Journalism of Courage
Pragya Paramita captures the mood of the city caught in a late wintry rain
Caught up in the rain the last place one would seek refuge is a crematorium. But then if there are no other buildings in sight and all that there are old warehouses,the crematorium is probably the one place where one would be safe till the downpour lasts. And it is particularly not an entirely unpleasant thought when the crematorium is adjacent to the river.
An end winter rain has its charms and although there had been some promise of rain earlier,when it started pouring late night in the middle of February it was a pleasant surprise. It did bring some respite from the heat that had been building up in the past few days and when the rains struck there was an instant sigh of relief from everyone.
The crematorium had been packed with mourners but when the rain started it suddenly became the place where everyone sought refuge - from the tea stall owners to the peanut seller and even the couples who had been on the river ghats.
But when the long downpour started showing signs of easing up,people started leaving the place to seek refuge elsewhere or simply to walk back home. The river at night may not be the destination for most people but there is something magical about the river at night,especially after a downpour. The lights from the few factories on the opposite bank that are still open at night cast their glow on the water and as the last ferries leave the ghat for their destination,the ripples left behind by them create a distortion of the reflected lights. Rocking the boat tied up on the bank,the ferries,filled with the last of passengers,cast an eerie glow in the water.
As the rain stops,as suddenly as it starts,the tea sellers and the peanut sellers once again leave the safety of the crematorium to start making brisk business again. As families of mourners leave the place,a few more sombre people arrive. The caretaker at the crematorium says it is going to be yet another long night. The rains had held up people and now as the rains have stopped,they will come in hoardes, he says. True to his words,another family arrived at the spot.
Meanwhile,the man selling boiled eggs,follows the couples as they slowly make their way back to the ghats. Taking out small plastic bags and old newspapers,they spread it on the ground and once again immerse themselves in talks,the little interlude when they were forced to take shelter something they have already forgotten.
The old broken houses that have now turned into warehouses occupy an important part of the entire area. The old North Kolkata ghats would be impossible to imagine without the dilapidated buildings that stand out at night. The different statues on their terraces that give each house a character invisible against the dark sky,making them look like a long row of old buildings.
It is only when the circular rail passes that the houses come alive when they are reflected in the glow of the headlights. As the train stops at the station releasing the passengers from their confines the station soon assumes a different character. But as the train rolls out,the station once again settles down into its quiet character,waiting for the next trains of the night which would also be the last train for the night. Further beyond the station where the platform ends,the rail tracks once again become the play grounds for the urchins when the train leaves. Kicking the stone in the mud,the children play an imaginary game of football.
It is here that the little river bank ends and disappears into the concrete road with trucks parked on both sides.
