In May 1983, I was one of 350-odd JNU students who ended up in Tihar jail. I don’t recall what it was about, but it led to the president of the student union being expelled.
When I was growing up, we all knew families that were on the way down. Once prosperous or even wealthy, undermined by a generation or two of profligacy and self-indulgence. The impressive house was falling.
I was six when I first tasted Chinese food. Pigeon Roast in a restaurant called Eros, at the edge of Kolkata’s crumbling ‘New’ Market, a plump little bird rich with what I now know to.
I must have been six or seven when for the first and probably last time, my parents were invited to a New Year’s Eve party along with the children. It was in a big house.
I was in Kolkata for pujo this year and since my mother’s cook was on leave, I picked a restaurant that seemed nice. My mother hated it. She was bothered by these very well-built young.