Week Three (Mentality)

Having now been here for three weeks, a time that subjectively has felt much more akin to an eternity, I'm coming to some kind of psychological compromise with this place. Quite possibly, over the course of this year I won't really find anyone I can really relate to, and save for the couple of other people who will be here for the year, in addition to a fiance of one, might not really come to really know anyone in this city. I'll still continue to get out, looking for inlets through art, academia, and (still, hopefully) ngo work, but I think in a strange way I'm becoming receptive to the idea of a relatively quiet year, visiting and receiving the occasional friend living elsewhere in northern India (at least there will be a handful of these starting in the fall) and spending a lot of time living simply, learning a language and paying attention to existing, sometimes interpreting my surroundings and sometimes letting their cacophony numb me into mere reception rather than analytical interpretation. Wandering through the Maidan yesterday, the central park that is much more wild, twisty, and vacant than the equivalent in New York City, I realized I was really contented. This funny sort of middle-ground of emotionality - contentment - has been popping up lately between constant horn-honking, packs of howling street dogs, and the whooping calls of trash-pickers and broom sellers.

Last night I heard a stick thumping the ground in a classic sort of rhythm I hadn't hear since I had left Chandigarh - the call of a herdsman to his cows/buffalo (I'm still not sure what to call them). Kolkata has banned cows from the majority of the city proper, pushing any herds out to the most peripheral suburbs, so the classic Indian cow rarely makes an appearance around these parts. However, upon hearing the regular strikes of this lathi stick I went out to my terrace and saw a massive cow standing alone in the intersection by my house, not really heeding to his master's call and instead preferring to strut forward slowly, moving its head from side to side, not really seeming to care about its unexpectedness, its misplaced context. And while this is surely a cheesy comparison to draw, this mentality seemed to be like that which I had been experiencing in pockets as of late: A contentedness to exist errant to the surrounding culture and its expectations, out of place but uncaring about such stark difference. The rude calls from primarily teenage boys in packs effect me less and less while the moments of kindness from strangers and acquaintances, like the civility and simple friendliness that has been developing between myself and people like my sobji wallah and dudh (milk) wallah, the funny conversations with strangers in doctor's waiting rooms and smelly subway cars, leave a much stronger psychological impression. I'm ok - albeit just ok - but for lack of a better word, I'm ok with being ok.

I definitely miss the hubbub of Manhattan, the eloquent grunge and amazing conviviality of Brooklyn, the comforting rhythms of Philadelphia. I miss the US in a lot of ways, its multiple trajectories of modernity all clashing and fighting their way forward creating a stupendous, brusque, and occasionally banal culture in its wake, its political and personal openness. I miss being relatively close to my family and surrounded by a pretty amazing circle of friends stretched across two cities. I miss being able to be myself rather than a symbol of the West given little leeway to actually exist as myself, particularly in terms of sexuality and political conviction. But, at one point or another I've started to arrive at a point of being ok with these missing pieces and the possibility of not really regaining them or finding things to take their place for a year, stripping my life back to an at times essentialist, at times more minimalist state. I'm ok with that.

At least this is how I feel on these nice cloudy afternoons where I can take a nap without sweating and think about eating a warm kathi roll and maybe another odd and yet all eerily similar milk-based sweet-squishiness from the mishti dokan (sweet shop) in between leisurely doing grammar exercises and memorizing new vocabulary. Sob theek achchhe. (Everything is ok).

Week Three (Pictures)

The view out of my window. While my room looks dark it actually gets a lot of light and is pretty large and square, a little bit of space to call my own in this squishilly suffocating city.

The building outside of this window, replete with crow. In Kolkata there are pretty much no birds besides crows, and they survive because they eat everyone's trash. They also make thumping noises on my veranda and wake me up in the morning. Since when do birds thump? Apparently, that's how things work in Kolkata.

Standing on my veranda you see the other buildings in my neighborhood. Everyone leaves their doors open so I catch glimpses of people eating dinner very often. These dinners are often highly unromantic candle-lit affairs due to constant evening time power outages ie. load shedding.

