The Ghostly Ride Through Calcutta's Past

**The Ghostly Ride Through Calcutta’s Past**

Sikka adjusted his backpack, the humid Kolkata evening clinging to him like a second skin. He stood at the gates of the South Park Street Cemetery, its weathered tombstones glowing faintly under flickering streetlights. He’d booked an Uber to explore Kolkata’s colonial heart, but the app showed his driver, “Ober,” stationed *inside* the graveyard. *Odd,* Sikka thought, but adventure called. The cemetery gates groaned as he stepped in, sneakers crunching on gravel.

A cold gust swirled, and a figure appeared beside a crumbling tombstone. Lanky, in a faded kurta and a driver’s cap from some bygone era, his eyes sparkled with mischief, his grin unnervingly wide. “Sikka, my friend! I’m Ober, your Uber driver tonight. Hop in!” he said, gesturing to a spectral bullock cart that shimmered into view, wheels hovering an inch above the ground.

Sikka hesitated. “This isn’t the Ola I ordered, man.”

Ober’s laugh rattled like dry leaves. “Ola, Uber, bullock cart—same difference! Ready for a ride through history?” Before Sikka could argue, he was nudged into the cart, which lurched forward with a ghostly whoosh.

As they rattled past the cemetery’s iron gates, Ober launched into his tale, voice brimming with pride and a hint of cheek. “This city—Calcutta, not your posh Kolkata—was built on dreams and dice. Back in the 1800s, the British were short on cash for their fancy roads and buildings. So, in 1817, they started the Lottery Committee. Sold tickets to folks like my great-great-grandfather, promising riches but really funding their Town Hall and St. John’s Church.”

Sikka, clutching the cart’s edge as it dodged modern traffic on Park Street, raised an eyebrow. “Your ancestor bought lottery tickets?”

“Oh, aye!” Ober chuckled. “Great-Great-Grandpa Gopal, a clerk, thought he’d strike gold. Blew half his wages on tickets—never won a paisa! His wife would nag, ‘You’re building their palaces, not ours, you daft man!’ But his coins helped raise the Town Hall, where we’re headed now.”

The cart halted before the Town Hall, its Roman Doric columns standing proud in the dusk. Ober pointed with a translucent finger. “Built in 1813, partly with lottery money. The sahibs danced here, sipping tea, pretending they were in London. Gopal? Never got an invite—too ‘native’ for their taste.”

Sikka smirked. “Sounds like your grandpa got fleeced.”

“Fleeced? Maybe!” Ober said, mock-offended. “But he believed in this city. Said it was his Calcutta, even if the British claimed it.” The cart zipped toward St. John’s Church, its spire piercing the twilight. “This one,” Ober said, “came up in 1787. Lottery tickets raised 30,000 rupees. Gopal chipped in, praying for luck. Spoiler: he got none. But this church was the cathedral till 1847. Proper grand, eh?”

Sikka nodded, snapping a photo. “So, the British just gambled their way to a city?”

“Spot on!” Ober grinned. “From 1817 to 1830, the Lottery Committee paved roads, dug tanks like Wellington Square, made Calcutta the ‘City of Palaces.’ But by 1830, London’s bigwigs got snooty—called lotteries ungentlemanly. Shut it down. Gopal was gutted; loved his ticket stubs.”

Sikka’s mind wandered as the cart rolled toward the Ganges, its waters glinting like scattered coins. *Lotteries back then built cities,* he thought, *but today? They’re a shady game. Black money turns white through rigged wins and fake tickets. Crooks buy their way to clean cash, while regular folks like me just lose. Lucky I steer clear—lotteries feel more like loot-eries now.* He shook his head, grateful his wallet stayed out of such traps.

The cart paused near a phuchka stall by the river, the tangy aroma pulling Sikka from his thoughts. “Ober, stop here! I need a snack.”

