qu'elle arrive la mousson!

There's no such thing as clear skies in Calcutta. Even in the midst of the gruesome midday sun, the smog and humidity absorb any varied though feeble attempt at blue - leaving the netherland dweller with but a claustrophobic cloud of UVA-twanged dirty yellow mist. Indeed, the immediate conditions are all-and-ever-present. Should one have the nerve to even dream of escaping the atmospherically oppressive heat and humidity, it's not so much a matter of flying away as running for cover; tis only a matter of time before that stankankerous copter swoops in for the kill, leaving you jarred and jaded in a self-induced puddle of liquid yellow muck (which in a more civilized age one might refer to as perspiration).

Nonetheless, the auspices of an impending deluge have temporarily calmed Calcutta's cacophonous clamor. The shops are closing and the rickshaws receding (despite the fact that in times of rain, they stand to gain the most). Our first rain was several weeks back. As usual, we were crowded around the kitchen table of the intern apartment in Tollygung, drinking tea and trading non-profit war stories (mind you that with many a trainee, the emotional scars are building... Anna, our Mexican friend, completed three days of a 2.5 month internship, changed her flight and made off for Scotland. She's probably eating Ramen in Edinburough as we speak, the lucky twat. And though we've gotten over the initial shock, we were all unadmittedly a bit jealous at the time... There's currently 10 of us in a two-bedroom apartment. With reps from Brooklyn, China, Iceland, Norway, France, Brasil, Switzerland, Canada, Hong Kong and Ohio, it's a funky fun bunch we've got. Though with only four chairs and seven mattresses, things can get a bit hairy at times...) Suddenly a great gust of air springs forth. The temperature plunges and we look at each other increduluosly, feigning not to arouse the neighbors' suspicion with our sopranorific screams of delight. I run to the front door, expecting to find Robin Williams clutching a rustic board game and a CostCo bag of animal crackers. Instead, who would later become our dear mate Quentin, second frog and fourth francophone, had just arrived from the airport - just in time to witness the calamitous concoction of feverish foreigners and cold, sweetsummer rain.

without further ado, we grabbed our bottles of shampoo and began to parade through the flooding streets. in no less than 20 minutes, eight inch puddles abound as far as the eye can see. in normal circumstances, we live across the 'way' from a makeshift cricket field, the likes of which is packed with children and families during the daytime, couples in the evening and sleeping rickshaw pullers at night. (the street we live on is neither 'path' nor 'road', but rather more like a designated human passage-way. that being said, one cannot discount the occasional water buffalo either...). a gangle of ecstatic adolescents jump, ramble, bopper and sing from all corners of the field; after 8 long, (comparatively) dry months, this is their perennial moment of triumph. and we too share in the sentiment. we meander up chanditala lane, a horizontally escalating street that procedes in 90 degree angles (i.e. we live on a zigzaggedly bastardous lane; it shoots right for a ways, then left for a block before turning right and so on... i imagine the delivery boys love us). mauricio, berenice and i make our way to the main crossroad, shocking young and old alike with our bucolically boisterous song and dance. the men grin at us from the shelter of their firstfloor overhead awnings, whereas the women, peering out from the second and third floors, try not to. tis only the little ones that pounce and prance in equal delight.

morning glory

the no doubt soon-to-be world renowned manhood under criticism special clinic has finally been officially approved by the american board of sexicology. it was no easy feat procuring the scientific support from one of western medicine's great institutions, though in the end it appears as though our boys on park street pulled it off. just a half block away, the roman catholic archdiocese publicizes its neighborly presence in bold neon green. st thomas may have been a semite, but he got down on some spicey shit. across the bustling avenue, a plastic eight-foot charred green dragon emerges from its necromantically crumbling tree-lawn flowerpot, its broken tail revealing the cast-iron interior that is sure it outlive the lively expression of its extraskeletal visitor. an emaciated man of dubious age is squatting barefoot on the sidewalk, his weathered knuckles nestle the cement as he gets his morning shave. calcutta is late to rise and i made the mistake of catching the early train to work to wander the neighborhood and grab a quick bite before my first day of work. i stroll up and down the avenue, clutching my 15 cent liter of water and sucking in the foul fumes of (my own) vice and (someone else's) exhaust in the midmorning sauna of pre-monsoon calcutta. the only kitchens in business at this hour are the bubbling sidewalk cauldrons of yet-to-be-yank-observed liquid, and i havent got to the heart to give them a go without the approval of a local mate. (oh and by sidewalk, well, they're on the sidewalk). alas, ill have to teach the kiddies global warming on an empty stomach and wait for my McRajasthan until the afternoon (how I failed you once again, enlightened citizenry of the world!). seeing as im a bit rusty on fossil fuels myself, i decide to pay wiki a visit...

the NGO that runs my school is only about 5 blocks off of a main thoroughfare, though the circumstances of such a short urban trot are dire. before i leave the avenue, however, i stop off to get a few stamps on the odd chance that ill encounter someone selling postcards or the like within city limits (as of yet, ive counted only 6 other 'western foreigners' in 4 days - all but one in the metro and none after 10am!). its still only 830, though the pestilential heat has already subsumed the ill-light and fan-donned confines of bureaucratic corners large and small. my postal attendant perspires with equal perspicacity and inquires as to my national whereaboots. "im from the US," I tell him, expecting a look of relief upon hearing it wasnt Cornwall. "tell the micheal jordan i say hello," he says, wiping his brow with a warm smile.