The deities share the same journey as that of a river. Celebrated, wasted, humiliated in desolation and yet revered. The Bhāgirathi of Kolkata-Howrah breathes her people’s dreams and hopes.
The loneliness of the sky can only be matched by the fatigue of the flying wings and the chaos of our civilisation. Yet they all perhaps can exist, in a composed frame and share a conversation of the dusk.
The falling sky can drench us and yet we would wheel our ways through the sodden streets where the rain drops help us hide our tears.
The dynamics of the shuttered doors, a juvenile promenade and an expectant canine on a lazy sub-urban day is not something you understand, and yet you do.
Meanwhile the blues of the forgotten village folks cannot stop them from walking their everyday roads. They walk as the sky help the lakes reflect their indomitable spirit of life.
The story circle backs to that bridge that holds the tale of two cities, the deities give way to cinema posters, the homecoming birds carry the songs of the retreating tide that slaps the ghats in melancholic rhythm.
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