Calcutta lies beneath its flies, swollen and unhealthy. The great city now crowds between 3,000,000 and 5,000,000 souls into its dank tenements, often six to ten to a room, scores to a back-well privy. One man in three is a D.P. from Pakistan or the poor uplands, with no money and no place to go. And although the sacred cows roam free down Chowringhee, the native Bengali feels no more free than the refugee: the Marwaris and the British have the best businesses; the quick Madrasis get the best jobs; the workers for...
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