Kol-ka-ta-ti-ki-di-do

It took me two days, one "you are seeing Kolkata in limbo", and one newspaper headline regressing to the colonial spelling of the city ("Cowardice in Calcutta"); to realize that the reason Kolkata appeared to be in this much of a reverie, was because there was a strike.


"Oh, that's why the only Bengali restaurant that was open made me eat upstairs out of public view."

Maoists!


All the buses and trams were completely empty, rolling around on their routes.


While there is no counter (pop) culture (the unanimous love for Bollywood) in India, there is definitely a real counter-culture in West Bengal, baring the hammer and sickle and carrying hoards of the population along with it. In fear and/or support, I'm not really sure.


But after two days of the city running with as skeleton with only a few muted operations; Kolkata came back.



Beedies.


British buildings.



Box-cars.



An air of minds.


The perpetual scent of the carbon monoxide oozing from ubiquitous charcoal burners, a world painted in Bengali script, a confluence of refined colonial style and innovation Indian logic. A hyper-sense buzz.


I fancy getting a crumbling decrepid apartment, where we can hold our heads high together during the monsoon.


Yes, Kolkata - you and me, dressed in pink.


Yar.

How-RAH

Can I put Howrah before Kolkata?


How-RAH.


They did assemble themselves as such.


I simply couldn't name a better place to enter West Bengal, clocking in fifteen minutes early on the watch of the Indian Rail: 6:45 am.


A mastodon of red-brick boasting with transit, of people running to and from, to burst from a lobby to a street with a hanging humidity announcing everyone's immediate closeness with the southern, eastern, coastal part of the country.


Yellow bubbles with four wheels assembled in lines, all homogenously called "Ambassadors." Luggage hands in red. Taxis in yellow. Howrah in red. Saris in yellow.


How-RAH.


I opted not to take a taxi.


A large bridge was leaning forward into the city; a well-wrought laboured work carrying people that were laboriously carrying goods.


It was this bridge that led me into the British abated area of BBD Bagh and into a morning of smooth, quiet streets; occasional chai-wallahs amid circulating vacant trams - a befuddling morning reverie that seemed to attest that away from the Northern cities, the pace really does slow down...


It was merely a trick.

Boycotting Buddha-Bodhi-Bodhgaya

Ladies and Gentlemen (available in four languages):


"He reached enlightenment right there, to the left of the Muslim graveyard and behind the field of bubble-cloud tour buses. Behind the dust, dust, dust; behind the omnipresent beggars of Bihar swarming here not for Buddha, but for you foriegners shedding cash, cash, cash. Please partake in prostrations at the Mahabodhi temple, and cheesecake at the cafe."

Enlightenment, arre!


It started with my attempts to gain acceptance to a meditation retreat - ten days without talking or writing or reading would surely clear me of my mellon collie mind, but no - I applied too late, and instead arrived in Bodhgaya to hop between its diverse consumer offerings of internet cafes, restaurants and travel agencies. Even the monks were shopping.


I participated in intramural sports - me against the mosquitos, in my lovely chalky white-walled room. I'd say I slayed close to fifty, with the back of my Hindi notebook (now a truly branded memory of India), and protected myself from their fleeting buzzes while sleeping by covering my head with a "Ram Sita Ram" imprinted sarong. A lesson in the preventative measures against mosquito-borne illness.

Arre - I concede that being tagged as "cynical" or "sarcastic" comes in frequent regularity by those whom I tend to hit it off with in hearty discourse. But...but...here's a pretty picture:


"No, no...I like it. It's a nice change from the happy-go-lucky traveler."

I attest: fuck this; I'm going to Howrah.