During breakfast, I finally got what I asked for, black coffee. India drinks a lot of tea and coffee, but they drink it with milk and sugar. I'm so used to having a big cup of strong black coffee that the adjustment to this bit of Indian culture has been difficult.

After Adam had his first cup of tea, he started asking for black tea. This was a difficult concept to grasp I guess, because it took several "tea times" to get it right. Because of Adam's tribulations, I decided I could live with milky sweet coffee. But at dinner on Thursday night, I told Anjan the one thing I wished I could have was black coffee in a big mug. At breakfast, when the help was bringing our food, they brought up a big pot of coffee and a big "American style" coffee mug. I laughed and they were all so proud. However, when I poured the coffee, I quickly learned why they put so much milk and sugar it. It was slightly darkened and had very little taste. Because the helpers were so happy and proud of their black coffee, I didn't have the heart to ask for cream and sugar.

After breakfast, Ovick and I had two meetings, one with DA196 and one with STP1. We said our good-byes and thanked them for their extreme hospitality and cooperation. I was actually sad to say goodbye. There was such a difference between when I gave my first address on Tuesday and when I gave my final speech. On Tuesday, I may have well been speaking to an empty room, today, people were much more expressive. Most everyone smiled and nodded their heads, some even laughed and talked. It was really fun to see the change over the course of the week and to see how warm and friendly everyone really is. In my closing address, I thanked them as much as I could and told them how surprised and gracious I was with their overwhelming good nature and hospitality.

When the meetings were finally over, Anjan took Ovick and me to a great little ice cream place. We had South Indian food. The best way to describe it was an Indian version of a burrito. Once again, I really have no idea what was in it, but it was good. For dessert, I had a moon pie special. It was two scoops of butterscotch ice cream, two scoops of vanilla, whipped cream and caramel syrup with a cherry on top. The cherry had a pit.

After lunch, we went back to DA196. Anjan told Ovick and I about his recent trip to Jaipur at dinner last night, so he invited us to his office to watch his videos. He had great footage of the city, the world's largest sundials and the City Palace. Every building in the city was painted pink and the palace was all marble and gold. We also watched a video of a Bengali festival held in October. The city is completely decorated with lights and there are hundreds of displays created out of clay. It was a similar concept to the use of roses on the floats in the Rose Bowl parade. The structures looked like they were brick and marble, and each one depicted a Hindu mythology scene. Months of work go into designing and building these spectacles and they are only meant to last for the five-day festival. On the last night, the structures are loaded onto trucks, then driven down to the Ganges and dumped in the river.

When our movie festival was over, Ovick and I changed clothes, packed our day bags and got into the car to head for Naihati. Ovick has two aunts and four first cousins that live there. Naihati is a town of about 10,000 people and is 45 miles outside of Calcutta. Originally, we were going to ride bicycles, but we ended up spending most of the day at the office.

The drive out into the country was the highlight of my trip. There is no way to describe on paper what driving on the streets of India is like. It is utter chaos. For the entire 45 miles, there were cars, busses, trucks, bikes, motorcycles, rickshaws and people travelling on both sides of the street. You are supposed to drive on the left side, but from what I can gather, that only applies when you are trying to dodge an oncoming vehicle, and only then do you swerve left at the very last minute. Indians are masters of the game chicken and take to heart the concept of "honk and drive." The drivers don't slow down for anything or anyone. When something is even remotely in their direct path, they just lay on the horn and keep going. Maybe at the last minute they swerve.

We drove the whole way with the windows down so I could take pictures as we drove. I learned very quickly to keep my elbows in the car. About five minutes into the drive, we were trying to pass two rickshaws that were riding side by side. As our driver was honking to let them know we were passing, a big bus was coming from the opposite direction. At the time when we passed the rickshaws, there were four vehicles spanning the width of a "two-lane" road. There was a biker also travelling in the same direction as the bus. When we passed the bus, the biker was forced off the road down a ditch and our driver's side mirror was inches from being knocked off. After we made it through that tight squeeze, our driver turned around and laughed.

Later on in the drive, we were passing two schoolboys, both with backpacks flung over their right shoulders. Our driver honked, they didn't move and our passenger-side mirror hit one of the boy's backpacks. The other night when we were driving in Calcutta, Adam asked the question "when one of our drivers inevitably hits and kills someone, who is liable?" Anjan laughed and said only the really rich can afford to sue, plus you could never prove anything in court. Kakoli added that the only thing that would happen would be the driver would get beat up by an angry mob. The only time I noticed drivers would be cautious was when there was a cow in the middle of the street.

