Asit Chowdhury 1 The red dust of Birbhum clung to Dr. Soumita Sen’s sandals as she stepped off the rickety local bus into the drowsy village of Palashpur. A warm wind carried the scent of mahua flowers and something more ancient—old wood smoke, dried hay, and the faintest echo of a tune no one seemed to sing. Her DSLR swung at her side, and in her leather satchel rested her most important equipment—a portable sound recorder and an archive notebook with trembling pages of half-remembered Baul songs. Palashpur had not been part of her original plan. She had been chasing…