In the evenings and around lunch time the sobji owallah (vegetable guy) sells a large amount of familiar and mysterious vegetables. The two sons (I think) of the head owallah think we're pretty funny foreigners but are actually quite nice, helping us out and never gouging. They're also there in the morning, joined by a phul owallah (fruit guy) who rarely has ripe bananas, but he's always there even if its pouring, so at least he's dependable. Also, even if he has no bananas he always has mangoes and guavas, the latter being a fruit that after a while I've come to strangely actually like eating.

In India, verandas are key, though because Bangla has no 'v' letter, one might be inclined to call them berandas, maybe...

My institute, a classy affair most definitely. In this picture there is also a hand rickshaw owallah, a point of contention here. While bike rickshaws were made illegal and replaced by autos (think of a motorcycle with a box built onto it so you end up with a wee three-wheel car) these rickshaws, despite being heavily criticized as a symbol of Kolkata's huge disparity in socio-economic standing and an instrument of human abuse at the hands of economic demand and a difficult job market, have persisted. Practically, they actually remain one of the few ways to get transported through monsoon-time waterlogged streets that like mine end up with a foot or two (at least) of water making the road impossible or at least highly difficult to navigate through any other means besides these rickshaws or an incredibly slow kind of gliding walk that I picked up the first bad rain. The key is moving your foot primarily horizontally at all times so water glides through flip flops rather than tearing them off and maintaining one's upright center of gravity upon encountering sudden dips under dark and murky waters. This is an excuse for looking feeble and kind of stupid while trudging through the river-y street.

Another shot of the building which houses the institute, on its 2nd and 3rd floors. you can see the sludge line on the wall from past flooding and also just the constant grime-goo that ends up on everything here. The writing on the wall reads "Briged Cholun". While "Cholun" is a polite way of saying "You should go" I have absolutely no idea what "Briged" means... probably some store of things, probably things I have no desire to own.

This is the actual entrance to the building. It is just darling. The cabs here all have this old-timey thing going on, though I rarely take them due to the hassle of having to haggle and make sure he's not taking you on a circuitous route if you're going by the meter, and even if you make it fair they're still slower and way more expensive than going by foot/rickshaw/subway. Yes, there is a subway here which is actually kind of nice, though it closes pretty early at night, has only one line running north/south, and is one of the smelliest and most crowded subways I've ever been on, even worse than Delhi. Though I feel that taking public transportation here as a bideshi (foreigner, and the word that first comes to mind nowadays when considering my relative identity) gives me a bit of street cred. Or so I can hope.

The 'lounge' in the institute, one of my most favorite rooms I've ever encountered. Despite the fact that puddles of water snake their way across the floor with the least bit of rain and there's a constant din of honking and yelling from outside there's definitely a regal colonialist flair to it that I really enjoy quite a bit. This is a good place to enjoy one's daily daal-bhat (lentils and rice along with whatever else you're eating at lunchtime).

There is a pretty massive park in central Kolkata, and after dealing with a subway ride and a few minutes navigating along the street that forms the primary tourist hub of the city, and thus its ensuing hawkers, it is actually kind of amazing. The oppressive noise of the city slowly ebbs into a murmur. There is a lot of empty space and dirt paths winding around creaky old cricket stadiums and 'sports clubs'. There is also a big field where the primary activity seems to be pasturing horses. I haven't seen horses until I went here, so who knows what they're used for in this city.

While I didn't go inside this here is one of the more famous buildings in the city, the Victoria Memorial, a symbol of the British Raj now kept up as a museum that at least in part is meant to convey the hardships of Indian life under Colonial control. One day I'll go when I'm feeling more like a couple hours of historical wanderings, but the 150 rs. foreigner admission price, especially in contrast to the 10 rs. Indian citizen ticket, was a turn of. This disparity of pricing poses a problem with seeing anything of historical/sight-seeing value here, especially if being paid a stipend that while geared towards funding an upper-end Indian lifestyle, is still meant to provide for a relatively Indian rather than American budget.

