The taxi driver took me from the bustling airport to Sutter Street, Kolkatta. He pulled up to the curb, killed the engine and got out. He opened my door and lifted my heavy backpack out for me. As I began to climb out onto the street, he extended a wrinkled brown palm and offered me a mostly toothless smile. Then he said something that made me laugh heartily and fall in love with Kolkatta on the spot.

He darted a shy look at me, still holding out his palm. “Something tip?” he asked, a bead of sweat rolling down his face.


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