kolkata through the espresso-stained glasses of a caffeine addict

i’m typing this from a wobbly table in some alley behind *park street, three shots deep into a robusta* that tastes like someone ground up nostalgia and burnt toast. the air’s got that 20°C cling-not quite sweater weather, but the kind of chill that makes you hunch over your cup like it’s confessing secrets. humidity’s at 52%, which basically means my hair is expanding at the same rate as my regret for not bringing a portable french press.

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