The smell of death, the river’s breath.
The cones and arms of gods, the barks of thin grey dogs.
Beggar guards that corner you underneath a spire,
Niggards that tell you of child beggars for hire.
Students dreaming of Oxbridge, night and day,
Studying books and looks the English way.
The gangs that prey on all that’s weak,
And the strong that tell of merits’ meek.
Not all that shines is status good,
The music calls and the sarees brood.
The smells of cinnamon and peppers fried,
The cricket bat that smacks balls wide.
Laughter and goodwill is there,
With solace Calcutta’s daily fare.