Most were fair and haggard, with long beards and saffron robes. Travelling alongside the first open hearse of the day was a group of sadhus chanting ‘Hare Rama’. The odour of sweets deep-fried in ghee and sunflower oil blended with the smoke from the burning pyres. Motorcades, rickshaws, horse carts, temple bells and the bleating of sacrificial animals lent more noise to the plot than the circular trains. All through the day and night, the street in front of our house throbbed with activity, with mourners, workers, barbers, cobblers, ear-cleaners, merchants and beggars squeezing their way through to Nimtala Ghat. Our house was near the three-way junction from the Strand Road to the crematorium - with the teashop to the north, and the barber shop and temple to the east. A few steps to the left, through Nimtala Street to the Strand Road, is the ancient burning ghat, where we all end up at last. On the right side here is the Machua Bazaar, where fruits are sold instead of fish. Head straight to reach the red-light area of Sonagachi, and next is Kumartuli, where effigies of gods and goddesses are made aplenty. From Lalbazaar, as we stroll alongside the crawling trams at Rabindra Sarani, and pass the printing presses, knife shops and tabla stores at Madan Chatterjee Lane, the offices of Jatra Para drama production houses come into view. Though narrow, mossy and grimy today, Chitpore’s heart lies at Jorasanko Thakur Bari, the ancestral home of Rabindranath Tagore. Even before the Europeans divided Calcutta into a white town and a black town, much before the Basaks and Seths had built settlements beside the Hooghly river, we have been staying here. Chitpore, where we lived, has always been inhabited by blackies. K R Meera - The Hangman Aarachar in Tehalka (Published in Tehelka Magazine, Volume 9 Issue 1, Dated 7 January 2012) Illustration: Somesh Kumar WHEN THE news of the Governor rejecting Yathindranath Banerjee’s mercy petition appeared on TV, the first hearse had just moved to the Nimtala Ghat.