Besides the harrowing adventures of driving, the journey was an absolute feast for the senses. The scenery of the banana trees, coconut trees, beechnut trees, rivers, lakes and rice fields were breathtaking. The streets were lined with brick huts and markets. Every house was under construction and had a pile of bricks in every yard. Since children never leave the house, the families always need to build additions. Unfortunately, families start the project and usually run out of money. When this happens, they keep all of the equipment and materials in their yard until they have enough money to continue.

Every 2 miles or so, there was a brick foundry. The foundry made all of the bricks for the village. Instead of carts or trucks to transport them, people pile about 20 bricks on their head and walk to their house. I guess because it takes such an effort to move the bricks, nobody is worried about thievery.

After an hour and a half of driving, we reached Naihati. The turn-off to Naihati looked no different than any other intersection because India apparently does not believe in the value of street signs. So we ended up driving by the town several times before someone finally pointed us in the right direction. Once in town, we went to the house of one of Ovick's aunts. Ovick's dad recently paid for his sister to renovate her house. This was partly to create a better life for his sister and partly to create a more attractive dowry for his niece who was not yet married.

The house was down a long dirt road. At the corner of the road and the driveway was a field. There was a woman kneeling next to a large pile of dung. Her job was to walk the streets with a basket and collect cow dung. When her basket was full, she brought it back to the field, made little patties and laid them in the field to dry. When the patties were dry, she took them back to her house to burn for cooking. After discovering this little fact, I tried to reason with myself that there are other possibilities why authentic Indian food tasted different.

The driveway to the house was long and windy and led to a little area of about four houses. I'm not sure if the appropriate term is houses because it was more like three huts and a mansion. Each house had a front yard with mango, banana and beechnut trees. Of course there was no grass, just dirt. Each house also had a well for water. When I looked down the well, I saw the dirtiest, slimiest well water I had ever seen. It was a good thing I brought my own water.

The mansion belonged to Ovick's aunt. It was brand new and therefore the cleanest building I've seen in India. The house was built on top of the two-room hut that used to be their house. When we first arrived, we were given a tour of all four floors. Every room had marble tiles and marble floors. The only furniture was beds, a dinning room table, and plastic chairs. Each room was connected to a bathroom and every other bathroom had a porcelain toilet. The other toilets were holes surrounded by porcelain foot-plates. I guess squatting is still the preferred method in India. Every room had unique marble flooring and colorful tiles and each floor had a separate balcony. Ovick later told me the house cost $10,000 to build. We called it the Taj Mahal II.

When the tour was over, we went downstairs to sit in the original part of the house. Ovick's cousin had a tanpura (a classical Indian string instrument) sitting against the wall. I asked her to give us a little recital. She cheerfully obliged and treated us to an Indian Raga. She played and sang, which I guess is a rare talent, usually people do one or the other, but not both.

After the concert, we went upstairs for dinner. The men sat at the table while the women served our meals. The women stood around the table and talked to us, but did not eat. Whenever I needed more rice or water, they immediately served me. I got better service than I do in most restaurants. The other peculiar thing about this dinner was the absence of silverware. Once the rice was put on my plate, I had no choice but to dig in with my hands. Ovick's cousin noticed my clumsiness and shared some basic techniques on how to scoop up rice and sauce and put it in my mouth without making a mess. By the end of the meal I had gotten the basic gist of it. I was just hoping they weren't going to bring out any soup.

Once we finished dinner, it was time to head to Ovick's other aunt's house. She lives all the way across town. The Kar family servant is a rickshaw driver, so Ovick and I got to ride in a rickshaw. That ride in itself was almost worth the trip to India. By the time we started on our way, the sun had gone down. Obviously there are no streetlights, so we rode down the streets and country paths in complete darkness. You couldn't see a thing unless a passing car or motorcycle with lights came driving by. The street was filled with the sounds of bicycle bells and horns and people yelling. Apparently bicycling etiquette is the same as automobile etiquette.

When we arrived at the house, we got a tour and then sat down for some tea. This house was not quite as big as the first house, but still quite nice. Again there was very little furniture, but they did have a sofa. The bathrooms had porcelain toilets, but the bedrooms did not have real beds. They had beds that folded out from the walls. The family regularly has lots of visitors, so when they have more visitors than beds, they can save space by sleeping on the floor. Again, I didn't ask.

After tea, Ovick's cousin Ani, took us to the town market. I think by this time the culture shock of India was starting to wear off, but I still walked around with my eyes wide open and my jaw being kicked by my feet. The chaos of daily life is just overwhelming. The smells, the lights, the colors, the animals, and the massive amounts of people are enough to overload the senses.