This man passed me on a pathway somewhere in the South-Western portion of the park, despite his number of tins. Though, I was walking slowly at this point, trying to learn how not to sweat in the humidity here (It may be possible to learn this as a skill, yes?). He just had so many tins, an aspect that made me want a picture incredibly. I was thinking about asking about taking his picture, but while knowing the words for "can I", "your", and "picture" I had no idea if the appropriate verb would be "take". If there is anything I've learned in this language program is that these kind of verbs are highly idiomatic and vary incredibly from language to language. For example, in Bengali, one's eats both a cigarette and a kiss, and eating up becomes eating take. And so on...

This is a memorial for something.... probably army related due to its closeness to the military base quaintly placed right next to the central city park. I just enjoy the odd soviet-futurist aspect that many of these things take on here.

This was only one of the more emotional statues that are built up throughout the park without rhyme or reason, frequently surrounded by weeds or fetid waters. While taking the picture a dog scampered out of the odd pen-like fencing. He was rather cute and had a demeanor that suggested he had done something wrong and was not proud of it. I do not know what he was thinking at the time

After becoming fairly lost within a pocket of the city that was constituted primarily of giant banking buildings and an inordinate amount of street food (not bad, despite a banana owallah who tried to rip me off hilariously, to the point where even he couldn't keep a straight face. He did not succeed, by the way) I finally found the bank of the Hoogly, a river that is somehow connected to the Ganges and therefore has the whole ghat/bathing thing going for it. However, like all rivers running through cities in India, it was quite foul and fairly inaccessible due to fences, crowds of people bathing within the confines of confusingly purposed arch-ish structures, the Flotel (a floating hotel! To think of the pleasures it might provide!) and several dozen poojah buses lined up to take people to what appeared to be every city in this country. However, the stillness was kind of novel for this city and the tugboats were pretty cheerful.

There were a number of these old-style row boats going up and down the river, an interjection of traditional technology and a totally different pace in a city that seems to be so desperately trying to escape these old methods and objects. But, despite the city's ballooning size and conscious disregard of so many old mores, the huge economic variation keeps things like these boats a constant feature of this city, making an odd mish-mash of centuries of different technologies, bound to a class system.

Week Three (A Medical Adventure of Sorts)

As mentioned in a 'preview' a few days ago, for those of you who are reading regularly (and despite the lack of comments I do in fact know that at least some of you are, or at least this is what I tell myself to ward of the threat of psychological and social isolation) I got a case of mysterious sick after my first couple weeks here. It started with a persistent fever, a lot of gooey nose business, and a headache that would swish around my head whenever I moved, which for that period of time at least I did rather infrequently. Most mysterious however, was a blotchy itchy redness that started in the corners of my mouth and then without seeming reason or pattern would appear elsewhere, a spread of something strange and alien traveling and setting shop in any nook or cranny it took a fancy to, unlike any dermatological condition I've enjoyed while stateside or frankly anywhere. This, in the land of mysterious viscous substances, monsoon puddles that cover entire streets and end up knee high and furnished by floating diapers and who knows what, and a constant forced-sharing of every space and surface with unknown thousands of others all of their own unique hygienic states, is a tad bit worrisome. The mystery! The intrigue! The constant muttered hopes of reassurance that I did not in fact have some subcontinental herpes.

So, while every other ailment and issue seemed to dissipate in its own good time, after a few days of incredibly bored sweating performed in an often powerless apartment, the rash remained and continued to wander. The mystery expanded not only along the surface of my skin but also within my mind, an all consuming nag of possible consequences and outcomes and a constant recounting of places I had been and more importantly things or people I may have touched.

Then, I went to the doctor, an adventure in and of itself.

The Indian medical system and social society is quite a different experience from our US/American standards of things. For one thing, formal records, appointments, and all those rules of order that seem to bother so often don't exist here, leading to a jumbled room of patients waiting to be called by first name, last name, or frankly anything and pointed into dimly lit irregular rooms (I was just entitled 'you' while there, my status as a foreigner requiring no further identification or categorization). There exists a certain social-club-esque atmosphere in the waiting room, strangers asking each other openly and directly why they were there... 'normal check-up? evaluation? consultation?', something that just strikes me as a bit odd. I, as the lone foreigner in the room was asked quite a few times why I was there. I didn't feel much like sharing so each time I would say that I was here to see the doctor. An obvious reply, yes, but a seemingly satisfactory answer for a relatively invasive question.

