Special Edition: Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal

Saying Goodbye

The news came quietly, like an uninvited guest, that the trams, the lifeline of the city where I grew up, would soon be gone. This felt as though a piece of my heart was being pried loose. Saying ‘Goodbye’ never felt heavier.

These were no ordinary machines. Synonymous with Kolkata, they were living entities to us, their clanking bells a symphony of the streets, their silver tracks etched into the black tar roads like veins feeding the city’s soul. For over a century, they pulsed steadily, a heartbeat older than memory, threading the chaos and poetry of a city through every stop they made.

Born in 1902, the trams held stories in their creaking frames. They were sanctuaries of fleeting connection, where strangers shared glances and lovers whispered secrets. Dreamers sat by the windows; their minds lost in the cityscape blurring past. The daily traveller knew them as more than just transport—they were a rare pause in a fast world, a place where time uncoiled, allowing the soul to breathe.

And now, the thought of silence, where their bells once chimed, cuts deeper than I thought possible. Without them, it feels as though an entire era is slipping away, taking with it a part of us we didn’t know we needed. The tracks they leave behind are not just physical—they carve a hollow space in our collective memory, a scar of what we once had and cannot hold onto.

But it doesn’t end there. The iconic yellow cabs; those cheerful chariots of Kolkata’s streets are being rolled back too, their numbers dwindling. Once, they were more than mere vehicles. They were capsules of life, ferrying dreams and laughter, hopes and heartaches. Their leather seats bore witness to countless stories: the rush of a first date, the quiet solace of a late-night ride home and the hurried journeys to hospitals and nursing homes, the first ride for a newborn; every moment felt measured by the beat of the city’s heart.

Their absence leaves a wound unseen but deeply felt. It is more than a logistical shift. It is the slow erasure of a heritage, a quiet dismantling of the city’s living pulse. Without their hum, their engine’s familiar cadence, the streets feel lonelier, as though an essential rhythm has been stilled.

Saying goodbye…to these modes of travel gets harder for us, the older generation, not just for what they were, but for what they represented. Yes, they took us from point A to point B, aside from that, they also carried the city’s soul, its resilience, and its stories, that will remain archived in the annals of history. Future generations may or may not read. 

Saying goodbye is hard. It is an ache too profound to describe, a mourning for something that was never just a thing but a feeling, a part of who we are. And even as the streets fall silent, even as nostalgia lingers like an unanswered question, we hold on to memory. We hold on because to let go is to lose not just a piece of the city but a piece of ourselves.

And yet, the goodbye feels incomplete—unfinished—like the echo of a bell that never quite fades.

The tracks may fade, and the cabs may cease

But the memory lingers, a quiet peace

In whispers of streets, their spirits stay

Forever alive in the yesteryears 

Bio: Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee), has an MBA in Marketing and Corporate work experience of over two decades. She enjoys writing all genres of poetry, prose, short stories, and travel diaries.  Educated in Loreto Institutions, run by the Irish Nuns and brought up in a cosmopolitan environment, she has learned the best of the East and West. She is a published author of four books.  Her works have appeared in several anthologies/e-journals, published in India and overseas. She has recently been nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2024 for poetry.  Next to writing is her passion for travel.

---

Special Edition: Sweet-Bitter Farewells :: Setu, December 2024