Corporatist Rule for India? (India Blog 17)

Corporatist Rule for India? (India Blog 17)

Monday 10 December. 5:00 Morning. Kolkata (Calcutta)

There was a big argument going on in the street last night. One guy was just shouting to the top of his lungs for the longest time. It is a matter of live or die and I don’t think they have much to lose if they die. One sees these guys sleeping on the sidewalks in the daytime, wrapped up in some old rag of a blanket and it seems like they are just laying there and suffering. They are just living it out till they die literally on the spot and someone comes and picks up their body.

I saw one person, a man, wrapped up in a dirty blanket on the sidewalk just nearby the hotel yesterday. There were flies swarming around him. (Another call to prayer is going down now. They need more prayer.) Flies were sitting on that dirty blanket. I wondered if the guy was already dead. People usually walk in the road, anyway, not the sidewalk. There are so many obstructions. On the sidewalks, people just go around the wrapped-up bodies.

Well, people walk on the roads in Turkey too. I am very used to that.

Society is badly broken with that going on. Mother Teresa was just a sort of band-aid for the misery and poverty. I cannot say that what she was doing was not good and kind, but I can say that it is just a meliorative, a palliative that can do nothing to reach or address the root if the problem. Broken down society, broken down world.

At the same time, there is a lot of closeness in families, big families. Sometimes communalism emerges. And people try to put one in a box: Muslim, Christian, Hindu, Buddhist, American, British, French, Bangladeshi. And sometimes there is hatred for what one seemingly is.

I get the idea that USA or American propaganda has worked here and I am embarrassed when guys (I have not talked to a single woman yet in this country in casual conversation), when people come out with big compliments about “America.” I don’t know if they are serious or just trying to please me.

I get the idea that they are much more favourable toward America than the Turks, who are just about one-hundred percent cynical, not believing anything that the USA puts out. Recent figures showed that the US image was the lowest in Turkey of any country in the world. Largely a result of the US screwing around in Iraq, Syria and Iran. Causing trouble everywhere.

I have to get a shower this morning before those Australians get up and use up all the hot water!

I noticed that the reviews of Calcutta that I have seen on Youtube never mention the huge mosque that is here. They usually talk about the two big Hindu temple complexes.

The Islamic sections of the city seem invisible to them.

Now the birds. I don’t know if they are crows, have suddenly come to life and are calling loudly. It is 5:21 in the morning.

I think that I saw one nice-looking dog in this city yesterday. And yesterday, there were two Dalmatians, hunting dogs, apparently, mean and ready to attack, at this hotel. The dogs on the street are miserable. There are a few cats. They too, are mostly miserable.

M.N. Roy, the Indian communist wrote about why Hindus hate cats. And wrote a book from the cat’s perspective. Autobiography of a Cat, I think. It is great. Very witty. He wrote it in an Indian prison, where he was kept for years by the British.

Strange thing is that I feel almost at home in this city.

People sometimes call out to one on the street, but it is best just to ignore them. Some women around the hotel are doing the milk powder scam. I just ignore them. That scam is overworked. There should be signs with a warning.

AVOID THE MILK POWDER SCAM WOMEN!

The last thing they want is milk powder!

And about the street vendors. I will say that they are trying to help themselves. They have found a way to survive and protect themselves by organizing and unionizing. That is far better than seeking charity. They survive through a very difficult struggle.

But when I look at the whole thing, my view has to be that only some sort of rule from the top could save such a society. Population growth must be controlled. Either left-wing, right-wing, Hindu fascist, or other nationalist ideology, maybe religious nationalism combined with Bharat, Indian nationalism.

Corporatist rule from the top. I am almost reduced to advocating it.

In Bengal, it could be Netijiism, from Subas Chandra Bose. Bengali nationalism, something that people could believe in and accept and impose strict discipline on society. There seems to be a complete lack of discipline in this society.

It might break down at some point, as in the Soviet Union, or in Turkey and Argentina, but it will have improved society and made things better for most people.

