With apprehension I rose before the sun shone and made sure I had all I needed in my pack. I stood by the soggy road waiting for the bus to get to the new airport in the cheapest way which was still quite vague to me.

With the yellow-coloured air-con bus I managed halfway to the airport and continued with a rumbling blue and white bus. Upon my hassle-free arrival at the airport I was awed with its size and the much-cherished look of the place.

Just to get more familiar with I wandered about the place and with satisfaction I positioned myself in one of the seats next to an old man who was devouring his mid-sized pizza from 7Eleven convenient store. The local English daily didn't help me to kill my time despite its attempting contents so instead I began my effort to get into "Catch 22".

When I approached Indian Airline's counter I was welcomed by a taped white paper with "Contact W" recklessly scribbles across it. So as I found I dragged myself to the W counters and dropped down the pack in front of one of the counters manned by a charming lady, who I spotted impressing herself with the round -handheld mirror.

The middle-aged Indian man with his Shalwar dressed wife was in the middle of his explanatory effort with the charming lady and I assumed it was going to take ages, until an energetic woman advised me to move to the third counter.

Unloaded now without my pack I started eyeing for the immigration counters and stood in front of a lady who, it appeared, made it a point to put an expression , quite contrary to the catchy phrase' The Land of Smile'.

As I presented my passport and ticket she, effortlessly, flipped the pages and lifted her ball pen and reluctantly pointed at the one of the pages and sent out a word "This" to fill out the departure paper.

Having filled out I rushed to stand in another queue where the officer threw a lot of curious questions 'why do you look so different other Indians?' Explanation that I was from the North-eastern part of Indian would be rather lengthy and unsatisfactory given her level of English so I just managed some sentences in Thai and went down to gate F3.

Apparently the crowd was composed of young Indians and small garment merchants huddled up in one corner with their duty-free plastic bags rested on their feet.

The plane was well-carpeted and the impression was beyond my expectation provided my poor impression for state- owned companies in India.

The attendants, approaching their retirement age, were lethargic in their manners and the childish atmosphere created by the some insatiable moustache sporting passengers whose purpose appeared more like collecting of free can beer and whisky.

They certainly intended to throw a free beer party with their mates soon they hit home. The young Indian who sat next to me was little obvious, may be, subdued by my indifferent attitude.

The atmosphere outside was real Indian summer and I, being away from India for two years, felt it and the prepared myself for more heat. The burly custom officer who prowled through my passport while frequently looking up at his 70's IBM computer spent ages and put the awaited stamp on my passport.

Thinking I was through all the inquisitions and formalities I waved at the my new-found Indian lad and was on my way to pick up my pack, however, before we got to that place there were two face-reading custom officers who stopped us and asked for our passport with fabricated suspicions.

My pack arrived but the top part of the pack was wet and I assumed it was the leakage from my American water bottle. It was from the cargo. Outside the solicitous taxi drivers were suddenly stirred by the flood of just-arrived passengers. Some just would not stop soliciting us and while few passengers walked and haggled over the price at the same time.

Young Gupta was benevolent to give me a lift till Dum Dum metro station( subways). Before I got off from the taxi, which had been twisting its ways in the cacophonous Calcutta traffic, Gupta advised me to take an auto rickshaw to get to the station which I managed it with our legs dangling from it ,risking our legs.

The long queue at the ticket counter was the reflection of over populated Calcutta where I stood my many curious eyes. Due to lack of signs I was not so sure which train I should take but the bespectacled gentleman helped me find the right train.

Inside the packed out train I stood next to the gentleman and I hitched a conversation about the city. Curious eyes increased and so were the people inside who forced me to struggle with my back on the wall, however, the sudden appearance of gorgeous Bengali lady harmonized my anger and strengthened my body.

After relentless bargaining I took a taxi to go to 'Manipuri Bhavan' (Manipuri house, a state run guest house) contemplating over a sumptuous Manipuri meal.

