If you read this article, you can feel the smell of our beautiful land of Bengal.
Under the fading silver veil of a moonlit night, in the last hour before the dawn of morning light, on the glittery shores of a once turbulent river, an eighteen-year-old low-caste boy tirelessly shovelled grains of rock and coral into a banged-up truck’s weathered wooden cradle. The driver handed over five shiny ten-rupee coins to the boy for his tribe’s night-long clandestine labour in the wilderness. Threatening to return after two days for another load, he drove off around the undulating paths of the secluded and dug-up beach. Crossing the jungle through the unnamed road, he got on a metalled highway to deliver his precious cargo at a construction site somewhere in the constantly morphing concrete landscape of the Kolkata metropolis.
For many generations, Bali’s forefathers had lived and worked on the golden sandbanks of the Damodar River at the edge of the Tildanga Forest in the Burdwan district of…
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