The historical model comes from Saint Simon in France. Science and engineering of society. Ataturk picked it up for Turkey. Stalin in the Soviet Union. A form of Jacobinism.

In Turkey, Tayyip Erdogan is the using the same model as Ataturk, as far as top-down rule is concerned. Jacobinism. Just different underlying ideas. It is top-down rule and the state can impose some discipline on society. I guess that India is the closest thing to anarchy in existence.

In India, the Nehru, Gandhi, Patel, model failed. A historical period of corporatist rule might have done wonders. Now, it may be too late. They missed the historical window of opportunity.

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Suds and Pollution in Kolkata (India Blog 16)

Suds and Pollution in Kolkata (India Blog 16)

This evening, I walked down the street to that place called “Blue Sky Restaurant” near Sudder Street. It is a really bad place, but has cheap food. Some Chinese. It cannot be said that the food is good. I ordered almond chicken and rice. It was edible, but that is about all.

The tables are narrow, made of clear glass and look very bad. The waiter shouts the orders through a window to the cooks in the back. The place is crude and noisy. But a lot of tourists eat there because it is cheap, I guess. It is mentioned in Lonely Planet. But I will avoid going there again. Once is plenty for me. Street food is probably just as good as that, but one does not have a place to sit. I know that I have been spoiled by the restaurants in Turkey. And spoiled by the different behaviour of the waiters in Turkey. The bill was less that 300 rupees. Less that five dollars. I was starting to get low on rupees.

In the evening, I walked over to the area in front of Hogg Market (now so-called New Market). I got out my Leica and took a few shots of the vendors crushing guna (sugar cane) to make sweet rus (juice). I cannot drink that shit now, but I used to have to drink it in Punjab when the farmers offered it to me. For me, the taste was terrible. Worse, sometimes the Punjabis mixed it with milk or rose flavoured soda.

I was feeling a little discouraged. I walked back toward the hotel and thought about changing money with that guy who was running a small money exchange and tourism office. He had a rate posted at 71 rupees to a dollar. I thought it was good, if his rupees were any good, that is. It was quite a lot better than the airport. So I changed fifty dollars. His rate is actually 69 to a dollar. I guess there is some tax on it, which I am sure that he does not pay!

Having replenished my rupee moneybags, I headed for Zurich’s Restaurant for some draft beer. That was great and lifted my spirits considerably.

I was glad to change money so easily without the bank bureaucracy that one used to have to go through.

At the restaurant, that was almost empty, I ordered draft beer. The waiter offered me a pitcher for 550 rupees. I thought it was a good deal, so I took it.

Take it easy, but take it,” as Woody Guthrie used to say.

I knew that would be OK.

It seems that it is easier to take pictures on the street in Calcutta than in Turkish cities. People here do not seem to mind. And the Indians certainly love to take selfies more than Turks.

When the waiter went to get my beer, he didn’t know how to fill the pitcher with the draft beer. When he started filling the pitcher he tipped it on the side. But he had a huge head on the beer. At least six inches. He didn’t know how to get it off. So he went to another part of the restaurant to bring the bartender. That guy scooped off most of the head and put in more beer. I could see what they were doing. There was still a quite big head, but it didn’t matter. The beer was delicious. It seems that they had not mastered the craft of doing pitchers of beer.

Settling down, rather bored, I observed the behaviour of people in the restaurant. There were two young couples at a table not far from me. They were the only other customers in the place, except a family that left soon. The girls were quite “kilolu” as the Turks say, to be polite. They had quite a lot of kilos. They were of university age, but I don’t know if they were students. The way they were acting, seemed rather inelegant to me. They were cutting up, laughing and talking quite loud.

After that, a large group started coming into the restaurant. Twenty people or more. The women sat on one side of the table and the men on the other. A long table had been arranged by the waiters. Only one of the women caught my attention as being slim and attractive. They made an inordinate amount of noise getting settled down at the table. It was a little like the noise on the street. Part of the culture, I suppose. For me, it seemed to create too much confusion.

