Summer has brought a gush of colour to our roads, traffic signal posts, grocery stores and coffee shops. It is a picture complete with speckled birds and poodled hotties. Sunshine smells of strawberry and barbecue and bluegrass. The graduate student sprawls out on the greens with poetry and fizz drinks. The evening air smells funnily like musty, humid tropical Calcutta. As if men had just jumped off running buses and flicked beads of sweat off their foreheads triumphantly. And women had slowly begun to disperse from their afternoon congregations, and crossing busy roads tightly holding onto distraught five-year-old wrists. Summer in New England brings a spate of activity. Sociality. Of chirping noises and freshly painted nails. Handholding. Kissing. Running. Cooking. Laughter. Forgetting. Swine flu. Summer in Calcutta would breathe an air of lethargy. Tiredness. Slowness. Whirring fans. Brustling newspaper. Elections. Handholding by the riverside. Whisper and coyness. Street food. Stomachache.