I, Tagore

So I’m here. Although several people assured me that if I made it to the pre-paid taxi stand by 5:30 am I’d be able to get a ride into the city, everything was in full-on strike mode by the time I emerged from the baggage claim. Outside, where the only emerging travelers were from my flight, were just a handful of aggressive would-be taxiwallahs as opposed to the throngs of people you usually find outside CCU. In quick succession I watched a white guy with dreadlocks idiotically cry "f*cking India!!!" (I’m keeping this PG. For the kids) as he kicked the back of a taxi, then an Indian man push one of those empty metal baggage carts as hard as he could at the back of another taxi that was slowly trolling away. There was a delightful three or four awkward seconds before the cart found its target with a satisfying thud, and as I enjoyed this I decided I didn’t want to stick around until this got really ugly. I thus agreed to pay a dude with an Ambassador (that’s a car) like a hundred gazillion dollars to take me not to my flat in south Kolkata (all the roads into the city were closed at this point) but to a hotel, which of course turned out to be his friend’s and practically walking distance from the airport (were I not carrying the WORLD’S HEAVIEST LUGGAGE).

What followed was 24 hours (the strike didn’t let up until the next morning) in what I had to remind myself after three years away was not the worst Indian hotel room I’ve ever stayed in. I didn’t leave the entire time, sleeping most of the day away and trying to amuse myself and sleep most of the night, generally failing at both. I ate nothing but a handful of Cheez-its I had in my bag. Why, I cannot say. I’d squirreled away all the packaged food I hadn’t eaten from my airplane meals, anticipating worst-case bandh scenarios, but I just wasn’t hungry. The time I wasn’t sleeping sucked pretty hard, folks. For the most part I alternated between reading Polanyi and People magazine to unsuccessfully distract myself from freaking out about, oh say, everything. The high point came when, as I read about the birth of Clay Aiken’s baby, I was reminded of this one time my friend Sessily and I decided it would be an awesome idea to sing "Invisible" at Karaoke in a dive-y bar by her place in Chicago. I am not making the following events up: as we were just about to begin, the guy running the karaoke system got this gushing nosebleed and ran into the bathroom. Another guy stepped in to work the machine while the first guy was plugging himself all up, and as soon as he pressed play the entire system crashed. Coincidence? You decide. After the whole thing was over Sessily and I were offered the napkin upon which I had scrawled our song request, which also now was home to several drops of nosebleed blood. We declined. The memento was poetic, yet disgusting.

As I was taxied the 15 km or so from the airport through the city and to my flat, my mood changed quite a bit. I remembered all the parts of living in Kolkata that I really enjoyed, and actually got a little emotional during the drive. Now onto the project of settling-- my flat is great and will serve my purposes just fine. As I write this I’m waiting for (a) my new roommate to wake up and (b) shops to open so I can begin to nest, buy a damn phone, and acquire non-airplane food. Good luck to me.