On the road, cycle-rickshaws with furniture in the back (cupboards with mirrors, beds, side tables). Women with umbrellas to protect them from the sun (and it’s only winter). Ladies with the soles of their feet painted red, and with colorful dots in between their eyes. Beautiful sarees – crisp, light and casually wrapped from the left to the right. I love how the Bengali women dress. A girl walks past with a badminton racket in her hand. The kids play badminton everywhere. A short, athletic man maneuvers his rickshaw with amazing ease. He has thin legs and a tight, white t-shirt. It’s very quick when you see a person that you can determine if he or she is from poor living conditions or not. The poor people’s physicality is small and thin, yet at the same time stoic and soft, almost graceful. Many suffer, and they are so tiny, so thin. Their eyes say a lot. Others have beautiful, almost carved-out, features and a sparkling gaze. Someone is brushing the teeth on the side of the road. She has bare feet and plastic bangles. Small, white chicken in a wooden cage. There is so much fruit sold in the streets. Bananas (that’s the cheapest produce on sale), oranges, ranging from pale saffron to green-yellow, apples (those from China are bigger than the local ones, and wrapped in pink paper). There’s also guava and grapes, the tiny, brown ones that look just like potatoes. Trucks pass us by, each one making use of the horn to let us know of their existence. Colorful paintings, many of undisturbed village life, adorn their sides and rears. “Obey the traffic rules” says writing on the back of one of the trucks, “India is great” say others. The pace with which the outside passes by is, to me, who sits behind a glass window looking out, way too fast. At least I managed to capture this, I think.