This is the story of an obscure village at west Midnapur district West Bengal, that tells the story of separation and union. Divided by a river this village shows the mundaneness of the village life yet is filled with the eccentric surprises from the chirping of the birds that collaborate with the village crowd to create music. The sunlight flickers through the leaves of betel, mango and banyan tree as they welcome the beginning of yet another day. They silently join the parents who watch their children grow each day to become lawyers, police officers or teachers. The playgrounds here are green still. The surrounding rice fields are witch’s summoning place of the spirits.
Sitting on a pile of abandoned bricks after a shower of rain washes the tension away. One can see the setting of the sun, waving with a caring smile over the water filled rice fields. The colour changes from yellow to golden to brown and lastly mingles with the dark green far behind. The whole colour pallet of the sky is reflected through the water filled fields just below. It’s like two inverted rainbows, talking to each other. Or maybe like a mirror reflecting the setting of the sun. Dramatically representing a shy child waving goodbye to his mother from behind the big bedroom mirror, as she trots towards the same field to deliver midday meal to her husband.
We encountered a very sad incident right after we left the place. I could almost imagine the scenario later, sitting at darkness in my isolated city bedroom. The villagers and the local police watch silently, open mouthed as a dead body floats on the water. The body is of an artist. He was popularly loved by the villagers as the child he has always been to them. He probably was killed by the local goons over an argument for money or power. Or maybe it was just an unfortunate accident, no one knows for sure. Everybody compare the water’s colour with his face. He definitely learnt to play with the colours from the same river that carries his body now. He learnt to weave stories sitting at the same banks. His creations are unfolding in the river like a braid of a maiden is undone. The villagers gather around the area to garnish him with love and pay homage to the creation and the creator. The image has haunted me but I was happy as this gave me the strength to come face to face with the rawness of nature and possibly greed.
Water works like a flowing echo of the collective household chores. The stories are carried towards absolute nirvana. Jobs are less available here. People are hungry for justice and a bit of exposure to city corporate life. Little do they know how the city glamour will rob them of the glory they can still claim from the ancient times. All of these are realities that will never be told to anyone but are as real as the mundane sun setting and rising every day. A traveller is at a very advantageous position as he can silently become the audience of the huge play that is been enacted by the earth and forest spirits. The traveller has the privilege to enjoy being disturbed or motivated in peace; and consumes the essence to the fullest.
The village is still not a sad place though. People here know how to take bath in the sun and wash the miseries away with love from mother. It is a painting we are talking about, a lively, cheerful and original painting of a small girl, maybe done by the artist who flowed away.