I then saw the doctor. The doctors here do not wear gloves, or have nice sheets of removable trace-paper covering their examining tables. They also don't touch you or ask you personal questions (oddly less personal than those questions hosted in the waiting room on the other side of the dingy wall). This doctor was not particularly helpful, pretty much saying I could have anything in the world but not seeming too alarmed by that. So, I gave some blood and some urine for them to take a peek at, which also was its own special set of experiences. While I watched carefully to make sure the needle being inserted in my arm was new and clean, not much else was. The party atmosphere of the blood-test room, with a group of patients waiting to be tested all sort of huddled around whoever was letting blood at the moment in one small room, was a bit odd. The urine sample tray was also seemingly proudly displayed on a stool near the center of the waiting room, like some kind of multi-shaded opulent display of glowing pieces de'art, each one's unique composition lending a particular new hue and opacity and perhaps simultaneously a new way to consider one's own reflection warped and held within the convex plastic. A commentary of self-portraiture, personal versus collective identity, the dialectic between oneself and the group? I do not know but any variety of analyses could be suitable. Beauty and Ideology! I left unresolved and equally worried about whatever new bits or diseases I may have picked up while there.

This is coming across as quite bitter and demeaning, but I was concerned, yes?

Rather than seeing what seemed to be a Bengali-only speaking clinic of a skin doctor recommended by the doctor, I went to see a guy I picked myself, a contact of the Institute here and a guy with a pretty strong hold over the English language and a rather reputable series of credentials. The waiting room was akin to a cozy cave, the cadre of a dozen or so patients stooped beneath furiously desperate fans, requisitely shoeless (a rather quaintly Indian aspect of hospitals and clinic waiting rooms here). After a pleasant conversation with a college English major whose own English language abilities were not particularly good but and was simultaneously highly amused by my Bengali pronunciation, along with my vegetarianism and my lack of any smoking habit, I saw the doctor and was almost immediately diagnosed with scabies.

'Scabies'... a word not usually received with the utmost of joy. But here, with the huge range of possible afflictions, it was a godsend: A handful of bugs I could rid myself of with a couple pills that simultaneously would do away with any worms I might have picked up (on the side, just in case) rather than some flesh-eating virus passed along by shared auto-rickshaws or the errant whack of elbows in the street. 'Scabies!' I thought to myself as I happily walked home, a threatening monsoon cloud cooling things to the point of being downright pleasant, a guava in hand, dusted in some red and mildly spicy salt (their choice, not mine) and a gulab jamun and a couple other strange globs of milk-sweets in my other. 'Scabies! Just scabies!" was all I could think as I happily wove myself through people and speeding buses and cars careening towards the sidewalk. “Haha, oh scabies...”

'What a wonderful evening to be walking along in Kolkata! The City of Joy... Scabies!"

Week Two Addendum (Sidewalks)

Something I think about almost every new (or sometimes familiar) place I go, is this idea of sidewalks as the infrastructure of democracy, a cement proof and simultaneous breeding ground of a place's civic political sphere. There is the possibility of ubiquity or scarcity and an oddly inexhaustible range of variety of this piece of the built environment, often overlooked for its seeming banality, but reading a society through its sidewalks, through the way this 'democracy' is played out, is pretty interesting.

The sidewalks of Manhattan, particularly those flanking the avenues and busy thoroughfares, are wide enough to allow a huge amount of mobility even when encroached upon by capitalist set-ups, be they the rows of chairs and tables set up for the sake of dining amidst the hoots and hollers of the street or the creaky beggar shaking a coffee cup of change and smelling a bit off. Meanwhile, developments are often built without sidewalks, completely eliminating this facet of human mobility and its social connotations, its accessibility an therefore certain aspects of its market identity . Just as often, entire developments are built with gleaming white sidewalks replete with sloped wheelchair access points placed regularly... but leading to nothing beyond their welcome signs boasting arboreal fantasies at their entrances. Occasionally a dirt path beaten into the grass continues on along the highway, staked out by those who often lie outside of this community either literally or socio-economically, and thusly have a use and a mobility separate from this sidewalk infrastructure. But tall of these ideas of footpaths and sidewalks have been a bit challenged and confused by how things seem to work here.

