As night deepens, the city falls silent. Yet, in that very silence, there are nights when the roar of bulldozers plunges history into a darkness deeper than the night itself.

Some were asleep. Some were arranging goods for the next morning. Someone may be preparing to earn their first few rupees by serving tea to early-morning train passengers. Then the lights arrive, followed by police, paramilitary and bulldozers. Within hours, a livelihood built over decades disappears. Some plead, “Please do not demolish my shop.” Others ask, “What will my children eat tomorrow?” But rapacious capital never pauses to hear the cries of ordinary people.

Today, we are told that railway stations must resemble those of Japan, Europe, China or Dubai. They must have gleaming architecture, branded stores, air-conditioned lounges, and food courts. It sounds impressive.

A similar promise was made during airport modernisation in the 1990s. Many were captivated by the magnificent glass structures, polished floors, and dazzling lights. Yet those airports eventually became spaces dominated by expensive corporate brands only. A simple cup of coffee now often costs several hundred rupees. For ordinary travellers, the desire for a cup of tea disappears the moment they see the price list.

The same transformation is now being proposed for railway stations. Middle-class and lower-middle-class passengers travelling across Bengal may soon find themselves surrounded by attractive shops and restaurants, owned by the corporate companies, they cannot afford. The stations will look beautiful, but most of the commuters will remain mere spectators.

Several pertinent questions therefore arise.

If we want stations like Japan’s, when will we have trains that run with Japanese punctuality and speed? If we desire infrastructure comparable to Europe’s, when will we achieve European standards of passenger safety? If we seek shopping spaces resembling Dubai’s, when will ordinary people receive affordable food, clean toilets, and reliable services?

If selling tea on railway land is considered illegal, why are chronic delays, overcrowded coaches, and unsafe travel conditions not treated with the same urgency? The primary purpose of the railway is not to build shopping complexes but to provide safe, reliable, and affordable transport. Ensuring passengers reach their destinations on time, ticket-holders travel with dignity, and women feel secure during night journeys are all fundamental measures of development. If these basic responsibilities remain unfulfilled, then what exactly is being modernised?

The real issue is not encroachment. The real issue is that the market value of the land has risen dramatically. Where a tea vendor once earned a modest living, a large corporation can now earn in millions. The location remains the same; only the ownership changes.

History shows that this process has occurred repeatedly across the world. Poor settlements have been demolished and small businesses destroyed to make way for large predatory capital. This process has often been presented as modernisation. But when modernisation destroys livelihoods, it ceases to be development and becomes displacement.

Indian Railways tells a different story from the planners and consultants often imagine. The railway is not merely a transport network. Around it has developed an enormous livelihood economy. Tea vendors, booksellers, porters, fruit sellers, food stalls, small hotels, lodges, repair shops, and bicycle stands support millions of families. A railway station is not simply a building; it is a living economic ecosystem. If that ecosystem is dismantled to create space for a handful of massive corporate entities, the station may become more attractive, but inequality will deepen.

To understand the reality of Bengal’s railway hawkers, one must also understand its history. Their presence was shaped by extraordinary circumstances. The Partition of 1947 uprooted crores of Bengali families who arrived with little more than the clothes they wore. Unlike Punjab, Bengal received comparatively limited rehabilitation support. Many refugees survived by selling goods on trains, railway platforms, and streets.

In the years that followed, further waves of migration from the then East Pakistan brought more impoverished people to West Bengal. For countless families, hawking became a means of survival. The history of Bengal’s railway vendors is therefore inseparable from the history of displacement, migration, and human resilience. Without recognising this reality, one cannot understand the depth of their struggle.

At the same time, the very meaning of development is being transformed. Traditionally, development meant employment, education, healthcare, industrial growth, agricultural progress, and rising living standards. Today, development is increasingly defined by glass walls, LED screens, air-conditioned lounges, food courts and everything controlled by gigantic corporations.

It no longer seems to matter whether unemployment is rising, whether incomes are stagnating, or whether farmers are trapped in debt. What matters is that the surroundings look modern and impressive. The message appears to be -- even if your pocket is empty, at least you can be in awe of a beautiful railway station.

But people do not live on beauty. They live on livelihood, dignity, and bread.

