The market slept beneath an ink‑black sky, Burrabazar’s labyrinth of lanes silent at 1 AM. A pallid moon hung low above shuttered shops, warehouses looming like sleeping beasts. Rickshaw wheels rested, bamboo handcarts fitted with truck tyres stood stacked one after the other, piles of cloth lay dormant, and only an occasional distant clang of a metal shutter broke the reverie. The air smelled of dust and distant spice mixtures, a hint of soot from earlier fires, and the restless promise of dawn just hours away. Rajat Banerjee walked slowly, each footfall echoing on uneven cobbles. His shoulders sagged, his mind weighed down by a deal that had failed.
He was perhaps the last man awake in the market. No other vendor called, no other light glowed. From a narrow gutter opening, a dim yellow lamp revealed a small tea stall. A voice, soft yet firm, called to him, “Last cup for the day, sahib.” Rajat paused. He was devastated, had lost all hope, and a cup of tea at this hour seemed like a hint of relief. He had no choice but to approach.
At the rickety little stall sat an old man, his eyes wise behind cataracts, his shanty modest: a soot‑stained kettle, battered stool, small wooden counter. He poured tea and offered a mat. Rajat sank onto it. The man closed the stall’s crooked shutters gently and then lay on the wooden charpoy beside it. He looked at Rajat and spoke with quiet kindness. “I saw you passing by. You looked burdened. Come, have a cup of tea. This is my last for the night.”
Rajat sipped. The tea was smoky and strong, stirring faint heat in his chest. He exhaled and spoke, “I tried to secure a shop here in Burrabazar. A small business opening at last. But criminal elements demanded I betray my partner. I refused. My honesty cost me the deal.” The old man nodded slowly. He poured another cup from the sooted kettle, no rush. The night around them was still. Rajat felt he could breathe.
“You come to Burrabazar? Do you know her story? She began centuries ago as Sutanuti Haat, under Mughal rule, merchants bartering in yarn and silk in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Over time, Sutanuti became Bazar Kolkata, and then the vast expanse of Burrabazar, a market covering nearly five hundred bighas and residential lanes another four hundred.”
His voice painted pictures: early years under the Seths and Basaks, the gold‑trading Mullicks, the cloth merchants from Dhaka in Kalakar Street known as the Dhakapattys. “Those Bengali families had their gaddis in this land from 1700 until the Battle of Plassey in 1757. After that, power shifted. The British East India Company asserted control, rebuilding the city, and new traders arrived – Gujarati Sheths, Marwaris, Bania families from northern India.”
The old man’s tone deepened. “With the British came new wealth but also unrest. Burrabazar was not just a place of trade, sahib, it was a nerve‑centre for the Indian freedom movement. These lanes saw whispers of rebellion travel faster than goods. Many meetings of nationalist leaders took place secretly in merchant godowns, hidden behind bales of cloth. Marwari and Bengali traders quietly financed revolutionary activities, smuggling pamphlets and funds under the guise of trade consignments.”
“But sahib,” he added, his voice lowering, “Burrabazar has always been a place of contrasts. Alongside the merchants and patriots, shadows have walked these lanes. Smuggling rings once moved opium, gold, and silver under the very noses of the police. Counterfeit currency, black‑market ration cards during the War, stolen goods from the docks – all found their way through hidden alleys and godowns. Even today, whispers of extortion and syndicates cling to certain corners. Burrabazar thrives on trust, but it has also been a theatre for those who break it.”
With a blank stare, as if trying to visualise a fading scene from a distant past, the old man continued – “The Swadeshi Movement after the 1905 Partition of Bengal found fierce supporters here, who boycotted imported goods and promoted Indian‑made khadi and textiles. Burrabazar’s labyrinth of warehouses often doubled as safe houses for revolutionaries pursued by the police, and during the Quit India Movement in 1942, some of these very streets echoed with protests and were barricaded against British patrols. Even the tramlines that pass nearby once carried more than passengers – they carried coded messages between resistance cells.”
He paused and looked upward as if he could see the invisible past. “Under British rule, Calcutta became the capital of British India by 1772 and remained so until 1911. During that era, Burrabazar blossomed as a commercial nucleus for the Empire – yarn, textiles, jute, even opium auctions, remnants of which echo in narrow lanes and tall warehouses. Firms like Rallis Brothers worked through Indian agents such as Hariram Goenka, a Marwari trader knighted by the British. His legacy lingers, his statue at Curzon Park, a street in Burrabazar bearing his name.”
Rajat listened, his senses awakening. The pulse of ancestral commerce flowed through these lanes. He leaned forward on the mat. “British influence brought not only foreign firms but architecture and institutions – St John’s Church opened in 1787, St Andrew’s, the Portuguese Church of the Most Holy Rosary in 1799, alongside the grand Magen David Synagogue in 1884 for Baghdadi Jews drawn to trade here. Each faith, each street, every creaking floorboard carries stories of trade, revolt, and renovation.”
