“I remember my grandmother’s stories about Firpo’s in Calcutta—the grand tea room and cabaret. The sprung floor where maharanis and merchants, and debutantes and officers waltzed and cha cha-ed. Clutching pearls and pochettes between puddings and roasts. It was the gateway to the beautiful and powerful.”


A little tiny practicality.


The audacity of small precious things is priceless.


“Wherever I was as a child, the familiar crescent of the night sky became my guiding light of the possibilities and potential of the world beyond. Growing up in the old French colony of Chandannagar in West Bengal, I spent the gaps in my days dreaming about a life of adventure. I remember my ferry rides back home from my tuition classes, the hours of numbers and formulae receding as I settled into the top deck staring at the moon, full of wonder and awe. Would the moon look the same from New York or Paris? Would it wax and wane, and shine or hide behind the clouds, all across the planet? As I began to step out into the world, be it as a curious passer-by befriending every backpacker at the Blue Sky Cafe in Calcutta or as a runaway scrubbing dishes on the beaches of Goa, to a life where I now hop across the globe to work and play—the moon has remained my companion, champion, and now, a constant motif. It is after all the first thing I truly fell in love with.”


“Saturday nights. 1970s. Calcutta’s Park Street. The boys in batik silk shirts with boot cut jeans, the girls in their imported dresses and towering heels spilling out of their Benzes in a tangle. Shimmying between Mocambo and Peter Cat, Trinca’s and Blue Fox. Young, restless and hands free—gyrating the night away.”