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.
No comments:
Post a Comment