Anirban Sen The tram rattled past Bagbazar and screeched towards Shyambazar, its iron wheels sparking against the stubborn tracks as dusk settled over North Kolkata. The air smelled of roasted peanuts, incense smoke, and an old kind of weariness that clung to the city’s bones. Ananya adjusted her satchel against her shoulder and stepped off at the crossing where five roads tangled together like restless veins. She had been summoned by the trustees of an old zamindari estate, tasked with sorting through a century’s worth of brittle manuscripts and letters that had been abandoned in the crumbling mansion known simply…