There were several children in the party around ten or twelve years old.

I finished my beer and paid my bill.

December 10. Monday Morning, 4:40.

The air pollution is so bad in Calcutta these days that people have been warned not to go out for a walk in the morning before 7:30. The pollution is the worst between 11:00 in the evening and 8:00 in the morning. It was way above what is considered to be a safe level.

There is music beating and pounding somewhere close by. I don’t know where it goes on in the morning, but it has not stopped me from sleeping. I slept last night, then woke up at half past 12:00.

In the roadside shops, there are vendors just below my window in the lane on the side of the hotel. They pile the trash from the day in a big pile in the street. I saw the sweeper come with a cart yesterday and a scoop shovel. He shovelled up a whole cart load and wheeled it away.

Now I hear the izzan (the call to prayer) going down from a mosque. It is 4:50 in the morning.

Missionaries of Charity and Mamata Banerjee (India Blog 15)

Missionaries of Charity and Mamata Banerjee (India Blog 15)

Outside the Victoria Memorial, I got a taxi to Mother Terasa’s Missionaries of Charity, as it is called. I had no idea what I would see there, but I just wanted to get a picture from the outside.

I must say that the location was unlike anything that I had imagined before, being such a famous place.

When we arrived, I could only see the gate and the entrance inside a building. There were a couple of iron gates with the name and another small sign near the doorway. I had no desire to go inside. I don’t think they would have let me in, anyway. I don’t see why unless I wanted to contribute some money. And it was Sunday.

So I just took a couple of pictures and decided to head back to Sudder Street. However, on the way, we came across a political rally on the street of Mamata Banerjee’s All India Trinamool Congress Party. I had rather lost track of Bengali politics. I thought that I might get some interesting pictures there.

So I just asked the driver to drop me there. I figured that it was close enough that I could just walk back to Sudder Street. I took some pictures of the speaker and the crowd on the street, without understanding what was being said. Several people were up on the stage, mostly men, with one guy speaking into the “microbe phone” as Woodie Guthrie would say.

I walked on. I realized that it was a pretty poor area, but the shops and sidewalks were much cleaner and more sanitary, it seemed, than in those places on Chowringee where all the street vendors are. They have really made a mess of the city in that respect. But it is probably necessary to provide a livelihood for millions of people.

Some of the buildings in that area were very old and run-down, but it was much cleaner. I felt that I would not mind to eat in some of the small restaurants there. But I am being quite cautious, as getting a bad stomach will take one down. It is not worth the risk.

Along the way, I stopped and talked to a guy who was friendly. It was a conversation about how bad Trump is! He was a genuinely friendly guy not putting any trip on me. He told me the way back to Sudder Street, which was not far.

Along the way, another guy came up and said “hello.” This was a very suspicious guy and I wanted to just get away from him quickly. He started by asking me where I was from. That is generally the first question. I said something like: “New York, California, Los Angeles,” like that. I should have said Bangladesh, as I sometimes do.

They are not really interested in knowing, anyway, most of the time.

Then he started to try and flatter me. He said: “Great Country” and so on. I said, “Well yes, they have big problems.”

At that point, he started to show me small bottles of oil or ointment from his pockets. He said that he does massage. I told him that I was not interested.

Then he started to try to give me a demonstration. He took my left arm and started to rub my shoulder. I thought at once: “This guy is going to try to rob me with this shit.”

So, I pulled my arm back and kept control of my bag. I never carry anything in my pockets on the street. And any valuable money is inside a hidden pocket of the bag. My reserve dollars, passport and so on, are inside my clothes, where one would have to make me faint to get to them. When I took my arm back, he started again and said: “Are you going with me?” Then he took off walking rather fast. Maybe he saw that I was onto his game. I don’t know. I could only think that he wanted to pick my pockets and get my money. That was pretty obvious to me.

