The Lonely Pride
Those who were once near,
Have drifted far away.
Yet none have come closer
From a distance.
Though it calls out,
No response echoes back.
All around, only the waves of time break—
— Nirendranath Chakraborty
With the southern wind swelling its sails, it stirs with a grinding sound. A faint tremor runs through the electric wires, sharpening the steel blades with lightning speed. Beneath deserted bridges, trains thunder and fade, and over this noise the mercantile winds drift from the suburbs into Calcutta.
Steel rails stretch through dust and mud—within this narrow confinement lies its existence. Slow, ponderous, burdened with the weight of antiquity, it cannot match the pace of this unruly city.
This is an age of momentum, of kinetic power. None wait for the ones who lag behind. In this city, the fallen cannot drag others down with them—everyone rushes forward, colliding headlong or slipping back, sometimes frozen like despondent boulders. Motion is life; stillness is death.
What does not move, all strive to exclude. In modern civilization, what lacks speed is deemed unworthy. To survive, one must be swift. Yet some, with nostalgia in their hearts, still discover in its regal bearing the lingering fragrance of an ancient poetry.
Once, a poet—unbalanced by memory—was crushed beneath the slow wheels of this very lethargy. His mournful final journey is hidden within its stillness. Far from folklore and myth, it moves almost soundlessly, pollution-free, painless, noiseless: from market to bazaar, from village to town.
From Ballygunge through Gariahat, Rasbehari, Hazra, Alipore, Ekbalpore, Khidirpore, past the Maidan to Dharamtala—it crawls, while countless people and vehicles rush past it.
Yet it remains slow, unmoving, lonely, and proud. Its pride lies in its aristocracy—in the nobility of its taste and refinement. It loves to display itself with dignity, and knows, too, how to hide in silence.
This city has no kinship with it. None welcome it into the crooked lanes or noisy alleys. Those who dare not attack it openly instead try to shrink its path in silence. With mighty cranes they uproot its royal tracks, enthroning the crudeness of machinery over the delicacy of art.
Still it comes and goes, within its shrinking confines. Its color fades beneath the burden of years, advertising on its flanks the body of a beggar-king. Long condemned to solitary dignity, now there is noise of its impending exile. Hemmed in, its vitality diminishes, yet day after day it persists, ignoring all obstacles.
It pushes on through gaudy marketplaces, avoiding petrol fumes and poisonous gases, skirting broken roads, reeking slums, silted sacred rivers, and brothels—trying to preserve its own moral and physical character. Along its path lie prison walls, government high-rises, hospitals, pavements crowded with beggars, stagnant canals, and bridges beneath which the homeless huddle.
Ah! What an unbearable life for people in this city.
A little further, and the racecourse appears—gamblers’ paradise. On one side, festival and revelry; on the other, life’s brutal struggle. The rich amuse themselves in bizarre extravagance, while old horses are cast aside, naked children swarm the streets. They seem as ill-fated as it.
Horse carriages, themselves fading relics, rattle past with pleasure-seekers. At the Maidan’s edge, the river air rushes through its body, sighing in relief as it escapes into the open plain. Here, the choking city loosens its grip. Fresh breezes quench its weary fire. It cannot halt decay or death, yet beauty numbed by modernity remains its pride.
It watches as a boy gallops across the green on the back of an old horse. Solitary men walk with tired feet. Like them, it enjoys moving slowly through this only green lung of the city—clean, pure, undisturbed.
But not for long. Past Eden Gardens, past All India Radio, it plunges back into the city. Today it feels too empty, too alone. Commuters, eager to reach destinations quickly, shun its shadow. Only a few thin, weary old men and some unemployed youth sit quietly by its windows.
The city circles in slow motion, and the sun rises overhead. The bell clangs—its day’s journey ends.
The Decline of Heritage
From this three-hundred-year-old city, aristocracy is being stripped piece by piece. Heritage buildings decay; cemeteries of great men become haunts of bone merchants. Centuries-old mansions rot with termites, overrun by mafia and promoters. Town Hall and Marble Palace stand disfigured with vulgar cement patches and gaudy colors.
