The Pale Letter
The jute mills of the district ground on, a rhythmic, industrial shudder that vibrated through the cobblestones and into the soles of the workers’ boots. The air hung heavy with the smell of retted fiber and coal smoke, a thick, suffocating blanket that settled over the town of Bardhaman like a wet shroud. In the shadow of the mill’s eastern gate, Padma Mukherjee stood with his hands clasped...
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