So I didn’t think he could rob me easily, but I don’t want any stranger putting their hands on me on the street. So I ended it quickly. The guy was trying to pull a stunt for sure. So I got away from him.

I saw a station on the way that compacts garbage. Then I walked a little farther and came to the row of shops selling Christmas decorations. Sure enough, these were the shops that I had seen before just off Sudder Street. So I came back to the hotel for a rest.

4:15 Afternoon. After today, I have four days left in Cal. (Kolkata) It is enough time to do some more street photography. So I will mostly be using the time for that. I still have one roll of black and white film per day for that time. It is not very much, actually. But maybe it will be enough. Actually, I am sure that it will not be. But nothing that I can do now.

Selma called. She says that it is cold and rainy in Izmir today.

8:15 Evening. In the morning, I could not get any hot water for a shower. It may be because a group of Australians had arrived in the hotel the day before. I saw them at breakfast. It seems that they are on a tour. Not a big group. I heard them talking about churches and missionaries. Apparently they are in the business of bagging souls in a foreign country. I thought that had mostly gone out of style. But I guess not. Heads are exceedingly thick in the realm of religion. No doubt about that.

If they are on their way to heaven, I probably ought to go in the opposite direction. And probably will.

There were some young teen-agers in the group, young guys about sixteen, high school age. One of them had bought an Indian pajama and kurta, a sort of Punjabi outfit. He wore it to breakfast. It was a long kurta that came down below his knees. He was wearing a sort of white sports shoes. It was a nice outfit, but it looked very strange on him, with that combination. He was a beautiful young guy. I could understand that they were from Australia from their accent.

The Victoria Memorial, Kolkata (India Blog 14)

 

The Victoria Memorial, Kolkata (India Blog 14)

9 December 2018. 5:50 Morning. It is Sunday. I slept good, from 11:00 last evening or so. I crapped out even though there was a lot of pounding going on. I woke up a couple of times, but had a good sleep.

Noam Chomsky has turned ninety years old. I think that there is not much that they can do to him at this point. Nothing, no matter what he says. Anyone who has not read him could learn a lot from him. Just a couple of his books would be enough if they understood them.

I will do some walking again today, but not so far as yesterday. I will go to that Victoria Memorial, which is to the south of here. After that, I am not sure. I will surely need my 28 mm lens to take pictures there.

I would also like to get a picture of Mother Teresa’s place, just to have a picture of it, since I am here. I do not know if what she has done is right or not. There is a lot of controversy about it at this time.

Travel always teaches one something and I think that I will learn something on this trip.

1:35 Afternoon. I started out about nine o’clock in the morning and walked to the Victoria Memorial. After that, I took a taxi to Mother Teresa’s. I didn’t see much there, just the front of the place. But I ran across a political rally for Mamata Banerjee’s political party, the All India Trinamool Congress, on the way back. She is the Chief Minister of West Bengal State.

So I stopped and got some pictures of that. I walked part of the way back, shooting some colour film.

Need to change money. Official rate is around 71 rupees to a dollar.

The walk in the morning was not bad. After a while, walking to the south, one gets away from most of those street vendors. They have taken up the sidewalks in so many areas. Now they are organized into unions and the government cannot dislodge them to send them somewhere else.

On the way, I crossed over to the west side of the big street. There was a large park across from the Tata building headquarters. I walked around that park and made a few pictures. There are signs forbidding almost everything. Not yet breathing, fortunately. There is even a sign that says that shooting film is prohibited. It seems that there are cameras everywhere. Presumably digital cameras and cell phones are fine. They just do not want one using film. What could this mean? By that time, I had already taken all the pictures that I wanted with film, so the sign came too late to do any good.

I walked past the Birla Planetarium. A little later, I came to an open area where there were some vending stands on both sides. I looked for signs that this might be the entrance to the Victoria Memorial. But there was not any mention of it anywhere, as far as I could tell. I could not tell exactly where I was according to the map I could find on my cell phone.

