Gradually the rich Bengali countryside began to give way to small rows of shops, cement duplexes, and family compounds. The density and complexity of the neighborhood changed further. We passed a large movie house, a dosed wholesale market, apartments and shopping districts. It was difficult to tell if we had entered Calcutta or if this was some other town. A strange quiet stillness hung over the whole place. Not a single person could be seen on the street, the dogs were asleep, and. the stores were all closed. Perhaps most unnerving was the absence of pop music from movie soundtracks. In fact the only sound to be heard was the whine from the rickshaws motor.

We pressed on uneventfully deeper and deeper into the growing cityscape. Our driver veered off of the main avenue and began a series of sharp rights and lefts on progressively smaller streets. I took this to be a good sign that we must be getting to the center of the city. I figured our less than direct path was an effort to avoid any political zealots who might not appreciate our hiring an authorized party vehicle for our personal use. My suspicions where confirmed when we exited a small alley out into a traffic roundabout. A large cadre of banner totting ideologues formed a wall in front of the vehicle and brought us to a halt. The driver began an animated argument with the self appointed leader of the gang.

Hands were waving and shouts of what I took to be insults were flying. I remained in the back keeping quiet deciding, for the moment, to keep out of the fray. It was only after the gang dragged both the driver and his friend out of the rickshaw with the intent of bodily harm, that I thought it was time for some intervention. I quickly got out started screaming myself. It didn't seem to matter that no one understood me; I got their attention anyway. I pointed to the back seat at the ashen-faced Frenchman and made a plea for compassion. I got a stony look from the gang leader who, after a moment's hesitation, began to verbally berate the driver again. I received a moment's panic when I realized these Bengalis meant business. Anywhere else in India the courtesy for a foreigner would pre?empt and political debates and we would be sent on our way. But here in Calcutta the Bengalis couldn't care who we where. The rules were being broken and that was that. My frustration level at this point had risen to a fever pitch and I lost any sense of panic that had washed over me. I stepped between the driver and the gang leader, let out a frontal assault of verbal abuse, indicated for the driver to get back in the machine and with as much resolve as I could muster got back into the rickshaw and waited to go. The driver and his friend followed my lead and got back into the rickshaw. The driver turned over the engine and without another word being said the crowd parted and we continued on our way.

A half a kilometer later we exited from the warren of streets, crossed over an overpass (affectionately called a "fly?way" in India) and pulled up in front of the monolithic bulk of Howrah station. So here we were in Calcutta at the height of the bandh and, true to form, not a thing was going on. An odd assortment of stranded travelers and homeless people mingled lazily in front of the main entrance. When we finally extracted ourselves from the cramped confines of the rickshaw the usual hawkers, con men, street urchins, holy men and beggars did not besiege us. In fact no paid the least attention to us. It was, perhaps, the least stressful arrival in an Indian city I had ever experienced. A fleeting sense of satisfaction swept over me when I realized that it was four o'clock. I had beaten my self imposed five o'clock deadline by one hour. This sense of accomplishment was quickly tempered by the strange occurrence of arriving in one of the world's largest cities and finding no one on the street. A renegade taxi?walla offered me a ride to my hotel. We drove unencumbered across the deserted Howrah Bridge and into the belly of a resting Calcutta.