By Sanjukta Das

Shobhon and Malini chose Shantiniketan’s “Poush Mela“ as their first trip after their honeymoon. Malini was kind to Shobon’s constant request to visit Shantiniketan. Shobhon the introvert was not the one who plans vacations. But this winter he insisted on making this trip.  Malini was always aware how both had been arguing about having a baby. They were stressed about one worry, the only turbulence, in their otherwise peaceful relationship. Both knew Vitiligo or leucoderma is not curable. And Shobhon’s patches on his back were spreading fast.  

Shobhon visited Shantiniketan every winter as long as his grandparents were there. He said he was very nostalgic about the place and especially “Poush Mela” the annual fair where tribals (Adivasis) of the neighbouring village flocked to sell their hand made wares.  Shobhon an IAS officer now, walked in silence through the known red soiled roads of Khoai. He kept referring to the changed look of the place, “this is where I would cycle and come to spend the afternoons amidst shonajhuri trees.” Malini, an ad agency person, thought they both needed this quiet time out of the city. 

It was the last day of the mela. They found the mela too crowded. Yet she was keen to pick up some handmade beaded jewelry the tribal women were sitting on the floor of the fair ground and selling. Something so unique. The evening before, Shobhon refused to get anywhere close to the place where those women sat colourfully adorned with red, yellow and green sarees tightly wrapped around themselves much above the ankle. They looked so attractive; Malini wanted to see them closely. Shobhon felt claustrophobic he said.  

t was getting late, so they rushed back to pick up the beaded jewelry Malini wanted to buy, that last evening, knowing tomorrow the tribal women the Adivasis will be gone. It was almost dusk, and a warm, golden glow painted the sky. The whole row of women selling the beaded jewelry had left. Just one was there. Malini ran towards her as this woman was meticulously winding up her colorful beads to close her sales.  

It was a terribly busy three days event. She had a good sale. She was happy. But she could not throw Malini’s appeal to please open her bundle and make a necklace for her. While Malini waited, she told her she is from Mumbai. The woman stopped and looked at her for a second. She had heard that name before. The air was filled with laughter, chatter, and the aroma of freshly fried jalebis that was being sold by local vendors. People were dragging their feet and walking away from the fair ground. Malini went crazy choosing the glistening glossy colorful beads alternating with silverish white metal beads that the woman was threading to make her a unique necklace. The woman was rushing yet there was pure perfection in her creativity. After getting three necklaces threaded Malini needed Shobhon’s confirmation. “Babes, come and see my haul” Malini called.  

Shobhon walked up and in seconds he froze. In that split second, his knees seemed to give way, as if his entire world had shifted on its axis. His heart raced, and a rush of emotions surged through him. He had been going about his day, lost in his own thoughts, and there right in front of Malini, on the mela floor he saw her. Amid the bustling crowd, his eyes locked onto a wrist adorned with an intricate tattoo – a delicate design inked in blue. Tattooed on the tribal woman’s wrist was the word “Godhuli” (dusk).  

He knew that tattoo on the wrist of the woman playing with the black threads and beads. It was a tattoo he knew so intimately, a tattoo he had traced with his fingers countless times. Memories came flooding of winter afternoons and his cycling down to the forest with shonajhuri trees. The tattoo that held memories of whispered promises, stolen moments, and a love that had once been all-consuming. He had thought he had moved on, that the past was firmly behind him. Yet, there it was, a vivid reminder of a chapter he had never truly closed.  

With much reluctance he walked up. The woman was busy looking for change inside her cash pouch. She called out to her little five-year-old daughter. “Godhuli, see if there is my pouch of coins there”. The little one jumped in her semi ragged dress and brought the pouch to her mother and sat right next to her. As the coin exchange took place both Malini and Shobhon saw the white little patch on little Godhuli’s chin.  

As the adivasi woman’s gaze traveled upward, she saw his face – the same eyes that used to light up at her presence, the same smile that could chase away her worries. Shobhon knew, it was her, unmistakably her.  

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm and gentle glow across the fair ground’s landscape, the golden light tenderly caressed little Godhuli’s face. Soft beams of radiant warmth played upon her features, highlighting the delicate contours of her brown skin around the vitiligo spot spreading on her chin, casting a subtle, ethereal radiance in her eyes. The soft, amber hues of dusk embraced her, creating a serene and timeless moment where the world around her faded into the background, leaving only the enchanting dance of light upon her visage.  

All Shobhon saw was the moonlit night wrapped in a tight embrace of an Adivasi woman.