Finally, I went over and talked to a taxi driver. He said: “This is Victoria Memorial.”

I said: “Well, there is not a single sign anywhere saying that it is the Victoria Memorial. And there wasn’t. Amazing!

There should be a limit to nationalism.

It seems that they have become so nationalistic that they do not post the name of such a British monument, even though they are charging one to go in and see it.

I was quite early, so not many people were going in the gate. I lined up for the ticket. They had made it pretty stiff for foreigners. It is not important money, but it seems a little over the top. At least a couple of beers. The ticket is rupees 30 for Indians but rupees 500 for foreigners. They have made it some seventeen times as much for a foreigner.

Well, there they have it. They are actually putting themselves down, in my view, by doing that.

As I was walking in the morning, just down from the hotel, there was a huge throng of people. Obviously very poor. Some welfare organization was giving out free food. And the line was very long. It seems that the food was puris and channa.

Back to the Victoria Memorial. I went inside the gate and broke out my Minolta film camera (old SRT 101), because I needed the 28 mm lens to take pictures of the grounds and building. I sat down on a bench to rest for a while before going on up to the building.

A couple of people came up and wanted to make selfies with me. Why, I have no idea. But I don’t mind. A couple of times, it was attractive women, but with a man, of course.

After making some pictures, one must walk around to the back of the building which is the entrance. There is a security check set up there. I went through that and went inside. Several people were coming, but it was still not very crowded. But I noticed that it was quite noisy inside. Especially, people were shouting to each other while taking selfie photos. There were framed black and white photos along the walls from the late 1800s.

I made a few pictures inside, using my Leica M6 (F 2.5 at 1/15 second). I could do it without a flash, even though there was not a lot of light inside.

Inside, one is under a huge high dome. One can climb up to a walkway that goes all around the perimeter, about half-way to the top. I didn’t walk up there, but it could have been good for some pictures.

I made selfie pictures with several people when they asked me to. There were several people from Bangladesh. But the most interesting was this couple from Assam. It surprised me when they asked to make their picture with me. I stood with the woman and her husband.

Then, I felt her pressing her soft warm flesh against my body from the side. It was pleasant, but my inclination was to check my bag. But it was nothing like that. It seemed that she was just being friendly. Getting that close to a stranger of the opposite sex was certainly culturally different from the far more cold west. And surprising for me in India. Maybe Assam is different. I don’t know.

I took a few more pictures and got out of there. Out in the open air. Outside, I sat down on a bench and called Selma. She laughed about the huge discrepancy in the price for Indians and for foreigners.

It is a little over the top. Maybe four times the rate for foreigners would be slightly less vulgar and still make the point.

News from a Space Power.

I would head for Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity.

Walking on the Howrah Bridge in Kolkata (India Blog 13)

 

Walking on the Howrah Bridge in Kolkata II (India Blog 13)

I walked up the curved ramp toward the entrance to the bridge meeting a heavy stream of people just swarming across from the western side. They are not out for enjoyment. They are seriously headed for somewhere important. They are not on a lark like me, I want to say. I took some pictures but realized that I was going against the flow of human traffic. And the bridge vibrates. One feels it all the way across as one walks. The Hooghly is a big river, quite wide.

Just as one comes onto the bridge, there is a sign that asks people not to spit. Spitting is a problem. Right then, my film ran out. There was no place to sit down and change it. This was the Kodak color film in the old Minolta. So I had to change the film just standing there by a railing.

Some crazy person, perhaps religious, came and started putting on an act in front of me. He was trying to attract my attention. But I ignored him, working to change my film. Some small school boys were also watching me. I don’t think they have ever seen a film camera before.

I then marched across the bridge to the other side taking some pictures. One goes down a ramp and then down stairs on the other side. Then there is an underpass that goes over to the other side of the bridge. There was no need for me to go there, as I was going to walk back on the same side of the bridge, the north side.