The market was crowded with stands selling everything imaginable. There were stands that sold clothes, jewelry, cooking utensils, hand-made musical instruments, medicines, eye glasses, religious artifacts, food, slaughtered meats (you can choose your chicken from a cage), and toys. The market stretched from the train station to the Ganges, which was exactly where we ended up. The Ganges is said to be the dirtiest river in the world and I'm not going to be the one to disagree. It was night when we got there, but even in the darkness, you could sense and smell the filth. Down the river by about 20 feet there was a couple of dogs and a pig playing in the water. One interesting fact about the Ganges is that it is tidal. The height of the Ganges is based on the moon, when it is a full moon, the banks rise about 5 feet higher than when it is a new moon. From the river, we headed back to Ani's house.

As we were walking through a particularly poor area of Naihati, four Indian high schoolboys stopped us. One boy said he had a relative who lived in London and that one day when he knew enough English, he was going to visit him. The boys just wanted to speak to some Americans and practice their English. We obliged and told them about San Francisco and our families and then I took a picture. Ani said this would probably make their year. Maybe one foreigner comes to Naihati once every five years. People don't come and people don't leave. Naihati is a very stagnant town in that respect.

After walking around town, we returned to Ani's house. His mother had prepared another dinner for us. I was already stuffed from the previous dinner, but since she had so much food, it was only polite to eat. Once again I had to eat with my hands. Of course now that the trip is ending, I'm starting to get the hang of eating with my fingers.

When dinner was through, Ovick and I took the rickshaw to the train station. From there we hopped on the train back to Calcutta and road through the countryside at night. The train didn't stop at our stop, so we went 20 minutes further into Calcutta. Supposedly Shelda Station is the busiest in the world, but when we arrived at 11:45pm, the only people around were the people getting ready to sleep for the night. When we walked out of the train station, we were right in the middle of a tent village. This was the only time of the trip that I was slightly nervous. It was almost midnight on a Friday and we are the only foreigners in the middle of one of the poorest sections of the poorest cities in the world. There wasn't a street or car in sight. As we walked through the isles of tents, people stopped everything to stare at us. At one point, I thought it would have been a good idea to take a picture of the people I saw. When I pulled out my camera, people stopped and one guy started shaking his hands to tell me not to take the picture. I took it anyway and my flash went off. The flash drew a lot of attention and then all of a sudden people started yelling. Ovick and I quickly changed directions and headed down an aisle that looked as if it would end up in a street. Sure enough it did, and better yet, the street looked like it lead to a bigger street and hopefully some taxicabs.

On the way up the street to the other street, we had to almost step over bodies. There were so many people sleeping in the street, on the sidewalks, and on parked cars that it made the Tenderloin look like Beverly Hills. Of course the surreal atmosphere of this whole sequence was enhanced by the fact that there were no streetlights and the only light was from the fires the people lit.

As we approached the main street, Ovick and I let out a collective sigh. There in front of us was a row of taxicabs waiting for passengers. Upon reaching the taxis, a big commotion started to approach us from down the street. Now Shelda Station is in the middle of downtown Calcutta and granted it was around midnight, but this scene was truly odd. The commotion approaching was a group of ten Indians corralling a herd of about 60 goats right down the middle of the street.

Finally when we got in the taxi, our journey was on its last leg. Our taxi driver took what seemed like the long route, but since I had no idea what the short route was I wasn't going to say a thing. We went through what seemed like some of the worst parts of town. Calcutta is like two different cities, one during the day and one at night. When it is light, everything is exposed. You can see all of the dirt and garbage and the general run down state of people's lives. When it is dark, all of the dirt is hidden. In its place, you see the shops and market stands that make up people's daily life. I believe you begin to see life from the eyes of the Indians. You are not distracted by the poverty and dirt, but instead are allowed to focus on their lifestyle, which on some levels is the same as ours in the west. People like to gather and talk. Indians go to the market for the same reasons we go to the mall and visit with family and friends for the same reasons we do. People are people no matter what class or country they are from.

With that being said, our drive home took us through some areas that my utopian description of the Indian lifestyle just didn't apply. Some of these areas were absolutely horrendous. The poverty was unimaginable, the dirt and suffering beyond comprehension. There was nothing beautiful about some of these areas, only tragedy. You see images on television and in the movies, but until you can actually see it, and in the case of tonight be in the middle of it, you can not fully comprehend its magnitude. The poverty and tragedy of life for the extreme lower class is so indescribable. One medium can not do justice in its description. You must stand in it, breath it, hear it, see it, feel it and taste it. Every sense is required to fully understand what India is like. I have spent a week trying to immerse myself and absorb as much as I could about Indian culture and lifestyle. I have tried to understand the work culture and general environment of Calcutta and I think I have succeeded at maximizing my time here, but there is just so much more to understand and experience. I guess it just gives me a reason to come back.