Every time I walk along the Chowringhee, northward from Park Street, past the metro, the air begins to swell with the chants of wild hawkers, flute sellers, palmist thugs and beggars. And then suddenly, I find stretching across on my right, in slight Greek style, silent and sage-like, the crisp white pillars of the Indian Museum. If you turn right into Sudder Street, the museum extends half way down, the white building succeeded by one in red brick constructed much later in 1914.



