The Last Tram from Nonapukur: Verses on Howrah Rain

When the monsoon clouds descend over the Hooghly, the city of Kolkata loses its sharp edges.

The rust on the iron cantilevers of Howrah Bridge darkens to deep ochre, and the surface of the river turns into liquid slate.

I. The Wet Tracks of Nonapukur

The steel rails gleam like twin ribbons of mercury,
Beneath the overhead wire singing in the damp air.
A yellow Ambassador splashes through the tram depot gate,
Scattering pigeons into the rain-heavy square.

Here is the rhythm of a wooden seat polished by eighty years of travel:
The brass bell rings twice—ding-ding—
Not to demand hurry,
But to tell the world that movement is still gentle.

II. College Street Under Tarpaulin

Beneath the blue plastic sheets of the bookstalls,
Paper breathes in the moisture of August.
Old hardcovers of Jibanananda Das and Michael Madhusudan
Release their scent of vanilla, dust, and ink.

You buy a book not because you have time to read tonight,
But because in this city, holding a bound volume in the rain
Is a form of prayer that requires no temple.

III. The Inland Letter

In the pocket of an old cotton kurta,
A blue aerogramme remains folded in three parts.
The ink has run slightly at the crease where your thumb pressed:
"Meet me where the tea stall never closes."

The rain stops, but the eaves continue to drip for hours.
The city does not move forward or backward;
It simply floats in the amber glow of water and memory.