The final blow has fallen on the tramlines. Excuses abound: trams are slow, trams cause congestion. Already, more than half the lines have been uprooted. Intellectuals show no concern. The tram company, unable to profit, runs buses instead, while the government eyes its vast real estate. Each plot, in prime locations, is worth crores.
The Folly of Destruction
Across the world, non-polluting vehicles are prioritized in congested cities. Even in Kolkata, battery-operated buses have begun. And yet, in this very moment, to dismantle pollution-free trams is sheer folly.
They say trams bring no profit. But how could they? For twenty years, has the government modernized them at all? Instead, routes were blocked, speeds reduced, and convenience destroyed.
Most roads have dedicated tram tracks; trams hardly cause traffic jams. True, tramlines occupy space—but if merged with main roads, as in London or Melbourne, this problem disappears. Concrete roads could carry invisible embedded tramlines, with electric-battery trams running silently. But such vision never arrived.
Instead, trams were pushed towards extinction—while pollution worsened. Privatization could have revived and renewed them, but the tired rhetoric against capital and reform stood in the way.
Pride and the Future
London and Kolkata—these two modern cities once glowed in tram aristocracy. Today, when petroleum faces global crisis, when mineral reserves near exhaustion, electric trams could have been the answer to urban transport worldwide.
Flyovers multiply across Kolkata, yet tramlines are not extended over them. Two hundred years ago, the British ran tramlines across the Howrah Bridge. That tramway was the bridge’s trademark identity—now erased. We cannot build, but we can destroy.
Meanwhile, Kolkata suffocates—among the most polluted cities in India. Vehicles multiply, air and noise choke. Had tramlines been laid like railways through the city’s heart, pollution and congestion both might have been eased.
With pragmatic, scientific vision, instead of dismantling trams, if we had revived them, this city could have moved towards qualitative progress. Both heritage and modernity would have survived together, resplendent in dignity.
Have drifted far away.
Yet none have come closer
From a distance.
Though it calls out,
No response echoes back.
All around, only the waves of time break—
— Nirendranath Chakraborty
With the southern wind swelling its sails, it stirs with a grinding sound. A faint tremor runs through the electric wires, sharpening the steel blades with lightning speed. Beneath deserted bridges, trains thunder and fade, and over this noise the mercantile winds drift from the suburbs into Calcutta.
Steel rails stretch through dust and mud—within this narrow confinement lies its existence. Slow, ponderous, burdened with the weight of antiquity, it cannot match the pace of this unruly city.
This is an age of momentum, of kinetic power. None wait for the ones who lag behind. In this city, the fallen cannot drag others down with them—everyone rushes forward, colliding headlong or slipping back, sometimes frozen like despondent boulders. Motion is life; stillness is death.
What does not move, all strive to exclude. In modern civilization, what lacks speed is deemed unworthy. To survive, one must be swift. Yet some, with nostalgia in their hearts, still discover in its regal bearing the lingering fragrance of an ancient poetry.
Once, a poet—unbalanced by memory—was crushed beneath the slow wheels of this very lethargy. His mournful final journey is hidden within its stillness. Far from folklore and myth, it moves almost soundlessly, pollution-free, painless, noiseless: from market to bazaar, from village to town.
From Ballygunge through Gariahat, Rasbehari, Hazra, Alipore, Ekbalpore, Khidirpore, past the Maidan to Dharamtala—it crawls, while countless people and vehicles rush past it.
Yet it remains slow, unmoving, lonely, and proud. Its pride lies in its aristocracy—in the nobility of its taste and refinement. It loves to display itself with dignity, and knows, too, how to hide in silence.
This city has no kinship with it. None welcome it into the crooked lanes or noisy alleys. Those who dare not attack it openly instead try to shrink its path in silence. With mighty cranes they uproot its royal tracks, enthroning the crudeness of machinery over the delicacy of art.