In Kolkata, the sidewalks are a mess, never wide enough, never paved smoothly, a mishmash of different shaped bricks, mounds of dirt, gravel, trash, and of course an all too occasional pit of murky gray water and its mysterious lurking bits and pieces. The sidewalk vendors are not neatly set off to one side leaving the other free for traffic. Rather, they set up along both sides, their tarps strung overhead in a canopy of ropes and faded plastics hung at a height that often requires someone of an average (US) height to crouch or at least dart and wobble an umbrella, avoiding hanging dupatas and lion-king themed towels and of course the heads and umbrellas of everyone else. Those shopping at any of these stalls must stop, or at least choose to stop, directly within the middle of the sidewalk, creating ubiquitous snarls and blockages within a sidewalk now reduced to a meter or so wide. Thusly, many people (myself included) take to walking in the street, winding through cars and rickshaws, avoiding the careening bus and suddenly opened door or onrush of traffic emanating from a changed light.

So, if a city's politics and civic identity can be determined, at least in part, by the physical and programmatic states of the sidewalk, what does this nearly unusable but simultaneously overused sidewalk imply? Especially considering this within a country that proudly calls itself the largest democracy in the world and in a city with so strong a communist and labor-rights political identity that city-wide work-stoppages occur regularly to show camaraderie of cause, what does this mean?

Taking this idea of defining 'democratic' identity through sidewalks in isolation, creating an obviously narrow definition for the sake of argument, one can venture that despite the communist undertones of this city, the programs of the sidewalks, especially in that sales and haggling displace the general coming and going population, are in fact a testament to the highly capitalist nature of democracy at least on this microcosmic level in India. In other words, the democratic identity is highly defined by a kind of hyper-commodified capitalism where goods and their constant sale displace all other aspects of civil society. Production and sale often become one, the worker forming his goods as something to bide time while he waits for his next sale, a surplus of goods growing around him. I don't remember where I heard or read the idea of haggling as a form of actually quite amicable and desired - and required - social interaction, but this idea also seems to apply... the sidewalk's normal banter hugely subsisting of a kind of socialization fueled and formed by commodities and capitalism. The democracy of this place, at least so far as it can be read by its sidewalks (a statement whose absurdity I realize) is defined by a manic hyper-capitalism that seems to lack any controls beyond its own hive-mind of individual capitalist drive. While obviously democracy in virtually all existing forms can be claimed capitalist in nature, the degree to which this infrastructural element of democracy has been literally overrun by capitalism is perhaps an indicator of a democracy that has become to focused on its capitalist manifestation and quickly losing all other components of its political, civic, and social spheres.

And this whole diatribe came out of being frustrated by walking to school in the rain and dealing with crowded sidewalks and muddy puddles whose contents continue to frighten a bit. You will have to excuse me.

Week Three (Preview)

Things take a turn for the worst!
The thrills and chills of the Indian medical system!

Week Two

Rather than things being pretty un-great across the board, this week has definitely been one of ups and downs, leading me to waver on my feelings about staying here for a year.

Firstly, to address the unpleasantries. Primarily insects and black outs, or as they are called here, load shifting or something along those lines. My computer has not once but twice now been host to a cluster of tiny reddish ants who apparently have a reputation of getting inside of computers and eating bits of connective materials and such. The most recent bout was this morning, when my computer would not start for a couple moments, leading me to go into a flurry of muffled 'fuck's and 'shit's and of course 'really?'s while shaking my computer in the air and squishing whatever creatures happen to fall out of it. Not what I would consider a good time, and definitely relatively worse than finding a cockroachish looking creature the size of a thumb intrepidly staking m bathroom and not backing down. Here's hoping the cockroach doesn't return with family and friends and my computer is able to survive the year (doubtful). Oh, and my futile attempts against big bites, fought with an anti-mosquito cream called Odomos are not working to well, especially around the ankles where things just aren't looking great. Good thing I'm on malaria medication!