The old man spoke of fires too, like the destruction wrought in 1756 when Siraj-ud-Daulah’s troops razed the market. But each time Burrabazar rose again, a testament to traders’ resilience. “Even into the twentieth century, it emerged as one of India’s largest wholesale hubs. Perhaps the busiest. Thousands of traders from across India came hoping to stake a claim.”
Rajat set down his cup. It was empty, and his heavy thoughts had lightened. The old man smiled gently and retrieved from beneath his counter a small brass key. He handed it to Rajat without explanation. “Take this key. Go to the old building behind us. Once there, you will know where to use it. Do not lose heart. Today, this market will once again reward honour, not betrayal.”
With no further words, the old man, stretching himself on the wobbly charpoy, slowly dozed off, staring into the night sky. Rajat watched as the old timer closed his eyes. The flimsy stall shutter, the blackened kettle, the rocking stool – still and silent companions. Rajat felt unsettled. The old man’s chest rose and fell with each breath, and the air felt uncanny.
As the minutes stretched into hours, Rajat could not rest. At just past 3:00 AM, he rose, key clenched in his sweaty palm, and crept to the old building behind the stall. The building’s façade sagged, brick blackened, windows boarded up, wooden panel loose at the base. Somehow, he knew where to fit the key, pushed gently, and the panel gave. Inside, a small wooden box lay in dust. He knelt and opened the lid. Inside was a thick roll of paper tied with a faded ribbon.
He was too tired, and it was too dark to open or read it then. He placed the roll carefully in his jacket’s breast pocket, hurried back to the stall, and sat on the mat beside the old man sleeping silently. The weight of the hard day finally laid him down, flat on the floor. He shifted his drowsy gaze from the dark sky to the old man, who looked back at Rajat with tired eyes, smiling. “Your destiny awaits, sahib. Have faith.” Rajat swallowed the lump in his throat, nodded, and slipped away.
By the time dawn tinted the east with pale orange, the market began to hum again. Early traders carried crates and boxes, rickshaw‑pullers slowly strolled in, and a few customers pressed into Banstalla Street. Kalakar lanes gradually murmured to life. People wove through Bagri Market, past spice stalls at Raja Katra, past Manohar Das Katra of hardware, Tulapatti’s textiles, and Chinipatti’s fine cloth. Every specialised katra slowly woke from slumber to renew centuries of trade.
A half‑awake thela‑wala sat nearby, rubbing his eyes under a tram’s metallic hum. Rajat asked in a hushed voice, “The stall… the man who lay here on a wooden charpoy, where did it all go?” The thela‑wala adjusted his worn cap and said, “Young man, I have slept here since I was nine years old. I am nearly seventy‑five now. In all these years, I have seen many things in Burrabazar, but never have I seen a tea stall in this spot.”
Rajat’s breath stuttered. The man who had sat with him, spoken of history – was it all unreal? Had the tiredness of the punishing day pushed him to slumber on the street and inflicted him with a soporific imagination? Though it might have been a dream, Rajat somehow felt rejuvenated. As traders began shouting prices nearby, the young man made a choice. He would not return to compromise or desperation. He would claim his rightful place. The old market stood witness – centuries of Bengali and British influence, Gujarati and Marwari traders, synagogues and churches, fires and revolts, clandestine meetings and colonial commerce – all converging into nothing but opportunities for those who will not give up.
As he rose and walked toward the heart of the waking market, head held high, he felt a lump in his jacket’s breast pocket. He reached for it and pulled out a roll of paper tied with a faded ribbon. It wasn’t a dream after all, was it real or something beyond? As he unrolled the paper, it turned out to be the deed to the abandoned building behind the imaginary tea stall. He froze, goosebumps rising across his skin, and nearly choked as he read the name of the owner, written in copperplate script – Rajat Banerjee.
As the first rays of gold lined the rooftops, Burrabazar exhaled in celebration: someone still stood honest, and though through some uncanny, bizarre, or unexplainable circumstance, that kind of truth, it seemed, deserves its own inheritance.
Copyright © 2025 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
This work of fiction, written by Trishikh Dasgupta is the author’s sole intellectual property. Some characters, incidents, places, and facts may be real while some fictitious. All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trishikh Dasgupta
Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
Nice story and kept me hooked till the end. Enjoyed the descriptions as always. It took me to Burrabazar instantly.
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Thank you, so happy that you could visualise Burrabazar through my story. Always treasure your appreciation.
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Dear Trishikh
It’s a rare pleasure to consistently enjoy your posts.