Still it comes and goes, within its shrinking confines. Its color fades beneath the burden of years, advertising on its flanks the body of a beggar-king. Long condemned to solitary dignity, now there is noise of its impending exile. Hemmed in, its vitality diminishes, yet day after day it persists, ignoring all obstacles.
It pushes on through gaudy marketplaces, avoiding petrol fumes and poisonous gases, skirting broken roads, reeking slums, silted sacred rivers, and brothels—trying to preserve its own moral and physical character. Along its path lie prison walls, government high-rises, hospitals, pavements crowded with beggars, stagnant canals, and bridges beneath which the homeless huddle.
Ah! What an unbearable life for people in this city.
A little further, and the racecourse appears—gamblers’ paradise. On one side, festival and revelry; on the other, life’s brutal struggle. The rich amuse themselves in bizarre extravagance, while old horses are cast aside, naked children swarm the streets. They seem as ill-fated as it.
Horse carriages, themselves fading relics, rattle past with pleasure-seekers. At the Maidan’s edge, the river air rushes through its body, sighing in relief as it escapes into the open plain. Here, the choking city loosens its grip. Fresh breezes quench its weary fire. It cannot halt decay or death, yet beauty numbed by modernity remains its pride.
It watches as a boy gallops across the green on the back of an old horse. Solitary men walk with tired feet. Like them, it enjoys moving slowly through this only green lung of the city—clean, pure, undisturbed.
But not for long. Past Eden Gardens, past All India Radio, it plunges back into the city. Today it feels too empty, too alone. Commuters, eager to reach destinations quickly, shun its shadow. Only a few thin, weary old men and some unemployed youth sit quietly by its windows.
The city circles in slow motion, and the sun rises overhead. The bell clangs—its day’s journey ends.
The Decline of Heritage
From this three-hundred-year-old city, aristocracy is being stripped piece by piece. Heritage buildings decay; cemeteries of great men become haunts of bone merchants. Centuries-old mansions rot with termites, overrun by mafia and promoters. Town Hall and Marble Palace stand disfigured with vulgar cement patches and gaudy colors.
The final blow has fallen on the tramlines. Excuses abound: trams are slow, trams cause congestion. Already, more than half the lines have been uprooted. Intellectuals show no concern. The tram company, unable to profit, runs buses instead, while the government eyes its vast real estate. Each plot, in prime locations, is worth crores.
The Folly of Destruction
Across the world, non-polluting vehicles are prioritized in congested cities. Even in Kolkata, battery-operated buses have begun. And yet, in this very moment, to dismantle pollution-free trams is sheer folly.
They say trams bring no profit. But how could they? For twenty years, has the government modernized them at all? Instead, routes were blocked, speeds reduced, and convenience destroyed.
Most roads have dedicated tram tracks; trams hardly cause traffic jams. True, tramlines occupy space—but if merged with main roads, as in London or Melbourne, this problem disappears. Concrete roads could carry invisible embedded tramlines, with electric-battery trams running silently. But such vision never arrived.
Instead, trams were pushed towards extinction—while pollution worsened. Privatization could have revived and renewed them, but the tired rhetoric against capital and reform stood in the way.
Pride and the Future
London and Kolkata—these two modern cities once glowed in tram aristocracy. Today, when petroleum faces global crisis, when mineral reserves near exhaustion, electric trams could have been the answer to urban transport worldwide.
Flyovers multiply across Kolkata, yet tramlines are not extended over them. Two hundred years ago, the British ran tramlines across the Howrah Bridge. That tramway was the bridge’s trademark identity—now erased. We cannot build, but we can destroy.
Meanwhile, Kolkata suffocates—among the most polluted cities in India. Vehicles multiply, air and noise choke. Had tramlines been laid like railways through the city’s heart, pollution and congestion both might have been eased.
With pragmatic, scientific vision, instead of dismantling trams, if we had revived them, this city could have moved towards qualitative progress. Both heritage and modernity would have survived together, resplendent in dignity.
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