It’s end of office hours. But none of the men walking back to catch their bus or ferry look happy. They don’t walk, they trudge, their heads bowed, apparently exhausted or in despair. “That man you see will now go home, have a bath,” says my colleague, pointing to a particularly melancholy trudger. “Then he will go over to his nightly haunt-local club or maybe some chai shop-and he will be a different person altogether. He will be lively, he will laugh and joke, all the while discussing Bolshevik poetry or Hugo Chavez, totally useless stuff. That’s what he’ll do. He’ll come back to work tomorrow morning, not do a jot of work, and then walk back again, looking thoroughly depressed, as if the world is plotting against him.” My colleague has been asking for a transfer to Delhi for quite some time now. To perhaps fight boredom, the Innova’s driver drives it out of its parking spot and then reverses into the same spot.

The Lok Sabha elections are coming, and true to tradition, the Left Front’s slogans and billboards are simple, enjoyable and aesthetic. “Pashchim Bangla’s Nano/Gujaratey Kano/ Manush jabab chai”, says a billboard. (Why is West Bengal’s Nano at Gujarat? The people demand an answer). In comparison, the Congress’ posters and billboards—at least the ones I saw—are written in highly Sanskritised Bengali.

On my way back to my hotel, I stop at music megastore Music World on Park Street. Many of the shelves are packed with DVDs of European film classics. Living in Delhi, I didn’t even know that these were available in India. As I browse and pick up a few DVDs, a store attendant—who looks like he is in his teens—walks up. “Sir, I saw you’ve taken Fritz Lang’s Metropolis,” he tells me. “We have his M also.” He finds it, I take it. The next 10 minutes, he stays with me, suggesting a Turkish director I had never heard of, a German film I had been hoping to be able to watch one day, an obscure Argentinian movie. He studies what I choose carefully; the moment I pick up a Renoir, he finds three more Renoirs for me. If I am looking at a collection of Sherlock Holmes films, he is there with a set of Hercule Poirot films. Finally when I smilingly say: “Enough, enough,” he shoves a Chinese film into my carry-bag: “This last one, sir. You must take. My recommendation.” In the car, I count the DVDs. I’ve ended up buying 15.

... contd.