Thanks for liking my post Listening 5 🙏
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Thank you so much. Keep visiting. I will keep visiting your blog too.
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Thanks for liking my post Action5🙏
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You are most welcome. It’s my pleasure to like your post as well.
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Thank you, Trishikh, for the beautifully written, fascinating history of Burrabazar. It is also a morality tale where the honest are rewarded by Divine magic. Your story, Trishikh, brings the vision of the distant past to life, the smells, noise, and the beauty of the market like no other. As I love the markets with their richness and uniqueness of traders, your tale was unforgettable! Thank you again, Trishikh!
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, thanks for being the first person to comment. I always treasure your feedback. Glad that you liked my 75th short story, especially the sights and sounds of the market (Burrabazar), it is indeed an out of the world experience for anyone to visit this market. It can be scary, confusing, and exciting too.
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Another wonderful tale.. enjoyed it thoroughly.. thank you ❤️
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Thank you so much. Always cherish your appreciation.
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A good one. Hope every Rajat finds his/her chai wala.
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I think, if we are true and do not harm others, we will find our chai wala. Thank you for always appreciating my stories.
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Hi and thanks for sharing your great post! Wishing you a wonderful weekend…😊🎶⭐️🎶😊
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Thank you so much Philip. A great weekend to you too.
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i am very glad to read your wonderful stories here again! i missed them when you were away!🙏🏼❤️👍🏼
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So glad that I have been able to restart writing short stories. Thank you for being so supportive.
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Thank you Ned for promoting my story in your website. Always appreciate your support.
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Good going! Keep on writing.
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Thank you.
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A captivating story, Trishikh. It brings Burrabazar to life with its rich and convoluted history. Its message of honesty in the face of treachery is one of hope in a world built on deception.
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Dear Rosaliene, it so nice to hear from you always. Glad that you liked my latest short story. Moral messaging and history are some of the essential elements of many of my stories as you have seen in the past. Glad that I was able to bring this tale to life.
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Wonderfully written !!
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Thank you so much. Sorrry for the late response, somehow your comment had landed in my spam folder.
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Seeing the world through commercial angle is always interesting. The culture of trade and deals demands honesty. You put it well.
I liked how you have the accurate keywords to present, explain and give your story the direction you want.
Thank you for sharing!
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Very true Lokesh, trade and commerce have always been the backbone of human civilization. Without them we cannot evolve. Thank you so much for liking my story. It’s always a treat to receive your appreciation.
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Yay Rajat!!!!
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Yes Katelon, 3 cheers to Rajat. We always need more honest business folks in this world.
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Great story telling Trishikh ji.
You brought Burrabazar alive with your fine imagery and also a beautiful message through your well written story.
Thank you for sharing.
Good to see you back.
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Dear Chitrangada, it’s always so great to receive your appreciation. So glad that you liked the sights and sounds of Burrabazar depicted in my latest story. Am glad to be back o writing my short stories.
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Great
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Thank you so much.
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I have just come back to your informative and touching story, Trishikh and thank you very much!
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You are most welcome Martina, so glad that you liked my story. Treasure your constant encouragement and support.
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A lovely dip into the rich history of Burrabazar. Your love for Kolkata shines through the well woven and engaging story.
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Thank you Dahlia. It really makes my day when someone takes the time to read one of my stories and appreciate. So glad that you liked the historical references and found the story engaging.
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Galactic elegance
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Thank you.
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Loved it. I could smell, hear it all.
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So happy to have been able to convey the sights and sounds of this legendary market of Kolkata.
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This story was descriptive and engaging like your other stories that I read! I love it!
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So happy that you liked this story too. Yes description is an important part of any of my stories.
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Well written and very entertaining, my friend. You’ve got a beautiful skill set; you’re a true wordsmith.
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Thank you so much for appreciating. Your words encourage me a lot to keep on writing these stories.
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Wonderful and engaging story.
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Thank you for your kind words of appreeciation. I treasure it.
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You’re most welcome.
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Felt like reading a dream wrapped in dust and memory. Burrabazar breathed through every line. That tea-seller wasn’t just a man—he was the market’s soul testing Rajat’s. Honest writing that lingers like spice smoke at dawn.
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What a beautiful review. Thank you so much for your heartfelt appreciation for my story. Loved it. Do visit again and read more of my stories. I am sure that you will love many of them.
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Sure, I have already subscribed:)
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Yes, I have seen. Thank you so much.
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Once again the words magician succeeded to mesmerise, excelling in the art of poetry and observation, drawing us into a tale, summarising past and present.
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Oh, you are too kind with your appreciation. So glad that you liked the story, it’s poetic flair, observative narration, and reflection of the past and present.
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I love your stories. ❤
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Thank you so much. And I always treasure your encouragement.
