Anindita Sengupta

It’s a difficult city. Like an eccentric old lady with a young heart and calluses on her feet, which she squeezes into pinching heels every evening for a prance around town to the watering holes – where everyone is free and young – and when everything else has closed, to sit by the sea and stare at the glittering surround of lights and marvel, ‘Can a city be so beautiful?’ (more…)