Flanked by the imperturbable, reddened households, the northern part of Chinsurah, my hometown, is bereft of the crowd and its maddening chaos. Since the invasion of the Dutch, it has remained so, sticking unflinchingly to its not-so-modernistic trait. Commonplace judgement name it 'underdeveloped'. I call it conspicuously clandestine.
The natives, here, live in little huts, roofed by plastics. The only concrete structure, amid these hurdled huts, is the 'Shandesotola' temple which provides them their only daily recreation during the evening puja. Being the working-class, the men do all the earning possibly while their female counterparts stay back to look after the family. The Feminists may find it hard to accept but the women possess nothing against the patriarchal system. The little grievances they nurture are often subverted when they come together in the afternoon, in the field by the Ganges, along with their kids, to talk about their household problems. Simple conversations ostensibly subside their tension, it seems.
Often they would come across a boy of twelve, who could almost pass as my double, sit, with his cycle kept right beside him, and listen to them. After an initial indifference, they welcomed him. He would play with their kids, and,at times, stayed back for the evening puja. This was not something extraordinary. In fact, nothing was. But their affection for a stranger and their willing acceptance of his presence did inspire the boy.
Even today, if chance has it, he goes there. Few recognize him nowadays. It hardly matters. For the unremitting breeze of the Ganges still carries the innocent sensation of those long lost evening.
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