A barefoot man carrying an umbrella was walking down the alley

The alleys of Kolkata seemed to have absorbed the very body heat of its people. The humid air clung to the skin, carrying with it a scent that was part curry, part exhaust fumes, and entirely the city’s own. Amid this dense atmosphere, a barefoot man walked with his head slightly bowed. The soles of his feet were dark and calloused, hardened by years of contact with the earth. Shards of glass, nails, even what might have been bits of bone littered the road—“paved” only in name—but he paid them no mind. Habit, it seemed, could be more durable than any pair of shoes.

In one hand he carried a small bag, in the other a folded umbrella. Though the sky was clear, such caution was no surprise here. In Kolkata, rain never bothers to send notice. The man likely knew that a sudden tropical downpour could arrive at any time, and those who don’t mind being drenched are either saints or poets. As he passed, the shod feet of others paused for a moment’s glance at his bare ones. Yet no one said a word.

To go barefoot here is not a statement, nor a plea for sympathy. It is simply a condition of the city itself—a quiet pact between skin and stone, made anew with every step.

Kolkata on Google Map

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