You know what Kolkata does to me? It makes my spirit breathe. It is the oxygen of my soul.
You know what i experience in those dilapidated, damp buildings that seem to play hide and seek with the ever present twilight in them? I experience the warmth of a lifetime that only a Bengali woman is capable of spreading, even if she happens to be the worst low-life on earth.
You know what happens to me when i leave the boundaries of this human swamp for pastures that others desperately desire? I would gladly seek them out; take their place in this Stalingrad and stay. Stay forever, in this grime, filth, mud and unemployment. But never give up. Because this is the only place that i can call home. The only place worth dying for, dying in.
You know why all this fuss? Because after all that life has managed to throw at me, this is the only thing that still brings tears to my eyes. Kolkata is never a city. It never was for me anyway. It was an idea. My idea of a damp, sticky, stolen orgasm.
Who the hell needs a heaven?