As I saw KOLKATA changing

Early in the morning in the fresh light of a Kolkata waking up to another day, a missive from the world outside, curled and wound by a jute string would come spinning and then glide through the open door onto our red cement floor. It never missed its target – one open door of many others on the second floor of a jhool  baranda, a hanging verandah. I always ran out to peer through the trellis work of our wrought iron railing to see the newspaper man cycling away and stopping every so often to throw his next missile with the sure aim of a champion bowler, an art he must have picked up playing cricket in the numerous lanes or para[1] parks of the metropolis.[2]

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Bowling Beyond Boundaries

The Internationalism of Angus Calder

I had walked from Tollcross towards Princes Street. For once the sun was not sulking. The world seemed to have gathered in Edinburgh, a rainbow crowd ready to plunge itself into whatever the Fringe had to offer. It was August and the Festival was palpable. As I stood on the kerb at the Caledonian Hotel, I saw someone teetering on the edge of the opposite pavement. I knew that familiar tweed jacket and dark green corduroy trousers. I zigzagged my way through the gap in the traffic and walked towards him. One hand gesticulated to me urgently while the other remained firmly in his pocket. “This is outrageous! They are threatening to execute Ken Saro-Wiwa! They can’t do that!

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