Kolkata makes a person inefficient, which seems impossible when one looks at the people working in the streets, but a look at the babu-class, the petty bourgeois proves my point: sluggish, self-enamored, plodding.
I am productive on days when I hole in, yesterday with a bottle of very cheap Maharastra wine--and by cheap I mean the taste of it not, the price--and I made some decisions, like adding a mad man to the story, and so on.
Went to Dhapa, a village on the land-fill/wetlands east of Kolkata. The village survives by picking through the metropolis' landfill. The smell of shit is a sharp, almost sweet fragrance, spiced by unknowable strains of Coliform.
This is all time I have today, in Sudder Street, the Thamel of Kolkata: a picture of what tourism in Nepal would look like under communism.