I remember from my childhood." Before going any further, he picks up a small red bag and unfolds a cord - his hearing aid.

Phillips' mother was from Scotland. The motherless girl had come to India with her father who had got a job with the Assam Bengal Railway. "Tracks were being laid between Bengal and Assam and jungles were being cleared for this. Grandfather had to be away for long stretches, so he sent my mother to a boarding school in Calcutta..." Phillips' reminiscing tends to waylay him.

In between the meanderings we learn that his father was from England. And his Indian genes would be from which side, we ask, but he cannot seem to hear. If he had a Scottish mother and an English father, how does it make him an Anglo-Indian? No reply. The hearing aid does not seem to be working.

Instead, he continues, "These quarters were built for the British troops - there are one, two, and three-bedroom flats here. The troops were supposed to be allotted these according to their ranks." But the troops apparently refused the offer - they preferred Fort William. And that is when the flats were opened up to the Anglo-Indian community. The Phillipses moved into their three-bedroom flat in 1916.

Bow Barracks was designed by Halsey Ricardo, the architect of Howrah Station. "The architecture is minimalist. Repetitive on the whole. A grotto was built in 1967, in the passage between the sixth and seventh blocks, for the residents to come together and pray," says Shubhayu Modak, architect and one of the founders of Sthapatya, an online architecture magazine.

Phillips' earliest memory of the Barracks is from the 1940s. "I was a boy when World War II happened. I remember how, whenever the siren would go off, we would run to the ground floor, where a red room had been constructed for us to hide in. Every building had one such room. One evening father and grandfather took me, my sister and brother to the terrace. From a gap in the door we watched the dog fight of the fighter planes and how they shot at each other. I remember thinking - the sky would fall down."

Another time he remembers running down to the trench that was dug in the playground at the entrance of the Barracks. "I stayed there until dusk," Phillips recalls.

He also has memories of the pre and post-Independence riots. "The place near Tiretti Bazar had become a slaughter house - loot and slaughter," he shudders. He, however, insists that none of it touched the Barracks.

The physical exhaustion and the pressure of time travel are too much for Phillips. He will meet us another day, another time.

On Day 2, a fresh-faced Phillips gets the door. He has just got back from the saloon, but is slightly breathless from the climb up. He is not keeping well either. When he recovers, it is to voice a litany of complaints. Price rise. Corruption. It takes some persuading to take him back to Bow Barracks past.

Pre-Independence Anglo-Indians occupied an intermediate position between the British and the Indians in Indian society as well as the service sector. They were recruited in the Railways, the Post and Telegraph. That changed post 1947. Calcutta witnessed an exodus of Anglo-Indians. Phillips, too, recalls neighbours who left for Australia, the UK and Canada. A fond cousin set up a confectioners' in Melbourne. Phillips himself didn't want to leave? "No. I could never imagine living anywhere but the Barracks," says he.

We tell him about the Chinese lady we met on the first day. He nods. It's a mixed bunch at the Barracks now. There are Bengalis, Chinese, South Indians living here. In his building, there are three Muslim families.

There is a lull in the conversation. Phillips is catching his breath, trying to remember details, while we look around the room. The walls are covered with photographs - a small boy with a sombre expression, a couple in party finery, a little girl - this one has a garland around the frame...

Phillips continues. Even with so many departures life in Bow Barracks was fun. "In the 1960s, December 23 was the day when all Anglo-Indians from Park Street, Kidderpore and Esplanade would come here. We would put on music and dance. Those days it was all ballroom dancing." Clubs came up in the 1970s and that's when things got chaotic, according to Phillips. Was he part of the party crowd? He smirks, "Oh, I was famous."

That day when we take leave of him, it is a bit late. In the rusty dusk, we catch a glimpse of a frail figure, this time in a nightie glowering at us from one of the balconies.

It's Christmas Day when we go back to Bow Barracks once more. The whole place is lit up with Chinese lights. There is a Christmas tree in the middle of the blocks and a nativity scene in one corner. Unlike the other days, today, there are a lot of people around - though most seem to be outsiders, Bow Barracks tourists. Stationed at the entrance to the block that is Phillips' address is a huge speaker.

All the blocks have been cleaned up. Phillips' home is also sparkling. Fresh coat of paint. New sofa covers. Christmas tree. Bouquets in every vase in every corner.

Phillips offers us cake. Is it homemade? No. But the mention of homemade cake takes him back in time. He recalls how his mother would mix the dough at home and then send it to the bakery next door for baking. The Barua Bakery has since been sold; all that is left of it is a cake shop. The community now sends the cakes to a bakery in Damzen Lane. What about the mulled wine? Phillips is emphatic, "That is something the Goan families living here made. Anglo-Indians have nothing to do with it."

"Our way of celebrating Christmas and New Year was different," says Phillips. "We would have a cycle competition from here to Burdwan. Carrom competitions. Table tennis. Sporting activities were woven through all festivities."

There is no end to mining the past, but it is Christmas Day and there are things to do, people to meet, meals to be shared. We say our goodbyes. In the winter afternoon, as we step out of the musty building and into the sunshine, George Michael sings Last Christmas I gave you my heart. Eyes instinctively look for our lady of the balcony and there she is, standing under a golden star, still glowering, keeping vigil.