At night, the bus drops me at Rash Behari Crossing. I walk down Ashutosh Mukherjee Road from Kalighat to Jatin Das Park and then take a right to reach Maharashtra Nivas. I walk in an L-shape. Perhaps, I should get down at Deshpriya Park, and walk along Sarat Bose Road. It might be nearer. I need to check that out. Tomorrow.

Rash Behari Avenue is silent. Once tainted as the largest shop collection of undergarments, today its not so. There is darkness on this side of the footpath. The other side has some open shops and a few people. As I pass from one lamppost to another, it's like passing through a tunnel - a kingdom of darkness engulfs me. A few beggars, a couple and some prostitutes linger in that darkness. A couple of trams cross each other in the centre of the road. A bus driver shouts "Godya..Godya..Godya." A dog searches the litter. A beggar shoos him away and starts scavenging. The roadside vendors are now tired. They do not shout, but wait for the customers to come. A lone radio plays a familiar tune - Humne to bas khushiya maangi, kaaton ka haar mila.

Most of the shops are closed or are closing down. It's 8:45pm as a lone STD/ISD booth holds a couple of customers.

I reach Hazra crossing. It's still crowded. The morning cacophony continues but people are now hurrying back to the comfort of their homes. The egg-roll centre is doing roaring business. The sweet-mart shop is closing and the boys are cleaning and washing the floors. The water flows down under a newspaper vendor's raised platform. People move around avoiding each other and the water flow. Fruit vendors are waiting for somebody to pick up the last fruits so that they can close down. Kali is asleep in an iron gate that hides her partly. I walk along the path, jumping over the intermediate streams of urine that cut across the footpath. These streams go and meet the streams of the tube well, creating puddles everywhere. A dog is lapping up the water. Its skin - half-muddy, half-diseased - stretches across its protruding rib cage. Some people sit below a lamp with a pack of cards. They always play cards and on weekends are found sitting at all sorts of places in Kolkata, playing cards throughout the day.

It's 9:00pm. I can still get some food - cold remnants of the dinner that started at 7:00pm in Maharashtra Nivas. The food is good - though cold. That reminds me; I need to find out if Sarat Bose road is shorter.

The honking has decreased as cars and taxis ply smoothly in the yellowish light symmetrically, systematically on either side of the Hazra road. The beggar is sitting in the same position. Now he is cleaning his ears and removing lice from his dust-covered hair with dust-covered nails. The sand has spread on the footpath and spilled on the road. It happens daily. Kolkata disintegrates into dust during the day and rises like a sphinx in the morning. It has an eternity to it, a resilience to change; as if Time has stopped here.

The dogs still sit there. Some street urchins accompany them. They are throwing stones at a cow passing by. The air still has floating dust particles. But now the black smoke particles make it blurred. I am reminded of a Bengali poem that I recently read

Godhulir chaya pathe,

Je gelo chhini go tare.

(In the hour of cow-dust, on the shadowy path, Who passed by me? I felt, I knew her)

The hour of cow-dust is a beautiful metaphor. It brings images of Brindaban to mind, when Krishna would be bringing back the cows. As the cows tread on the roads, their hooves make the air dusty - "Go-dhuli." Another poem that comes to my mind

Mauli saanj andharatana,

Vishwa sare janoo hoi kanha.

Paratati tya save pakharanche thawe,

Pail ghanta ude rauli.

Saanj ye gokuli sawali sawali.

(Radha says: Oh mother, as the evening darkens, the whole word seems to become Krishna-like. With him return the flocks of birds, the sound of the small bells in the cow's necks fill the sky. Evening comes to Gokul in the colour of Shyam)

Hemant Kumar is nearing the end of the song Jaane who kaise, log the jinke pyaar ko pyaar mila.

A familiar face, a familiar smile; re-surge to memory. I smile back. Illusion?

I cross over and climb the three floors to my room. As I open the door, the stuffy air heightens the smell of the fresh paint. It lingers till my nostrils get used to it. I change and freshen up. I lie flat on the bed - a book in hand - Geoffrey Moorhouse's Calcutta - The City Revealed.

The fan is whirling above. The sun's rays are gone and the street light doesn't enter my room. The tube light plays with the fan's blades. The edges blur as the thousand sticks revolving around the wobbling head resurface. The sticker rotates asymmetrically. An ill-folded newspaper flutters and mixes harmoniously with the whirling of the fan. There is an occasional car now, and silence in between. I am scared. I close the book, switch off the light. The neighbour's bathroom light peeps in through the opaque window. It looks like the ray of light in Kagaz Ke Phool. I close my eyes - tight. I don't know when the neighbour switches off his light. The sound of the fan reminds me of the unsteady rattling of locals in Mumbai.

The traffic outside decreases. A bus hurtles down - its empty seats pattering. An auto rickshaw chugs along. A taxi hurls down with a rattle and growl. A bike wheezes past. A cycle rickshaw tinkers its bell. A solitary human rickshaw saunters past - the distinct sleigh bell is the last thing that I remember.

Life goes on.