In the alleys where trams still hum,
Kolkata sighs beneath the sun.
Degrees hang like faded dreams,
On crumbling walls and silent screens.

College gates once sang with hope,
Now echo fears as youths elope.
Not with love, but out of the land,
Chasing jobs with trembling hands.

Coffee House no longer rings,
With revolution, books, or wings.
It's quiet now just whispered dread,
Of interviews that never led.

The boy from Behala with the sharpest mind,
Stands in the queue, his eyes resigned.
The girl from Garia, full of fire,
Folds her resume, mute with desire.

“Vacancy” is a ghosted word,
Heard in dreams but never heard.
Forms are filled, exams are cracked,
Still, the ceiling shows the cracks.

The call centers call no more,
The startups shut their glassy doors.
The Sarkari lists keep names on hold,
As youth turns to rust, as hope grows old.

Yet still they rise at break of day,
Board the Metro, come what may.
Clutching CVs, courage worn,
Hearts like Howrah bruised, but strong.

City of culture, city of fight,
She bears her children in the night.
And whispers through the falling rain,
“You'll rise again, you'll rise again.

.    .    .