Bengalis from Kolkata eat a slice of nostalgia for breakfast. They have a helping of revolution for lunch. Teatime involves a steaming cup of intellectual pursuit, called "adda". And they end their day with a hearty meal of self-pride, satisfied with the fact that despite its Miss Havisham-like crumbling decay, there is no other city like theirs in the world.

So what if today it resembles a massive old-age home where bridges are falling like nine pins burdened by the weight of history, and where jobs are as scarce as non-veg eateries in Gujarat? Where else will you find a makeshift group of chess players contemplating their next move in the middle of a four-way junction? And who else but a Bengali will deride your lack of knowledge about Marx and Engels, even as he borrows money from you for his next cigarette smoke?