Houses are crumbling. Houses are crumbling all around. Right next to this first-floor rented apartment in south Kolkata, the sounds overwhelm, confuse.
You wake up hearing the dull thud of hammers falling on brick, lime, and mortar, frozen in time, outside your southern windows ; the intolerable screech of the "mosaic-machine" hits you from the east, time is wet and whirring, the morning sun has already been blotted out, months back.
You slide a glance at the debris— there still remains a wooden toy car, a crumpled calendar with a goddess's face, some unidentifiable pieces of wood and iron. There used to be giant mango, guava, jamrul, and jackfruit trees—their stumps remain; the flowers have died in their beds, of cement and dust consumption.
All in the space of an year...
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