ABSTRACT
As the eastem sky begins to lighten, I leave the hotel and walk up the broad Chowringhee. Heavy mist hugs the Maidan, the expanse of parkland in the he art of the city, where some dirn figures can be seen in the distance going ab out their early moming yoga exercises. Under the arcades along the Chowringhee, families are still asleep, like bundles of rags cast randomly about upon the sidewalk. The streets are empty; black and yellow taxis stationed at intersections; clusters of rickshaws at curbside, the rickshaw wallahs doubled up uncomfortably on their narrow seats, asleep. Near the market, men are stretched out on their tilted, two-wheeled barrows, long shafts resting on the pavement.
