Image by burin kul from Pixabay 


Then I was the resident of the tiniest room of a dilapidated mess containing three small compartments in North Kolkata . My career compelled me to make my harbour there. Akash, a boy from Siliguri, was my roommate . He was pursuing his master's degree in history from Calcutta University .

Every evening, we used to go for a travel to bid a heartial bye to our whole day monotony . Our hectic study schedule haunted us at the dusk regularly to take resort to the bank of a small watery land . The solitude of that place attracted our pensive mind cordially than the well furnished Princep Ghat . Somehow, in that desolation, we used to drench ourselves in the divine mosaics of beauty of the drowning sun .

The bitter truth of the cross calculation between the environment of the locality adjacent to our mess and that gasping summer period was not really comfortable for human beings and due to a huge scarcity of coal, after the sunset ,load shedding was the brightest darkness of the city of joy . The Mosquito concert was an undividable companion of such black evenings.

There was also a bus stand just opposite to our mess and that was cordially spontaneous to make the whole area dusty. The bus drivers and their helpers were the regular customers of the tea stalls and the Jhalmuri shops of our area to play an active role to transform the peaceful place into the heaven of nuisance . Most of them belonged to Bihar and a leisure of two Bengali can never be completed without a terrible turbulence in the coffee cup gossiping about the work culture of others .

Often our taste buds compelled us to join in the queue to collect two yummy thongas of jhalmuri and then , we walked down the street for a while to reach our dreamland, the lonely bank of the wetland. There was a weak and temporary place of sitting ,made of bamboo boulders, which was the heavenly kingdom of our unrestricted desires . None but we were the only regular visitors of that capital of solitude . Often, the mild breeze of the evening also joined the party .

It will be an unforgivable offence if I don't mention the small tea stall neighbouring to our dreamland . It was run by a middle-aged couple. At noon, the stall turned into a rice-hotel but these attempts were not enough to gather customers in such a deserted area . Their little daughter also helped them by washing the utensils . In the twilight, often , she occurred a little place on the bamboo-stage to establish a small kingdom of her own with broken , faded playing toys .

It was the muggy evening of seventh may . The kalboishakhi was preparing to blow its whistle. Akash and I were about to sit on the bank of the wetland. But suddenly, my leg slipped on a juicy material and a foul smell came to my nose . Stooping down , I lost my ability to utter a single word . Akash screamed at his best ' Murder' ; none but only the air replied at his large shout. We were trembling in fear . An unknown anxiety successfully engulfed our courage . There were pure, soft bloods scattered on the bamboo-stage. We ran hard to escape from the place . An intern of a news portal lived with us in the mess . Listening to the whole fact, he said , " The loneliness of the wetland has made it the ideal region for the murderers . Here, the dead bodies can be easily kicked to the water . Thus ,the proof can be hidden without a single drop of sweat. The tussle between the bihari and the muslim is the main reason behind such crimes which never comes to limelight. " His explanation erased our obsession for the dreamland permanently and we never went there in future .

Years passed slowly . It was around 10pm. Last night, I boarded the train from Kalyani Station to reach my hometown . After taking the seat, suddenly my eyes got stuck in the same incident as I found in Kolkata, two years ago. Red patches of soft and thick blood were painted towards the gate of the compartment . Panic-stricken, I dialed the number of the police helpline. At Ranaghat junction, an officer came to investigate my call and he assured me, " Don't be afraid my boy . I have experienced such incidents several times . At first , I also got frightened like you . But, time has taught me a lot . It is nothing but the trace of menstruation. Probably, the unaccustomed attempts of a little girl to hide her physiological process has caused this matter. Actually , the immaturity , the irrational rituals of the society are the main culprits for such incidents . Our shameless society responsibly keeps a safe distance from the word 'Menstruation' and it creates a mountain of inevitable troubles for our mothers and sisters . Sometimes, the overwhelmed expression of youth also relishes the helplessness of a menstruous girl shamelessly. Alas my boy ! Alas !"

After two summers , I got the perfect answer to the mystery that happened on the water bank . Perhaps, for the first time, that day ,the little girl of the tea stall got the knock of femininity . Perhaps, for the first time, she dived into the red sea driven by the natural circulation of a normal physiological system.

Yes,' PERHAPS'. It is the greatest proof of this critical situation that will always remain as a matter of foolish prohibition to our patriarchal society.

.   .   .