The Soil of Kolkata

Beneath my feet, it breathes—
this soil of Kolkata, warm with stories.
It remembers Tagore’s pen,
the thunder of Netaji’s dream,
and the silent prayers of mothers
at dawn’s crimson edge.

Each grain wears the scent of old pages,
of tram wheels humming through misty mornings,
of coffee-stained debates in College Street corners—
where minds meet like monsoon and flame.

She cradles the barefoot laughter of children
dancing through rain in alleys of North Calcutta,
and the quiet dignity of a rickshaw-puller
writing poetry in every pull.

This soil has tasted blood and revolution,
bathed in Durga’s vermilion,
and heard the midnight conch
echo through temple bells and chai stalls.

Oh Kolkata—
your earth is not dust,
but memory made matter.
It holds the grief of partition,
the joy of poetry,
the chaos of love.

And when I leave,
a part of me stays buried in your streets,
where the soil still whispers,
“Ei shohor tomar jonno royeche.”
(This city waits for you.)

By Sarmistha Dey