However, I was glad that I went through there and took a couple of pictures. On the other side, there was a pisser, right out in the open. An array of men, maybe 12 or so wide, were standing and collectively pissing. Brotherhood of pissers. I just pretended to be taking a picture of the bridge, but moved the camera around to get a picture of them relieving themselves. The 28 mm lens made it easier.

Then, I walked back through the underpass to the other side and started across the bridge again.

There are signs that forbid doing vending on the bridge, but in several cases, they are being ignored. I took some pictures of people selling things on the bridge. Some guys were selling fruit. They cut up several types of fruit, papaya, banana, watermelon and so on, and make a bowl of fruit to sell. I would have liked to have one, but I was afraid that it would totally fuck up my stomach.

When I got to the other side, I walked down the steps to the famous flower market. I remembered a video I had seen of it on Youtube. It was not as interesting as I expected when I was actually there and saw it. Peons were carrying big bags of flowers on their heads over the bridge to the other side.

Most of the flowers are saffron color, which is the Hindu holy color. There is obviously a huge market for them.

All kinds of baggage and supplies were being carried across in both directions. I stayed on the bridge for a while to get some pictures of guys coming carrying things on their heads and on poles over their shoulders.

Back on the street, I ended up on a busy corner. It was practically impossible to get across the street with all the traffic. When the light changed, it was not long enough to beat the traffic.

I stayed on the corner for a long time, just taking pictures of those old broken down buses. They were stopping right in front of me. They have a conductor who stands in the door and calls out where the bus is going.

Man! One can see shades of that film of Satyajit Ray, The Apu Trilogy, on the street here. I remembered the young guy, Apu, on the streets of Calcutta. I love those three films and watch them over and over. They are reproduced by the Criterion Collection of films. Beautifully done. It is hard to watch them without crying. Powerful films done with primitive equipment in black and white. I love them. It was a real struggle to produce them in India.

I hope that I got some good pictures there.

I realized that the best way to get across the street was to join a group of people and cross with them. When the light would turn green for walking, the old buses were blocking the path. And the light was too short, in any event. It was an amazing scene.

Finally, I got across with others and walked for a long way with sore feet. My feet were getting sorer all the time. I decided that it was enough photos there and I got a taxi, an old Hindustan Ambassador to Sudder Street. Lytton Hotel. Funny, I told the driver, the Alka Hotel, I realized later. But we got to my place. The old taxis are life-savers.

After a rest, I went to Zaranc Restaurant and had some Chinese dumplings and draft beer. After that, felt fine. I went through the small streets back of the hotel, near Hogg Market, and shot the rest of a roll of black and white film. But I am now starting to get low on black and white film.

The temperature was 27 degrees C today. Man! I recovered with those Chinese dumplings and draft beer. It was light and very good for the evening.

Today when I was on the other side of the bridge, as I was about to come back, I saw some guys discover a dead body under the bridge. One of the guys ran to get someone to come and pick the guy up.

I don’t know how people can survive in some of these streets that are complete hell-holes, worse than shitholes, as Trump has it. And the brutality of these rickshaws here. These runner rickshaws! Man. It has to be outlawed. Those guys are literally dying in the harness. My goodness! Tonight I saw a whole family, man, wife, two children, climbing into one of these rickshaws. And the poor guy was going to run pulling them by foot. Can you imagine such a thing?

I don’t know how many miles a day that they have to run like a horse in the streets. This is something sort of hidden, unrevealed to the world. At least, people just do not think about it. How can one have such a torture of humans as in this country?

Indians will get angry if any Westerner points out that it is brutal. But really, that is the height of being a hypocrite. I tried getting a picture of that and several other scenes also. I hope they turn out OK. I will hang it up for tonight.

Kolkata is a wonderful city. But one needs more time.

