Anindita Sengupta

I haven’t been to Calcutta in years. The place I was born in and the hometown of my parents–and theirs–seems remote now. I hear of new construction, gleaming buildings and impressive flyovers but I remember dusty streets, rolls from roadside vendors, cycle rickshaws that trundled along bravely next to overcrowded buses. Most of all, I remember my grandmother’s house–a place associated with childhood memories, summer afternoons, pickle. » Read the rest of this entry «