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Fifteen miles downstream from Calcutta on the left bank of the Hooghly, at a village called Achipur, stands a sparkling red tomb, with an uncommon shape and a little known tale. Its brightness can not fail to attract all and sundry who choose to glide along this lazy stretch of the river a few miles before it flows out to the sea. Its horse-shoe architecture with the two ends inclining downwards is supposedly characteristic of Chinese cemeteries. The waves of the river lap dangerously close to the tomb, and had it not been for the embankment built recently by some thoughtful Chinese gentleman, the tomb of the first Chinaman to set foot on the shores of Bengal, (or for that matter, India) would have been lost to the muddy Hooghly. The first Chinaman, in modern times, that is.
You take a good look at yourself in the mirror, comb in hand. Set down forcefully that obstinate bunch of hair sticking out rebelliously. That is right. Just fine. The trousers need a bit of pressing but will do for the day. So, all set, you pick up that exercise book, tuck in the pen on to your vest, under the shirt and come down the stairs on to the streets of Ray’s ‘Mahanagar’ Calcutta.