An Ode to the Hand-Pulled Rickshaws of Kolkata

SIDDHARTH PRADHAN

Relics of a city’s soul, the hand-pulled rickshaws endure,
In Kolkata's tangled streets, where history whispers pure.
Once, the golden goose of the British Raj’s reign,
A wealth eclipsing even the Taj’s famed domain.

From the Hoogly’s vast ghats to the Maidan’s embrace,
Black and White Townships bore a divided face.
Cotton, jute, and silk looted for foreign gains,
Feeding Opium Wars, leaving our heritage in chains.

The Jagat Seths lent princely sums to fuel the plunder,
Kings betrayed, their crowns torn asunder.
Post offices, railways, schools — the British guise of care,
But behind each brick, a tax-burdened despair.

Forests stripped bare for botanical boasts,
Bankers lured with interest-free posts.
Kolkata- den of lies- fortunes made and unmade,
A colonial mirage where oppression's debts were paid.

Seventeen men from England’s shores,
Steered the Company’s fate, opened India's doors.
The Queen’s ruled through puppet kings' proxy,
Calling it "Enlightenment" for the servile "coolie."

And now- dear old Calcutta- a shadow of its prime,
Its soul chipped away by the march of Time.
The watermen with leathered skin are long gone,
The trams fade,  as yellow taxis linger on.

Yet amidst this churn of so-called progress,
In quiet corners, a poignant witness.
The hand-pulled rickshaw, slender and frail,
Its sinewy pullers, histories unveiled.

Their bells, though rickety, sing resilient tunes,
Echoing amidst high-rises and honking fumes.
They lumber down Esplanade; relics of the past,
Carrying the weight of Time, memories that last.

Oh, hand-pulled rickshaws, bearers of a bygone tale,
In your fragile frames, Kolkata’s heart prevails.
May your story endure in the city’s veins,
A symbol of resilience amidst progress’s gains.

(The author is a Travel & Tourism Consultant. Email: namanste.hhe@gmail.com)