Kolkata 2001 – After the Revolution
In this blistering season, when men hardened by suffering release molten fire from their smooth dark skins, Sukhiram lies upon the wooden cot embracing his middle-aged wife. Defying every law of summer heat, their two bodies remain strangely cold—cold like ice itself. As if not a single fragment of the millions of thoughts in this vast universe could find shelter in their brains. Even the hostile forces that normally prowl in the crevices of life never surge here. Such is their peaceful and simple coexistence—like two sin-weary children asleep beside each other. And truly, those who in shape are children were lying too—around the back of Sukhiram’s beloved wife, Kunti. Just beneath the cot, separated from the earth by a thin quilt. Three in number. Between nine and one and a half years of age. In their thin skeletal bodies the bellies bulged monstrously forward. The youngest still clung to his mother’s breast. Apart from feeding and sleep, he did nothing but cry. But now, all their bo...