Then, the black outs... they occur consistently at least twice a day, making homework and things like that particularly hard and just destroys any drive I have to complete the work. Bangla simply is not a fun language to read b candle-light, illuminated by a candle-stick apparently designed to look like an American pilgrim-esque turkey. Worse though, without electricity there are no fans, therefore the temperature begins to rise and the perspiration begins. Apparently in a 'subtropical/tropical' climate such as this, heat and sweat when coupled with the 90%+ monsoon humidity we have here lead to a flu-like cold kind of deal, sniffling and blowing one's nose while sweating and shaking ants out of one's computer. After a particularly warm and regular series of blackouts I ended up falling to the sickness and am currently home from school, experiencing a particularly long blackout in the comfort of my own home. I'm definitely thinking about moving at the end of the summer to a building with a generator... and hot water, considering I've heard this place gets down to the 40s and 50s in the wintertime.

Besides these undercurrents of frustration, I've started to get out more and have been making a few connections in the city. I attended an art opening the other day, leading to a fun mingling with upper class Indians with beer and snacks (this is India of course, this is how art openings are done). I ended up chatting up the owner a bit, who invited me back again later that week to talk about art, see my sketchbook, etc. It was largely pleasant, definitely broke up the monotony of the week, though I'm still trying to find some kids in this city around my age who are interested in things I would be interested in, which so far has not happened.

Though, as an aside, while leaving the gallery I was asked to remind this woman of my name. The name Benjamin has never elicited a reply such as this:

Her: "That's Jewww-ish!" (a squeal of excitement)

Me: "I am Jewish."

Her: "You're Jewww-ish! Isn't that nice."

Me: "Yup."

Her: "Sara, look, he's Jewww-ish! Isn't that nice?"

Sara: "Oh you're Jewww-ish!"

Her: "Isn't that nice."

Apparently, as I've come to learn, Kolkata has a special place in its heart for the Jews, caring about its dwindling population of less than 30 Jews as one would for an old and sickly beloved family pet. A glassy sheen suddenly appearing over normally dry eyes. (Hey the power just want back on, hello fans/pakha/ventilation) This comes from strangely enough from a 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' type of scenario, wherein because of the strong underlying Hindu Muslim antagonism remaining between West and East Bengal, the largely Hindu population of West Bengal/Kolkata and to varying degrees other parts of India have taken on a perhaps misguided affection for the Jews, leading to such strangely warm receptions as these. I was immediately given the number of 'Jo Cohen' with an insist to call her right then and there. I took the number though backed down from the immediate call (I was beginning to feel a cold coming on) though I definitely plan on calling her later this coming week. Here's hoping for an invitation to Shabbat dinner in India. We'll see...

While taking the subway to the Jewish bakery in central Kolkata (good cake, not so good of a reception by Mr. Nahoum... he seemed like he had had a long day) a guy rather uncomfortably invited me to his club/disco where he dj's, standing too close (though India always stands too close) and repeatedly ramming his hand into mine holding a bar running across the ceiling, me inching back precociously, ending up sandwiched rather uncomfortably against the wall. The Indian club scene, having experienced a sample of it in Chandigarh and Delhi, is just not what I am looking for is too expensive and is just not what I would ever call a good time. Though at least I feel like I'm making an effort, getting out quite a bit (until being sequestered by this sweaty cold) and not feeling quite as incompetent as I had been feeling.

I think a different apartment might make a big difference, I need to get away from these bugs which find their way into anything and everything (he says as he squishes a wee ant crawling out of the corner of his computer screen) and find a place that has consistent power, lest I spend the remainder of the monsoon season and autumn (which is another hot season, West Bengal having 6 rather than the normal 4 seasons, allowing room for another hot season, sandwiching the monsoon in relentless sun). And hopefully my recently feverish bout of emailing in order to make some contacts in this city will be successful and I can start to meet some people to compliment the small sundry cadre of my program.

I just reminded myself that this whole discombobulated experience is being paid for by the state department. For some reason, constantly scratching the big bites on my ankles, checking each port of my computer ever few minutes for the emergence of a new ant or two, and sweating under a constant stream of blackouts I don't feel much like a dependent of the grand old government of the US of A. They better be hosting a good party at the embassy this July 4th. Otherwise I no longer believe in the international branches of our government.

