Any other Indian city and the pain would be less. Kanpur comes close, and so do Mumbai and Delhi; but Kolkata, and the pain is unbearable. The city was special, the city was dear; the city was grand. Devoid of the anger at those who built it – of their culture, snootiness, racism, bigotry, elitism, exclusivity – devoid of this excuse, this key bunch that is tied to every Indian’s pallu, the city was a marvel of human enterprise. All great cities are, because they bring together two things otherwise to be enjoyed separately – creativity that is exhibited publicly and one that is done so in private. One feeds off the other, making the city greater still. When the British left, our anger – at their elitism and exclusivity – stomped, whether state-organised or spontaneous, on the former. Quickly, the latter cowered behind closed doors. India is great, perhaps without equal, but it is great behind closed doors. Its greatness is to be found in its philosophy and scriptures or its dance-forms, or in the brilliance of its individuals. Publicly, India wallows in shit. And because public and private excellence were so cruelly separated, because the greatness could no longer be looked at, only read in books or watched inside theatres, the city and its people succumbed to the ego. The artist walks the streets of Kolkata and what does he experience? The same as what a scientist experiences, or a musician, or a writer, or a danseuse. There is nothing on show that can inspire, that can make you feel honoured to belong to a fraternity, a brotherhood – there is nothing to make you at once proud and jealous, to smash your ego. Ordinary cities encourage in their dwellers a false sense of triumph and contentment. Great cities show them where they stand among their peers; great cities propel them to greatness.