Bengal motorcycles

Amidst thunderstorms, raw mango chutney, sari-shopping, family-gossiping, recession-analytics and the UPA, my stint in Calcutta has begun. The slow whirring of fans keep time with the perspiring lethargy of shopmen. Jubilant Trinamool machismo rallies around in green gulal. On motorcycles. The red triangular flags hang on. Withered. Fierce. A dinnertable story is told about a domestic help woman who voted for Trinamool because they paid for a visit home and back. And stories are told of lament. At Calcutta lethargy. Decadence. Humanity. And food. And culture. And rains.

The walls are festive in this graffiti season. The age of the messiah-lady. The age of change. The age of knee-jerks and turnarounds and kickstarts. Of industry and roads and jobs and no more laziness. The motorcycles warriors sashay the roads chanting mantras of new energetic Bengal. Of green-powdered machismo.


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