Week One

Largely, the thought running through my head this past week has been that of confusion and nihilism. At the end of the day, despite my academic and career-oriented plans that easily incorporate my study abroad into their wordy webs, on an innate level I have absolutely no idea why I am here and its eating at me, weighing down on me like the humidity here and the omnipresent sheen of perspiration and clinging dust it leaves. I'm definitely feeling confined by this feeling of questioning, pacing in my bedroom, staring at my hopelessly trying ceiling fan, watching the pack of wary dogs that stake out the sidewalk below my verandah. I'm hoping this will change, but as of right now I don't feel connected to this place, no real expediency or necessity to my living here or my rather time-consuming language learning. While I question the validity or seriousness of this train of though, I've been considering forfeiting my fellowship for the year, cutting my stay here down to 10 weeks from a much more frightening and ominous number I'm estimating at around 42 weeks. It's only been a week so I'm going to reevaluate my sentiments in another week or two, but I just can't see myself being here that long, especially considering at the end of the summer our cadre cuts itself down to 3 from a relatively crowded 7.

I'm pretty lonely here, isolated from New York and Philadelphia by a 9 and a half hour time difference, several thousand miles and at least one ocean depending on which way you're counting. I walk down the street and am largely ignored but always a trail of stares lies in my wake, often coming early enough to be obvious and glaring, adding an intensity to compliment the sun, its presence hidden by smog and endless towers of verandahs but still indicated by the thick drippy heat. There really are essentially no foreigners here, even east and central Asians are only an occasional abnormality. In the last week I've seen only seven or eight obvious foreigners, a batch of white girls in blue and purple saris descending into the subway in the central part of the city, another errant guy standing on a platform, a couple in the foreign registry office, and an elderly and seemingly disillusioned man walking a major street called Rash Bihari in a frightened expedient shuffle, clutching his red messenger bag to his chest like an only child, a delicate thing to be cradled and shield from the cacophony and dirt of the street. I am so white here, for lack of a better word, still stumbling both in my footing and sense of direction, and also my language, stuttering like a toddler in sentences heavy with pronouns, pauses, and interjected English.

Enough with such kvetching and lonely mutterings...

Kolkata as a city has been a huge surprise, a city far different than what I expected, nowhere near as idealistically ruralist as Chandigarh, as bent on hyper-urbanization as Delhi, as picturesque as Jaipur and its surrounding hills despite its layer of filth and tourist-driven greed. I was expecting a city of sediments, history laid out in horizontal slabs built up to form the canyons than run through it as streets, carrying its ballooning population like a slowly bubbly silty stream, pre-colonial historical buildings crowned by the implants of the British Raj and finally splattered and shot through by modern construction and mushrooming towers. While this kind of sedimentary growth exists at the core of this city, what is more visible and apparent is a different kind of layering, sticky films adhering to all surfaces, roads, walls, cubby holes, and rooftops, growing not only upwards but also inwards, suffocating the streets in a barrage of hawkers, their stalls sporting piles of aluminum dishware or mounds of handkerchiefs, greasy sweets or piles of mangos indicated at a distance by an ensuing cloud of flies. The smaller streets cease to be these pulsating arteries of movement I imagined and become more like seams that mark off the end of one building and its outpour and the beginning of the next, its traffic squeezing along this impossibly narrow space, forcing its edges away momentarily, only to have this footprint of space immediately consumed and reabsorbed into the blurry edges of buildings and city-blocks. On a bad day the soot that hangs in the air adds to this claustrophobia, the thick clouds sitting in the sky seemingly meeting the exhaust trails of gaudily painted trucks and tiny auto-rickshaws, forming a single gray-white mass that also has come to set up residency in the city, competing for a more psychological kind of space in this crowded metropolis.

I intend to take pictures once I have a Ziploc baggy to protect my camera from the constant humidity and threat of a sudden downpour, though I will promise you that each picture taken will be only a tiny piece of this city, an object depicted by a constrained focus because this city has a kind of visual density too cacophonous to accurately capture, to portray in a way that is decipherable and meaningful.

If anyone feels the desire to say hello do email me,
or if you're feeling particularly nice, if you send me a real paper email I'd return the favor and you'd get a nice foreign stamp,

Benjamin Weinryb Grohsgal
C/O AIIS
12/2 Swinhoe Street
Kolkata 700019 India