Ober tipped his cap. “Fine, but don’t dawdle. Ghosts aren’t patient!” Sikka hopped out, grabbing a plate of spicy phuchkas. He turned, mid-bite, to find the cart—and Ober—gone. The street was empty, only the Ganges’ murmur and distant traffic breaking the silence. His phone buzzed: “Ride Completed.” A chill prickled his skin as he recalled Ober’s tombstone: *Gopal Das, 1790–1820, Loyal Clerk, Dreamer of Fortunes.*

Sikka laughed shakily. “Well, Gopal, you spun a good yarn.” As he walked along the river, the Town Hall and St. John’s Church lingered in his mind, their stones whispering of lotteries, dreams, and a ghostly driver who loved his city. *Better those lotteries than today’s scams,* Sikka thought, popping another phuchka. *At least Gopal’s coins built something real.*

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Unveiling the Past: A Lamp's Silent Tale of Truth and Justice

Samaranand was, as usual, engrossed in his hobby of watercolor painting when the doorbell rang. He got up and found his assistant, Babulal, standing at the door with a bag and a broad smile. Samaranand immediately sensed that Babulal had brought something interesting.

“Look what I’ve found, sir!” Babulal exclaimed, pulling a lamp out of the bag.

Samaranand examined it closely. “This looks like a 19th-century kerosene lamp, the kind used in old Kolkata. It's quite an antique,” he remarked, intrigued.

“Yes, sir,” Babulal confirmed. “I got it from a raddiwala, the one who buys rejected material from houses. But there’s something different about this lamp. It feels like it has a story to tell.”

Samaranand agreed. “Let's see if we can get it to work. Babulal, fetch some kerosene oil.”

By evening, they were sitting in the dark on the balcony of Samaranand’s flat, ceremonially lighting the lamp. Initially, nothing happened. The lamp cast a soft, yellow-blue light. But then, the wall of the balcony began to resemble a cinema screen, showing a half-lit street of Kolkata. A man appeared on the screen, looking around furtively as if trying to escape from someone. Suddenly, another man in a hat and overcoat emerged and shot him point-blank. There was no sound; it was like a silent movie.

Samaranand, a natural problem solver, realized that the lamp had come to him for a reason. “This isn’t a coincidence,” he said. “The lamp used you, Babulal, to reach me. It wants this story to be told.”

Babulal nodded. “What should we do next, sir?”

“We need to find out where the raddiwala got this lamp,” Samaranand decided.

The next day, Babulal returned with information. “The lamp belonged to a poor Bihari family in the Tollygunge slum,” he reported.

They headed to the slum and met the house owner, an 80-year-old man named Chotu. “This lamp belonged to my grandfather,” Chotu explained. “He used to work for a rich businessman, lighting the street lamps.”

Samaranand was intrigued. “In the early 20th century, the Calcutta Municipal Corporation required wealthy people to maintain the street lamps in front of their homes,” he said.

Chotu nodded. “Yes, my grandfather worked for a jute baron named Samaddar. He maintained the streetlight in front of Samaddar’s bungalow.”

Samaranand and Babulal went to the street in North Kolkata where Chotu’s great-grandfather had worked. It wasn’t hard to locate the grand house that once belonged to Samaddar, the jute baron. Samaranand decided to dig deeper into Samaddar’s history.

“Babulal, find out everything you can about that era,” he instructed.

Babulal returned with startling news. “Samaddar wasn’t just a businessman. He was also involved in criminal activities,” he revealed.

Samaranand’s mind raced. “Chotu’s great-grandfather must have witnessed Samaddar’s criminal dealings. That’s why he was killed,” he deduced. “The lamp stored this story all these years.”

Samaranand and Babulal returned to Chotu’s home to share their findings. “Your great-grandfather was a brave man,” Samaranand told Chotu. “He saw something he wasn’t supposed to, and Samaddar’s goons eliminated him to keep him silent. But this lamp, it has kept his story alive.”

Chotu was silent, absorbing the revelation. “I never knew,” he said softly. “But it makes sense now. My father used to say that my grandfather was a proud and honest man.”

Samaranand nodded. “The lamp brought this story to us for a reason. It wanted closure. Now, we know the truth, and we can honor your great-grandfather’s memory.”

The next day, they decided to hold a small ceremony. They took the lamp back to the street where Chotu’s great-grandfather used to work. As they lit the lamp, Samaranand spoke. “This light will now serve as a beacon of truth and justice, honoring the memory of a man who stood by his principles.”

The lamp glowed brightly, as if acknowledging the tribute. For Samaranand, Babulal, and Chotu, it was a moment of closure and respect for the past.

As they walked away, Samaranand felt a deep sense of satisfaction. He knew that the lamp’s story had finally been told, and a forgotten chapter of history had been illuminated once more.