I remember the time the house got flooded and I put my mattress up on the fridge. I shared a bed with my flatmate, and we watched dead cockroaches, plastic bags and coconut shells floating around us.
I remember the time when a thief came to my window in the middle of the night. He did not make a sound, but I woke up and saw a man with a stick at my window, reaching into my room. I was too scared to scream.
I remember the time when a cat jumped on my feet when I was in bed. A white cat. In the middle of the night. It woke me up and streaked past. I wonder how I was sane enough not to think that it was a ghost.
I remember the time I fell down a manhole.
I remember the time when a bag – with my PAN card, library books, library card and wallet – were stolen from my room during the course of the night.
I remember how I woke up with a huge cockroach on my face. I picked it up, threw it across the room and went back to sleep.
All this happened during a single year at Kolkata.
My second year there was, somehow, remarkably uneventful.