M a y, 1 9 7 8
The muddy water lapped quietly at my feet. Here was the grey,dank place, one of the numerous ghats bordering the Hooghly, where people disposed off the ashes of their dead kin. Here was the colourful, vibrant place that, come October, would morph into a hubbub of activity; scores of people would descend onto these very steps for the visarjan of Durga. In a very odd fashion, this place stood at a curious juxtaposition of life and death, and embraced both with open arms. One of the many quirks that made up the wonderfully congested bitter-sweet cocktail that is Kolkata.
