Ponds were covered with ‘kochuripana’. Filthy swamps were filled with black water and ‘dholkolmi’. Sly jackals used to silently roam around these wetlands where monsoons came with uncountable cold slippery snakes and frogs. Amongst these, were the bamboo barricades with earthen tiles on the roofs, that supported the life of the homeless migrants coming from Bangladesh.

I was born there. I grew up there, seeing the painstaking tug of war between life and death. From the very beginning, those gloomy wetlands, the thick ‘kochu’ shrubs, attracted me towards so many mysterious stories. Fishes swam underwater and suddenly flew up and again disappeared in the water, creating ripples on the stagnant waters. Wild flowers gave surprise visits in the most unexpected places. Flying ‘koi’ fishes were one of the best things of monsoons. Small soil crabs were seen crawling very slowly and cautiously under the shallow water-streams. Duck eggs were often found under the safeguards of ‘Dholkolmi’ and ‘kolaboti’ bushes. These might sound exotic, but there were the very own mundane happenings of our lives. I used to fly around wearing my imaginary wings. Sometimes I used to lay on the floating banana stem ‘bhela’ and caught a glimpse of the Blue sky above. I used to dive under the dark water and discovered myself as a fish spawn. I used to hide and calmly sit under the dense ‘dholkolmi’ and tried to feel the whispers around me.

I grew up, but those small nostalgic incidents, stories and mysteries weaved them together making a quilt of memories into my paintings.