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I got goose bumps lol . thank you for my morning tale. ❤
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So glad that you were moved by the story. Nothing like a good morning story to start the day with.
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Subtly powerful
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Thank you so much.
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Dear Trishikh
You have some special qualities, and you influence me greatly.
Your writing has helped me to survive difficult moments of loneliness.
Thank you very much for liking my post, ‘Fraud’. 🙏
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Dear Friend, reading your words of appreciation at the start of the day, makes writing these stories worthwhile. It is my humble to promote short stories, the art, the love for it. I feel short stories are the stepping stone to many things, they have the power to influence and motivate us greatly. Sadly nowadays there are many distractions and children have a lot of other things to do than read a good story. My stories also reflect on the history, geography, myths, beliefs, society, religion and various other aspects of India. I want to leave behind a legacy of stories for the future generations.
I love your posts too. It’s my pleasure to visit your site and like them as well.
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As I know so little about your country, I looked up many words. I was rewarded with a better understanding. Thank you for the magic of your stories.
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This really makes writing these stories worthwhile. If it influences you to do a bit of research and know a bit more about my country, then I am successful in writing these stories.
Thank you so much for always appreciating my stories, and giving me constant encouragement.
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These stories were more involved historically and politically, so I waited until I returned from my partially off grid vacation to dig in and enjoy them. So happy to have met a fine story writer who can teach me more about another country.
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It is so kind of you to say so, am glad to be able share knowledge, only by sharing can I also learn more.
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Dear Trishikh
It’s always a moment of reckoning when I read your post. This post is a fine example.
Thanks for liking my post Life’s 🙏❤️
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Thank you so much. So glad that you liked this story of mine. I am loving your posts too. They are great.
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A magickal, wonderful story!
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Thank you for liking my story and finding it to be magical. Nothing makes my day better than a bit of appreciation.
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Dear Trishikh
I feel great satisfaction after reading your post.
This post satisfied me in the same manner.
Thanks for liking my post, ‘Shriram’🙏❤️
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So happy that you liked my stories so much. It is my pleasure to like your posts too.
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First of. How on earth are you getting these amounts of likes and comments. You are wonderful
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Well somehow a selected group of people love the stories that I write. I was able to develop this fan base over the years. The growth is totally organic to promotions of any kind. Ofcourse I share my stories on WhatsApp to selected friends, and on social media.
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Wow! I love your audience. Keep doing what you do
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If we truly believe what we write, audience will come slowly.
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I believe you
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I love this story, and with a happy ending! The historical facts were very interesting, thank you.
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My pleasure Stella, so happy that you liked the story and especially the historical facts about the Burrabazar market.
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Thank you so much for promoting my story in your website. Always appreciate the support. Now so many more people would be able to enjoy this story.
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Surreal. A trip down the lanes of history. A tale of just inheritance. Very well narrated. So interesting.
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Thank you so much. I always treasure your appreciation. Nothing gives me more joy than when someone enjoys one of my stories.
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That was beautifully written ! For a moment I was transported to a bygone era ! Nice interplay between the past and the present. Thank you for sharing.
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Dear Vinod thank you so much. So glad that you enjoyed my short story. There is no greater reward for me, than when one of my stories brings a little smile on someone’s face.
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It was my pleasure. You have the unique ability to bring to life the past that has your reader glued to your story. Do continue to enthrall us with your mesmerizing stories.
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Oh, you are so kind with your appreciation. I shall continue to bring forth these short stories. I release one story every Friday. Keep an eye out for my next one.
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Your tale is more than a story—it feels like a living archive where history breathes and morality is tested. The tea-seller appears less a man and more a guardian spirit of Burrabazar, reminding us that integrity, though fragile at times, is the true inheritance markets and men must protect.
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Dear Livora, “where history breathes and morality is tested,” you have said this so beautifully.
Yes, the tea seller is a spirit, “a guardian spirit” as you say.
So happy that you liked this tale of mine too.
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Dear Trishikh 🌿 your tale carries such timeless depth—where imagination meets truth. I’m grateful you revealed the tea seller as a guardian spirit; it adds even more wonder. Your storytelling breathes with wisdom, and I’m always glad to journey through your words
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Dear Livora, the pleasure is equally mine.
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Lovely story. I suppose more so for people with some familiarity with Burra Bazar and Kolkata.
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Dear Ankur, first of all I must thank you for taking the time to read and enjoy my story, like it, and comment on it. Your appreciation encourages me to continue writing more such stories.
Yes, the story certainly will have more appeal for readers who know or frequent the Burra Bazar area. But I think it also holds a lot of interest for someone who does not know the place at all.
Do visit my website again and read more of my short stories. I am sure that you would love many of them. I write and publish a story every Friday.
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