Sandip Chakraborty 1 The tram bell chimed faintly, its echo vanishing into the hushed expanse of Esplanade. Midnight in Kolkata had its own kind of silence—a silence alive with the creak of tram rails, the hiss of distant buses, and the occasional bark of stray dogs. Arup Chatterjee, in his worn khaki uniform, stood at his post with the familiarity of a man who had repeated this routine for thirty years. His eyes scanned the tram’s interior, dimly lit by yellow bulbs that flickered as though uncertain of their duty. There, in the corner seat, as always, sat the passenger.…