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“They leave me breathless. Even Communist China has embraced Deo, why don't they?”
“Calcutta will take your breath away”
“The black hole of Calcutta? Oh, I know him well...”
“I live here.”
“Eww arr my chikaan fraay.. Eww arr my feesh fray.”
Calcutta is the 'Venice of South-East Asia' during the monsoon. Largest city of Bengalibabu, East India - its name originally signifying "The Cremation Ground of the Goddess with the Nice Bottom" - Calcutta was the capital of the "British Raj", a well-known madman who ran a tea company.
The modern-day city has two levels. Above ground hoverpods take stockbrokers to work and a vigorous trade in Raj nostalgia flourishes. Below ground an army of lepers works to extend the religious power of the unaccountably famous and wrinkled Albanian Mother Teresa.
It is estimated that Calcutta's most numerous imports are guitars, mostly shipped over the Chinese Wall for Calcuttan youths to use as weapons in their mating rituals. The oddest thing about these guitars is that one may be a first-class instrument and the next absolutely unplayable. The other odd thing is that most of the people in possession of the guitar do not know it is a musical instrument.
It was not ever thus. Once the textile industry of Calcutta gave its name to the fabric "calico", a fabric or textile named after its place of origin, which I forget.
Another well-known sight is the bicycle rickshaw, often pedalled by rickshaw-wallas so advanced in years that they can only continue to work because any decent person will get off and walk.
Oldschool Calcuttans, distinguished by their compulsive worship of the Great God Rabindranath, frequent the part of the city known as College Street where, used and reused opinions are sold at black market prices on the pavements under dusty fluorescent bulbs. This intellectual ferment is said to be due to extreme humidity and the overpowering smell of fish. Die hard Bengali Babus, who wear a white top and a white bottom cloth(which is semi see-through by the way - so the pretty young things can see their dangling ding dongs) swear by Rabindranath. Kabiguru, he is called, which is a corruption of the phrase "kya big uru!" which means "what big nipples!", for Rabindranath was born with monstrous boobs. One fine day when he was sleeping his sister-in-law cut them and stuck them onto her chest, breast implantation was thus born. Dejected, he turned to writing poetry. Bengalis, drawing from him have a poetry or a Rabindra-sangeet('song of Rabindra') for every possible occasion, in fact there is even one that men sing piteously when they suffer from constipation, or from piles. The song may be roughly transcribed as 'Ode to the brownish lump' or 'Musings of a Re-Turd'. Such is the literary genius of this poetry, that Rabindranath was awarded the Nobel prize for this work. It is well known in literary circles how grateful the asses of the Nobel Prize committee members were to the poet. So our exalted Bengali intellectuals congregate to discuss and dissect his works whenever they have the time(which is generally about 23 hours a day - the remainder is for defecating and cleaning their bottoms) and sigh at the beauty of the poetry. Such is their affection for him, that Bengali women when having an orgasm never forget to recite two lines from his poems as they cool down. From kindergarten to university theses, Bengalis study his poetry, because they have nothing else to study in their literature. A few other poets, like Nazrul Islam wrote sonnets on ass-fucking, but since that was outlawed at the time, Bengalis couldn't recite it openly. Now that homosexuality has been legalized in India, they have drawn out all 1346.2 poems (the last one was 20% complete, if you must know) and are retouching them to fit modern times. That is understood, given condoms and lube and sex toys and dildos weren't really known in that age.
Calcutta also has the distinction of manufacturing the largest percentage of poets. All Calcuttans who can read and write any of the forty-three vernaculars spoken there will attempt to write at least once in their painfully long lives. The ones who can't will remain disgruntled and eventually join the Red Comrade Brigade that rules the city.
The last characteristic feature of Calcuttans is their maniacal obsession with sports. At a large central field, dedicated to the ghost of Queen Victoria, horse races are held in her honour: this will soon be declared a World Heritage Site because it provides jobs for at least half the city's population. An international cricket match once every four-and-a-quarter-years signals widespread hysteria throughout the metropolis and the city congregates under the leadership of His Royal Maharaja Sourav Ganguly III to throw seasonal vegetables and mineral water bottles at the visiting teams.
But modern Calcutta is a thrusting, go-ahead tiger economy of flashy boulevards that only happens to look as if someone dropped Victorian Halifax on India and then dumped its municipal rubbish heap on top.
Also, this city has a love for fucked up cinema with a wide range of gay hairy men trying to make sexy scenes by fondling the boobs of the 90 year old sluts on sandy beaches.
Most Calcuttans believe that they speak Bengali. However Calcutta's men folk spontaneously speak a different language when in the company of another men folk. This language is really a dialect of another language whose name I no longer remember. The dialect itself is called "Tscho Dna!". The unique thing about this dialect is that it has a very large number of loan words from different languages of the world. The following is a sample list of vocabulary from this dialect:
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