Walk to Howrah Bridge I (India Blog 12)

 

Howrah Bridge Walk I (India Blog 12)

5:00 Afternoon. Man! I am tired. Walked a long way. Walked across the Howrah Bridge and then back across again. Took a lot of pictures with the Minolta in colour. I will write the story as I get time.

It is almost dark now.

After breakfast, I left the hotel around 9:00. I thought to just walk to the Howrah Bridge, but it is a good long distance. That’s for sure! It seems like three miles on the map that I have. I was glad that I went a little early. The traffic was not too bad at that time.

For part of the distance, the people who live in the open along the street were just starting to set up their shops. Shops have been set up along the sidewalk for much of the way.

There are hundreds of places for street food. Channa and puri. Most of it looks okay, but it cannot be very sanitary, it seems, for sure.

They have large heavy metal trunks where they pack their things every night. Then they break it out again in the morning. It is a huge work. What a struggle just to survive!

In some places, they had made packs in large plastic sheets, tied up with ropes. They were taking the ropes off. It seems that some of them sleep there. There were hundreds of people holding metal plates, standing and eating food. Various kinds of channa (chickpeas) and puri (fried bread). Also curried potatoes. The food smells good, but it would be hard to eat in such filth. It is cooked in the stoves that they have set up all along the sidewalks.

There are huge old buildings that in British times would have been elegant and beautiful. A hundred years ago. Now, they are falling into decay.

There are many old buses. Many of the city buses are old, beat up, and terribly crowded. I took many pictures.

In one place, there were some benches next to a big garden. This is BBD Bagh in Dalhousie Square. I was tired by that time and sat down for a rest.

An old guy came and sat down next to me. He looked older than me, but later told me that he was sixty-five. A Bihari from Patna. He hardly knew any English. I could only understand part of his Hindi. I was trying to remember some Hindi but sometimes started to fall into speaking Turkish.

He was just a friendly guy that wanted to talk to me. They say that Calcutta is the most friendly city in India. Some people are not friendly, but people are not mean or hostile.

I wanted to mention that these low-scale workers on the street and working in the markets and other places are constantly shouting to each other. Sometimes angrily, it seems, but always very loud. Well, how could they not be crude, the way they have been treated. Worse than animals. Society has use for their labour only.

So it was a strange discussion with this guy in mixed languages. He told me his name, but I can’t remember it. He was more than half toothless and that made him look older. He asked me all the places where I had been in India. I listed a few for him and he started talking about Varanasi. He ask me something about what I was eating, but I could not understand all of it. Finally, he said good-bye and walked on. He seemed to be a decent person.

I walked on. I had already taken pictures of the large red-brick building across the street from the garden.

When I crossed the street, I noticed that it was the Writer’s Building, the famous building where British clerks worked. There was a notice above and arched doorway that it was the Writer’s Building. I wanted to take a picture of that sign, but a police officer came and said “no.” That was okay. It is part of some government bureaucracy now. It takes up a huge area. In any event, one can take pictures of if from across the street.

I walked on. Before long, the masses on the side walk became more crowded. Sometimes I had to wait for others, as there is so little space left for people to walk in. Then there were more sidewalk cafes. Further were shops selling big pipes, types of water pumps, auto parts. Also big pieces of round and flat steel. By this time, I could see the top of the steel girders of the Howrah Bridge. What a landmark!

As I got closer to the bridge, I couldn’t see exactly where one would enter the roadway. There was a constant stream of people coming in from a side road, so I thought that must be the way. Buses were also coming down that road. So I saw how to enter the stream of people, but I was actually crossing on the wrong side. The south side stream of people were going west. The north side stream of people were coming east to where I was. But some other people were going my way too. Some peons were carrying huge bags of flowers on their heads from the flower market under the bridge.

Getting across the roads in that area is a problem. There are so many buses coming. If one finds an opening, they can be hit with a motorcycle. There is mass confusion. Just total anarchy. John Kenneth Galbriath once described India as a “functioning anarchy.” I think that Calcutta is the closest possible thing to anarchy!

(To be continued)