Like most Indian cities, Kolkata is a shock to the system. It is hot, it is sticky, and dirty is its middle name.

And the noise, Oh the noise! It’s something else.

On my first morning there, I glided through the reception area of Broadway Hotel and stepped out the front door, slipping the street camera over my wrist. Into the mayhem.

Oh, those taxi horns!

I didn’t see another non-Indian all day.

On a return trip, two weeks later, I stuffed myself with kati rolls. Once you’ve eaten kati rolls in Kolkata, there’s no going back; you’re haunted for life.

In gaps between munching, a side trip to Kolkata’s famous flower market—the one that sprawls by Howrah bridge. There, all five of your senses get a workout, along with three or four others you didn’t know you had.

Welcome to India.