PositiveFinancial ExpressChoudhury’s prose is well crafted, but is a curious blend of emotion and detachment, as if he is trying to rein himself in. He is often unnecessarily detailed and irksome to a Bengali reader—for all his exertions, he can’t really escape the slightly superior, outside-in look, being the global citizen that he is. His observations, though, are kind and sharp, with a dry wit that fits the Bengali bhadralok to a T. But what remains with the reader is his fresh voice, painful in its honesty and sincerity, drawing the reader in to share his struggles, confusion and frustration, and which Calcuttan doesn’t know the feeling this wretched city evokes? ... In trying to piece together the hidden story of Calcutta, Choudhury may not have been successful all the way, but he manages to hurl the first axe in the hushed soil, finding the murmur of the voices of the phantoms that grew and nurtured us for ages, and who must be heeded before we can go find a new song.
