The women of Mansukhganj were infamous for their lechery among all the nine villages.
Of late, the Sunday Panchayats elicited murmurs over fat twirled mustaches and ever increasing rounds of hukkah about an impending witch hunt. And one of these days in the middle of one such heated session, The sarpanch, Omprakash Ghirkonde broke out into a violent fit of laughter and cough and laughter and died.
His body was to be taken to ganga to be cremated. His wife went along, wailing, gave up her vermilion, took to white, broke her glass bangles on the steps of the ghat and suddenly along with a band of other wailing women fell silent the moment they set foot in crematorium of the infamous Mansukhganj.
The wall on one side of ghat was that of Domraja’s house, sea green with ancient blotches of gangetic moisture. Domraja stood before them, sucking in the aftermath of death effortlessly as the little pocket on his cream colored kurta did the end of his dhoti.
So everytime a man died in Mansukhganj, the mothers, wives, aunts and sisters would later huddle up on the staircase of the domraja’s personal ghat looking at him directing the course of rituals. Unable to cry for being absolutely stunned, hugging their knees to their chests and sighing for what had sunk inside. For, his beauty used to exhaust them.