Pintu Egg Shop

'Pintu Egg Shop.' There he sits on his patch of curb surrounded, as always, by a group of tickled foreigners.
"New sign ey brother?" Money is an impenetrable barrier between friends. Four years on and I still question whether what we have is 'real'. As if there's a finite box that can be ticked: Friend. Manipulative street kid. Charity case.
One thing is clear; he's not lapping it up and moving to a mansion in Mumbai. Ma still has a heart condition, he ain't looking to be a husband any time soon, the family still roll out potato sacks to sleep on and make a 4 rupee profit on each egg sold (on days the police don't take their cut).
'Black boy', Raju, is still selling drugs to Israelis who've broken free of their military time. Jail served him well - unlike the tripper who's renamed herself 'Lovely Day' he's got some meat on his bones. She's mellowed. Or just so skinny her body can't hold up her enthusiasm.
She'll still rant to anyone who'll listen, but the spark that had her dancing to the music in her mind a few years back has gone.
The boy that looks like an Agent Orange victim stumbles along his route, one arm out for money, the other captivating all as it swings around detached and limp.
Safe to say no one's outranked him in Saturday night poker.
The boy with Downs Syndrome is still being shoved along, oblivious and happy with the street kids who use him as a sorry case worthy of some baksheesh.
The same women ask for milk for their 'newborn babies' that they'll sell back to the shop.
The manual rickshaw men sit in the same spots, their bells in hand, jingling even as they nod off.
My deformed boy with half a face still cooks up the best snack for 12 rupees, although I can only get my egg rolls from him secretly; Sudder Street politics pay no heed to bowed legs and missing eyes.
And I'm sitting in the same room in Hotel Maria. It's covered in graffiti, the windows don't close and I don't check the beds for bugs because I know they'll be there. It's mine.
And like the last four years I'm uneasy and lost. Me, the confident girl who'll be played by no one, knows all the right people and speaks the language.
And yet just like my first visit the irrational fear dwindles: A murder in the same old room in the same old city you can read about in the paper bought from the man who'll always double charge you. In case you were wondering, yes he still wears those grey pants that look like they've been hacked at with scissors and the stripy grey shirt. Every day.
At least maybe if there's enough blood I may be cause for a sheet change in room 19. Who am I kidding? There's no changing Sudder Street, Kolkata.