To the south of Calcutta, in one of the soft curves that makes the river hugli, before inserting their dense wet arms in the clayey sand, several children were playing with an innocent joy while wet their tiny bodies in one of the nearby public sources.
The aging code was cut by the warm air gray cut profiles of their distant buildings. The evening progressed, heavy, such as wanting to entreverar its presence in an appointment to appeal with the night, still in the distant future that awaited her in his arms warm and dark.
A little further on, in one of the edges almost invisible of the Garden Reach, was a rustic farmhouse scattered; its streets with a moist, let out a strange aroma, which at times seemed to flee from the earth, and meet with the dirty puddles, which abounded in those days of spring.
Women, dressed in rustic saris clear emerged at times in the courtyards, just divided by a few tables and cardboard. Up the street most imperceptible, and, after passing through the edge of the hill, there was a ramshackle hut and chaotic.
It was difficult to perceive the place of the entry, and the more he approached one to her, the doubt persisted.
Started a little smoke coming from one of the natural orifices of the roof; a side window, seemed to let a portion of the wild sunlight that broke in that place.