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.