A flat expanse of land dotted with red patches of millet fields and thirty-odd homesteads dropped into its midst like bits of flotsam – that was Bangarwadi.
The walls of most houses were made of mud, the roofs thatched with straw. A few had flat terrace roofs. Each house had a front yard, some small, some large, in which stood drumstick and neem trees fed on wastewater. Behind the houses were sheep pens fenced in with thorny branches of the Babhul bush. A broken cart wheel leaned against a wall here and there. Everything normal.
There were no streets to speak of besides the single cart track. People walked in the spaces between houses. Several front doors of houses bore locks. A couple of children played in front of a house. The houses cast shadows on the dust-filled path. Stray dogs and black-and-white hens sat here and there in the shadows, eyes closed.
Women peered out of the houses that stood on either side of the path. The children abandoned their games and ran indoors. Further along, I spotted a maidan and a massive neem tree with a platform built around its base. As soon as I noticed the cool shade of the...
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