In the vibrant, tumultuous Kolkata of the 1970s, four girls in their late-teens–Bulan, Renu, Suman, and Chuni–navigate a city brimming with tradition and transformation, in Kabita Singha’s first, and the most underrated, full-length novel. As the world around them shifts, they grapple with the complexities of womanhood, sexuality, friendship, and the relentless pursuit of their own voices amidst the societal expectations and burgeoning independence of a new era. They dream with each other, fight for each other, and discover what it truly means to survive and thrive in a city that demands as much as it gives.

p. 19

Remember, I told you about the colorful storybook and its rainbow-tinged pictures that I lost? It came back home with the first sari my father ever bought me.

I’ve already mentioned it, no?

I let the beloved fairytale soar up to the sky like vibrant, air-filled balloons. But their strings were forever tied to bricks on the ground. I could pull them to earth whenever I wished.

At times, I look at this city oddly. I see our shabby house in Howrah. I feel like the Happy Prince’s swallow bird in a story Ma read to me. Above me are sailor-blue skies studded with brightly burning golden and silver stars. The clouds are floating by me like the masses of cotton in the Sukhu and Dukhu story. My city is far below-way, W-A-Y below. Rows of tall buildings and small houses ripple up and down in light and shadow-triangular, square, mottled. Soooo many roofs, so many spires, so many towers!

Many rooftops glitter with the blue light of pleasure, and the unhappy homes are in darkness.

I often think the city is me-I AM the city.

Chuni.

Winding streets. Where the twisting lane ends, where the city is teeming yet barren, at that dead-end is our rickety home. Our house in Howrah was also in a similar place. The walls of those rooms were just as moss-covered, cold, and wrecked.

pp. 31 – 32

Come in. This is our front door. The wood is scuffed and has lost its polish, but the woodwork is spectacular. It has large iron studs.

Walkthrough and come in. The floor has checkered tiles.

The dilapidated second-floor rooms, walls, and roofs droop on the cool, shadowy terrace. Walk along the long verandah and up the spiral brick stairs.

The two decrepit rooms that you see, and the roof sans balustrade, are ours. We live there and stroll on the rooftop. But please don’t think the large roof belongs to us exclusively or that the whole house is ours. No. The roof stretches over other adjacent flats.

The roof is very long and has s square s voids to demarcate where one flat ends, and another begins. In places, it has low railings. Regardless of who a particular roof section belongs to, all of us can freely walk on it. We can go down the other staircases. The neighborhood kids cut across the roofs when they are hurrying somewhere.

Because of the continuous rooftop, our many relationships have gelled and are keener.

But I haven’t invited you here to show you the rooftop. I’d like to take you higher-to my private roof-only mine. My roof covers our decaying rooms. No one comes up here.

Come. Yes, the stairs are a bit too steep-the rise is a bit too high.

What do you see here? Huge cracks, right? The rickety walls on which the roof rests may collapse at any moment.

This is where I stand quietly-sometimes at noon and sometimes at midnight. Here, you have different kinds of fun at different times.

Come here and look down at our sprawling neighborhood. You can see the overall lay of the land from here.

See how the narrow lane winds like jalebi to come up to our place and then splits into three rivulets. Do you see that? One cuts through the slum while the other runs toward the Ganges. The third loops around our home and slams into a blind wall.

Rows of houses line both sides of the street. Houses behind houses-and rows behind those. Dwellings surround others. Do you know why?

As I told you, our house is part of an old seven-story palace. We live in the inside section, while Bulan and her family occupy the front part. There, the roof edges a crevice and extends, covering their rooms. The square gap in the roof is behind Bulan’s tiled yard.

The railings are cylindrical with a plaster covering. Nothing has remained intact. Some portions have buckled. Bulan’s windows and our second-floor ones are similar in shape and size; except that ours have wooden bars and Bulan’s iron ones. Bulan’s family lives in one room and has a piece of the courtyard. The room has sunk a little. If you peek in from the outside, you’ll realize the floor is lower than the sidewalk. Our alley gets flooded when it rains-even a cupful. Then, Bulan’s room is knee-deep in water. White worms like cashew nuts crawl out of the gutters and into the room. Snakes come out. During those days, we eat our meals in utter disgust.

pp. 56-57

The food arrives. Many, many dishes in attractive glass bowls-presented lusciously. The napkins are made of thin, fine thread. Hot steam rises from the food.

I imitate Suman and spread a napkin on my lap. Expensive glass plates, oval like duck eggs, with large silver spoons, are in front of me. Suman distributes fried rice, chili chicken, and pork rolls on our plates. I am about to put a spoonful of fluffy rice speckled with red shrimp, chicken bits, cashews, and green peas in my mouth when a thought occurs to me. I yowl.

“Suman, you ordered so much food! Do you have money to pay?”

Suman glances at me and opens her black suede handbag decorated with brass buttons. A fat roll of money peeks out. Also, there is a crisp, newly minted hundred-rupee note.

“I have the blue card.”

I ask again. “Are you sure we won’t get drunk?”

Suman lifts her right brow-she is annoyed.

“If we do, so be it.”

Sitting in front of piles of food, delicate glassware, and funny odors wafting from the gin, I remember a bunch of dead people. Why do you think that happens?

Have you ever experienced it? Young men of your family, neighborhood, locality, or from the newspaper? Young men with faces just out of childhood, newly sprouted mustaches, and gangly bodies? Young men, who look very grim and somber? Young men who have recently been murdered, committed suicide, or gone missing?

You must have seen some of them-their dead bodies or their motionless faces.

Could you shut your eyes and think? Please do. Can you recall, even if it is blurred and eerie?

Aren’t you surprised that all of us have forgotten them? How quickly we forget! We hardly remember them anymore-hardly ever.

Excerpted with permission from Four Angry Women by  Kabita Singha translated from the Bengali by Shamita Dasgupta published The Antonym Collections 2026