Calcutta 1967, a period of revolution and poetry.
Charulata Dutta dreams to be a scholar, even if it implies going against her conservative family. Despite being the first graduate in the history of Dutta women, she soon finds herself trapped in a w...
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Rebellion ran in veins of youth. Their life force struck revolution.
The streets of Kolkata were painted red that day. Communism and rebellion marched shoulder to shoulder as the colossal crowd in red strode towards its epicenter – brigade ground.
The thick crowd of red-clad communists thronged at the entrance of Alumuddin street. Palash stood at the very end of the mob, muttering faintly and staring longingly at the road swarming with people. Neither his sister nor his friend was there yet. As for Charulata, he knew things wouldn't go smoothly at home. None of the other members of the Dutta family encouraged communism. And as for Ramanath, he was a staunch supporter of Bangla Congress, and of Ajay Kumar Mukherjee – the Opposition leader of the assembly. However, Palash had no idea why Nilotpol was late. He was a staunch supporter and an active member of the Red Party – a shade fiercer than Palash himself. Nevertheless, he wove the flag he was carrying to fend away the mosquitoes buzzing in the vicinity, and shielded his face against the relentless sunrays, hoping against hope that he doesn't develop a headache in the long march ahead.
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It is said that a woman's dressing sense reflects her personality. For Charulata, the words couldn't be more true. All her life, she has worn pale colors – rich cream and blush pink and mauve – colors that did not highlight her clothing above the sheer aura of her presence. She adored the mute glory of pure white clothing, something she was forbidden to wear, provided that the society still marked white as the symbol of widowhood. Thus, she wore a range of dusty whites and greys – sometimes paired with rich hues like red and green. However, the saree she reluctantly draped around herself today completely failed to reflect her personality. Yesterday, when Palash had handed her the shocking mass of cheap red cloth, she had experienced a surge of euphoria. This would be her foremost march in the wake of the rushing tide of communism, a foray that few women dared to venture out for. Yet, as she stood in front of the mirror looking at her persona, she couldn't suppress a shudder. She looked like a timid wife on her marital night – the only exception being the insane amount of jewellery a bride is expected to wear. Red didn't suit her – she should've known better.
