We briefed this as Kalighat's everyday women turned into the neighbourhood's unofficial news service: two kakimas leaning across the shared balcony rail, one whispering, the other already storing it for later. The facing pair pivots on that cupped hand — the whisper is the entire picture, the grey balustrade the stage they both lean on. We dressed them in the white-and-red saris and big bindis the patuas gave their matrons, kept their plump arms and knowing eyes rounded with boneless shading, and refused any street or phone behind them because the comedy is the lean and the listen. The plain ground does the rest — two women, one secret, no escape.