You can't see stars in the night sky of Calcutta.
It's not a happy sky. Doesn't give you a rush. Doesn't make you dizzy or hearty, as happy skies should. It's not an orgiastic sky either. Doesn't lech or sweat, and warms no loins. It's not an intelligent sky. Doesn't tighten nuts in rickety heads. Doesn't rattle you with chemical equations or black holes. It's not even a sad sky. Doesn't inspire ballads or bard-like visions. No silent nights with lanterns wobbling to the background music of cricket chirps.
It is a sky that is as bland and unremarkable as a Monday morning, because you can't see stars in the night sky of Calcutta. But sometimes, an adventurous star pokes its head through the smoky neon orange. Intruding in your insomnia. And then you realize that Calcutta is a poem.