HEARTS ON FIRE: THE BAULS OF BENGAL
Mary Young

Walking across the tarmac at the Kolkata airport in late December, 2007, my senses were inundated by the thick, haunting atmosphere—a collision between the cool misty morning air and a heavy pall of gray smog. On the way into the city, we passed dust-laden tropical canopy and glistening pools where people squatted with bronze pots at the edge of the tank to get water or wash clothes. Having just arrived from Mumbai, Varodara and Ahmedabad, I was feeling acutely sensitive to the decline of sacred culture and natural environments that is evident in urban areas of India today. To my Western sensibility, it seemed improbable that this water, littered with refuse and darkly glowering, could be fit for any use. For the Bengalis, it is still sacred.

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