Samaypur it was called. The place of time.

The student visited it with articles in his eyes, Inverting the structures of Dimensions, the dimensions of Structures. In between the hardworking huts he found a truant dangling his feet in the river who could've been subverting hegemony.

The government official visited it with the census clipboard, recorded what he could've been finding. Literacy rose, some huts were repopulated, but not overpopulated, especially among the castes on the Scheduled side of the pond.

The tourist visited it with hi-res camera and chlorine tablets, relied on its hospitality and recycled its cliches. Would remember a genu-wine tenth century temple and not the face of the urchin pointing it out, who relieved him of a wad or two.

The social activist visited it with a video crew and a rolling-pin, rolled up her sleeves and pitched in. The women discussed it in early morning hand-pump vernacular- good when working was the verdict, but a bit of a pain when she opens her mouth.

The headman, chewing reflectively, rocking back and forth on his haunches, waits for the sun to sink, the smoke to rise and congregate, the stories to tell themselves into question, over tea and coca-cola. Coke better in this season, upon consideration. Spits; a paan-stain shaped like a comet glistens, the sly last light winking before it dies in a last desperate secret.

"Kuch toh samai ka khayaal rakho!" his wife will say when he returns.

Par Samai toh apni hi khayaal rakh leti hai.