At the humble part of Calcutta, far from posh places where men wear three piece suits and ravishing women, expensive fur and the air- condition is turned so low it can be in New York a January day, they gave me booze made in distilleries hidden in the tall grass. Epiphany, at the hospital for the poor and dying I met my mother and told into those dark fathomless eyes the mess I have made out of my own life; held her tiny hand in mine, the fluttering of a bird's heart, till stillness came, I saw, through a glass empty window, cold stars. Tried to enter the rich enclave, but low paid lackeys, in starched opera uniforms, blocked my quest for equality.
