It's 5:30 in the morning. The first bus roars past towards Sarat Bose Road - its empty seats rattling. Dawn breaks as I open my eyes. The morning rays don't touch my room, but the light enters from the top part of the window, which the curtain fails to cover. It falls on the ceiling fan. I lie still; my eyes fixed on the fan. The light falling on the rotating fan has a troubling effect on my eyes - like a thousand sticks revolving around the wobbling head of the fan. There is a sticker on the head. My head starts whirling. I shut my eyes tight - a bit scared.

The traffic outside increases. An auto rickshaw chugs along. A taxi hurtles past with a rattle and a growl. A bike wheezes past. A cycle rickshaw tinkles its bell. A solitary human rickshaw saunters past - the distinct sleigh bell on his middle finger telling its pace - perhaps to catch the regular early office goers.

I get lost in this cacophony of sounds. The honking is yet to start. The tempo of the sounds rises slowly - like a raag unfolding from Vilambit through Madhya to Druut. My neighbour has woken up. An opaque glass window separates his bathroom and mine. He switches on the light. The sound of urine breaks the silence and later the wrestling with the flush heralds the morning.

It's 6:30 a.m. My alarm rings. I get up, wash my teeth and await the tea. As I open the door, a whiff of morning air breezes in. My body is riffraff, the cold sending shivers down the spine - almost vicarious. My room's window overlooks a building, which is so near, I can touch it. There are a few potted plants on its terrace. A man comes up, sprinkles water on the leaves and goes back. The lady downstairs has started washing her clothes - the synchronised banging of the clothes cannot be achieved by a man.

I take the tea to the balcony. My skin is covered with small white dried spots. The air is taking revenge. I need to massage oil on my skin. Tonight - positively!

The balcony overlooks the Hazra road. The bungalow opposite has just woken up. The servants however have already started cleaning the driveway. There is a small barber's shop on the footpath. Early in the morning, it is stark naked. A couple of stones, which the barber would use to squat upon and a broken foam-covered wooden seat, where his customers would sit in front of him. The seat is tied to a wooden pole. Along with three others, the pole holds a tarpaulin, fully covered with dust. Across this hutment, is a tube-well. It's always crowded with people, who are always washing something or the other. Right now it's standing like a lamppost, as the 'owners' are asleep on the stony floor nearby. There is a bigger stall near the tube-well, like the barber's. Later it would be a crowded teashop run by the people sleeping next to it.

There are some pigeons playing around. One of them with its chest strutting out tries to be a majestic nuisance. Others ignore him. Two of them fly away from the flock and sit on my neighbour's balcony. They kiss, in the only way birds can, by interweaving their beaks. One of them, presumably male, pecks at her neck and then sits upon it and flaps its wings wildly. In childhood, I used to feel they were fighting and the one below has lost. The whole drama from courting to marriage to copulation gets over in ten minutes. And they fly away. The walls seem like modern art paintings - with their droppings strewn on it.

My building has a bank below it - UCO bank. I always see it closed. There is a cage in the wall of bank, where an idol of Venkateshwara is standing with eyes closed and hands on the hips- South Indian style. Some invisible person changes the garland everyday. Venkateshwara stands there - alone; looks at everything that goes on, like Jesus standing at the Mahim Church.

Couples are returning from their morning walk. Perhaps they talk about the few good times, few bad times that they have shared. The greying hair and content on their faces speak a lot. I should also go for a morning walk or join the local gym. Tomorrow.

A sweeper is sweeping the footpath. There is a heap of sand on the opposite footpath. A couple of dogs and a beggar sleep on it. The day has seen the sand spread around. The sweeper awakens them. Calcutta is a city of dust. Throughout the day, dust gathers at almost each conceivable place, even your nails. A house in Kolkata must need two dustings a day - at least. That would irritate my mother.

The sweeper tries to push the sand back to the dune - tries to compact it as much as he can. He proceeds ahead and reaches the end of the footpath. He stops, and looks back. The dogs and the beggar are back to their place. A stray feather, a piece of yesterday's newspaper and some dry leaves are strewn on the footpath. He saunters ahead - perhaps exasperated, perhaps not! Maybe he has accepted the inevitability of dust - like Hemingway's Old Man. Another sweeper walks past. He has a huge sack of garbage on his back and is half bent. He reminds me of Hercules.

"Pyaeparr… Newspyaepurrrr." It's 7:15 as the Times of India arrives. I buy one, glance through the headlines and keep it aside - for reading in the bus. I get ready, slowly, as I have all the time in the world. The mirror is half covered with rust and half with dirt. I strain to see my face in it. There are six different bindis - of wives who switched the mirror for their husband and forgot to switch it back. I look at my face - two cuts, the aftershave burns.

It's 8:15 a.m. I get down. The dhobi is coming up. I need to ask him for my clothes. Tomorrow.

I walk down the road. The small by-lane is dug up. Amidst boards of "Keep Away. Work in Progress," it lies deserted. The width of these boards allows "Inconvenience Regretted" to be painted as "Inconvenience Regetted" or "Inconvenience Regreted" or "Inconvenence Regretted." This is a common sight in Kolkata. New cables are always being laid, or new telephone lines are being laid or new bridges are being constructed. Sometimes an underground pipe that does not function is being replaced with another that does not work.

The shops are just opening. The servants clean the dust on the pavement in front of their shops and push it over the footpath on to the road. They sprinkle water on the pavements. The water spreads the dust in the air. Tube-wells at frequent intervals will turn the dust to mud during the day. Garbage is being burnt. Black burnt pieces of paper and the floating dust particles make my eyes burn.

There are barbers lined on the road. They squat on their legs with a brick to support their seats, while the customer sits with a mirror - fully lathered. Some of them are inspecting their beards and moustaches from various angles before paying up. There are cobblers that line up the opposite footpath, with an array of brushes and plastic containers. They don't bang the brush, but only look at the shoes and then the wearer in the hope that one would stop and get one's shoes polished. One of them looks at my shoes and expectantly at me. Tomorrow.

The Hazra crossing is wide-awake. Trams rattle by and bus drivers shout - "Godyahat.. Godyahat" or "Mintoo Park. Hawda." The policemen are yet to arrive. The drivers aren't following the signals. Vehicles ram into each other at the crossing as tempers flare. A majority of the drivers are turbaned Sikhs. For some unfathomably Sikh reason, the Sardar manages to enter the transport business wherever he goes. Taxi men are in the biggest hurry.

Fruit vendors are just laying down their wares, while the teashops are doing roaring business. Teacups are strewn around. There is a temple at the corner, where Goddess Kali is being worshipped amidst prayers. An orchestra is playing with drums of various sizes, shapes and sounds.

A newspaper vendor is laying out newspapers - systematically for the passer-by to read. I join the crowd. College students have started moving towards Ashutosh College or disappear into Jatin Das terminal for catching the Metro. Office goers are packed into buses, mini-buses, trams and autos.

I stand at the bus stop. I await my bus.

The morning has arrived. Life is moving on.