Those who argue that displacement is unavoidable for modernisation should consider how other countries handle such projects. In Japan, Germany, and even neighbouring China, rehabilitation is treated as an essential component of development. Before projects are implemented, authorities examine how many people will lose jobs, what alternative employment will be available, and how much compensation should be provided.

In India, such questions are often ignored. Corporate losses make newspaper headlines, but the destruction of thousands of livelihoods is reduced to an administrative notification. We live in a peculiar era where a tea stall is considered an “obstacle to development”, while billions in corporate concessions are celebrated as “investment”.

Nothing exposes the true character of this model of development more clearly than this contradiction. For the corporate giant, there is land, tax relief, subsidies, and every conceivable concession. For the tea seller, the hawker, and the small shopkeeper, there is only the threat of displacement. The state that pleads helplessness when asked to create jobs displays remarkable efficiency when demolishing livelihoods. When power consistently serves wealth and turns against labour, economic policy ceases to be a tool of public welfare and becomes a mechanism for preserving the privileges of a tiny corporate aristocracy.

What is happening to railway hawkers today reflects a broader pattern. In previous decades, we were told that closing public-sector factories, dismissing workers, and transferring assets to private corporations constituted development. Permanent employment was portrayed as a burden on the economy. The consequences are visible. Earlier generations often earned stable wages in permanent jobs. Today, many of their children, despite being more educated and skilled, work in insecure contractual positions for much lower real incomes. Similar arguments were used to justify reducing support for agriculture. The result has been rising costs and greater pressure on ordinary households.

Large sections of the media helped popularise these ideas, persuading many people that policies benefiting big capital would ultimately benefit everyone. Yet the lived reality of millions tells a different story.

The debate, therefore, is not merely about one railway station. It concerns the kind of society we want to build. Do we want a society where the value of a corporate signboard exceeds the value of human labour? Or do we want a society where development remains centred on human beings?

If railway stations become shopping malls from which ordinary people are gradually excluded, then the station may become more beautiful, but democracy itself becomes less so.

The central question is not whether stations should be modern or attractive. The real question is who pays the price.

The cost will not be borne by corporations operating from air-conditioned showrooms. It will be borne by the tea seller who wakes before dawn to prepare for the day. It will be borne by the bookseller who supplies newspapers to commuters. It will be borne by the elderly shopkeeper whose tiny stall provides the last source of family income. It will also be borne by ordinary passengers who can still afford a five-rupee cup of tea or a simple snack during their daily journey.

Another fundamental question remains unavoidable. What is the primary duty of a state? To create opportunities for work, or to take them away?

Millions of educated young Indians continue to search for stable employment. While official statistics may show some improvement in overall employment figures, youth unemployment remains a serious concern. Much of the employment that has been created is temporary, insecure, and poorly paid. A vast section of the population still depends on the non-formal economy, small businesses, and self-employment.

The duty of the state is to expand opportunities for human livelihood. If it cannot adequately provide employment, what moral authority does it possess to destroy the livelihood of a person who has managed to survive through hard work and modest resources? The tea seller who received no corporate bailout, the hawker who sought no subsidy, and the small shopkeeper who built a life through personal effort deserve protection, not displacement.

This contradiction lies at the heart of the issue. A state that struggles to create employment for millions often proves remarkably efficient at demolishing the livelihoods that already exist.

The crisis becomes even more severe amid rising living costs. Food, healthcare, education, and cooking fuel have become increasingly expensive. For many families, a tea stall, book stall, fruit stand, or small shop is not merely a business; it is the final barrier against poverty. Destroying these livelihoods at a time of economic insecurity deepens existing inequalities.

Development is necessary. But if development crushes people, destroys livelihoods, and creates opportunities only for a handful of powerful corporations, then it cannot truly be called development. It becomes a mechanism for concentrating wealth and expanding corporate power.

The success of a civilised society is not measured by the marble floors of its stations. It is measured by the dignity, security, and opportunities available to its most vulnerable citizens. A railway station is more than a structure of glass, steel, and concrete. It is a space filled with stories of survival, labour, and aspiration.

History teaches that every major social struggle ultimately revolves around human survival and dignity. Governments may temporarily prioritise the interests of wealthy corporations, but history is not judged by bulldozers. It is judged by humanity.

And that judgement, sooner or later, always arrives.