The lady at the counter with vermillion powder on her forehead in sari, which colour looked unrecognizable, spoke to me in her bureaucratic accent ignoring me and indicating that she meant no business and I could accommodated only with some baksheesh. In return I was willing to spit out 'piss off'. I took it easy and headed for Shudder Street which is near "The Missionary of Charity'.

Hotel Paragon didn't really look paragon at all to begin with its well-urinated stinking alley and the communist flags over its rusted gate. On inside the picture was quite multicultural with the present of Missionary of Charity's volunteers from Asia, North America and Europe.

There were the Japanese who knew the city more than me and few Spanish who spoke fluent Bengali. Mostly they were Christians but among them there was one devotee of ISKON from Naples who narrated the brutal injustice he went through in the Indian state of Orissa. He was charged with pedophile which had been dropped after two years in prison with hands shackled and feet chained.

I left him with his expected justice and the plan to lodge a complaint against the unforgiving Indian Judiciary to seek compensation. Every two hours we stopped at any tea shop to counter the scorching heat that had consumed our energy.

Multilingual Krishna Kumar's stale was the most sought place at Shudder Street since he could greet people in Hebrew, Korean, Japanese, Spanish and his honesty. Among the sticker and Korean flags taped to his shop there was the picture of Korean singer Rain.

I spent one whole day hanging out with the Japanese volunteers learning to say few sentences in their language and often enchanted by the presence of elegant Kuniko and her tiny mouth organ( Kokeen) which released chirpy sound.

The Koreans were equally interesting although they were little cliquish. There were the young Jewish tourists who just finished compulsory military training who intentionally ignored Palestine as one of their neighbours. The whole day of being a good listener exhausted me more than ever and I went back to my room to reclaim my solitude.

Early in the evening I strolled along the Chowrangee Road which runs parallel to Shudder Street to check out the melee. The wide roadside was already occupied by booksellers, souvenir shops, cloth merchants calling every pedestrians 'friend' inviting them to buy their flimsy products in their aggressive tones.

I stopped by a book shop and bought Naipaul's Among the believers and My name is Red for which I had to bargain by employing my pretentious indifferent expression.

While walking joyfully further in search of exotic things I was confronted by a young man who asked if he could stick a small sticker on my shirt. Granted and started walking further but the man followed and asked me to contribute some money for some unconvincing reasons.

The night was lashed down with torrential rain and the joyful crowd that gathered inside the hotel was dispersed. Silence occupied the place for a while and giving the impression that it would linger around the rest of the night until the Nokiroto, a Japanese lady, began unleashing the melodious sounds from her flute. We all gathered around her with Indian beer in our hands; Hayward 5000 and Cannon 9000.

Woke up with bad hangover from the beer last night I idled about for a while and went down to sip a cup of milk tea. As I settled myself down with jam toast and a cup of tea the English-speaking lady beggar disrupted my tranquility, however, the English man who sat next to me struck a conversation with her in his fluent Hindi. He had been in India for 15 years.

The lady left but we stuck around to talk and concluded to go to the airport together since he was going to Bangkok by the same flight, Jet Airways. In the taxi as well as in the airport we had an analytical discussion on Tibetan Buddhism. Given my atheistic belief and his years-long research of the Tibetan Buddhism the discussion was elevated to a very productive level.

During the check-in time the atmosphere that greeted us was modern India. Young energetic employees of Jet Airways with warm smile and courteous manners escorted us to the immigration section where the officer was on the lookout for some inexperienced travelers with his bureaucratic queries but recoiled soon I told him that I was a journalist. I lied to him.

On board the picture was again booming India, TV screen attached on the back of every seat and young and polite attendants exhibiting considerate air. My new found English friend opted for coffee and I was conquered by the lingering taste of Dutch beer, Heineken. This was followed by delicious Indian meal with Australian wines.

In another two and a half hours we got to Bangkok.