Warm golden rays of the sun gently filtered through the branches of the majestic banyan tree, making the leaves look like mystical filigree fireflies. Its   trunk was wide like that of a wrestler’s sinewy torso and its branches reached out to the russet tinged sky like a melody.  A medley of bird song filled the crisp morning air. Under this wise old tree stood the naam ghor, a modest bamboo and mud plastered, white washed room with a thatched roof and a door made out of bamboo sticks woven together intricately- no handle, no lock, just a door to give privacy to the Gods the household prayed to everyday.  Aita was always the first one to offer prayers here every morning at six, bathed and dressed immaculately in a cream paatsilk mekhela and starched white cotton sador, her sadors were always white, with borders of different patterns and colours. With…