Motorbikes, rickshaws powered by people and bicycles, feet, bullocks, horse, boat, auto rickshaw, car, plane and cab; modes of getting about in Calcutta. No decent person would ride on a human pulled rickshaw as the men are thinner than carrot shavings and smaller than mustard seeds. Only a fool would ride a horse around the main square as the animals are so undernourished you can hear their guts grumble and see the air between their ribs. As those who have journeyed here prior to me, and those after, the cruel absurdity of poverty parallel with fullness and joy is wrenched of sense.
My preferred mode travel machine is the auto rickshaw. Three wheels of dangerous wonder, snip snap between traffic and four to a shaw, the other three I have no idea who they are or where they are going. Bodies smell of fried fish, alcohol, tea, incense, sweat and hair conditioner. My body would smell of milk and tangerines, foods I consume like a baby monkey.
The script on view would delight any and every reader or writer ; Indian languages flood the streets and newspapers. The songs on public transport range from electronic hindi anthems to national anthems and most hum whilst going about their duties. Where I stay the hummingbirds flick about to the tunes of stainless steel, megaphones and international voices in the stairwells.
My voice is mostly silent here, too much listening to do and, in comparison with all the tales I hear, my life is less interesting because I know about it.
