Provided the Municipality is not suddenly charged with a
desire to do away with all the rats, the road, cutting right past the Hooghly
Ghat station, is terribly dirty. These squeaky-eyed creatures, inhumanely fast,
do their best to keep the garbage under check. The road, which runs straight
into the Ganges, derives a filthy flair during the monsoon. With unremitting
rain, the pools of water, gathering all over, makes you take your shoes off and
walk bare-footed, feeling the incomprehensible agony of those residing here.
The Ganges, here, is not considered holy. The absence of a bathing ghat makes the place all the more silent and lonely. It’s only when the man, who sells flute, comes, carrying a rustic bag of colorful flutes, that the place is relieved of its loneliness. He has no customers here. I doubt if he at all has any customers. But his passionate playing of the flute and the place’s indifference to his art provides a contrasting picture which makes one think, “Is it really possible to separate a man from his mind? “
The Ganges, here, is not considered holy. The absence of a bathing ghat makes the place all the more silent and lonely. It’s only when the man, who sells flute, comes, carrying a rustic bag of colorful flutes, that the place is relieved of its loneliness. He has no customers here. I doubt if he at all has any customers. But his passionate playing of the flute and the place’s indifference to his art provides a contrasting picture which makes one think, “Is it really possible to separate a man from his mind? “
No comments:
Post a Comment