Often, in Kolkata, you feel as if you are in the streets of Rome a century after the Empire fell; people living in the ruins. What was once something is now something else, something with people in it, hanging out their clothes, cooking on braziers heated with cow dung. Sheep are herded through the streets. Hawks dive from the eaves and nest in the alcoves of Anglican cathedrals that house the crumbling graves and memorials of the conquerors, what only a blink ago was part of the world's greatest empire. People camp in the old Christian graveyards, or cows graze there or stand outside shops or on the boulevards amidst ten thousand honking yellow Ambassador cabs. The noise never stops. If there were a moment of silence, Kolkata might collapse and forever disappear.

from "Howrah Station Blues," Are We Not There Yet?

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