The Borrowed Blazer and the Bombay Cabaret :A Students Night Out in 1964

 The Great Blazer Caper of 1964

It was during this year's Durga Puja in Delhi that Amu — my second brother and self-proclaimed "memory excavator" — and I sat reminiscing about our youth. The tea was hot, the samosas were crisp, and the stories, as always, got more colourful as the evening wore on.

Amu suddenly said, "Do you remember, I once borrowed Kutu's Delhi College blazer? The one with the crest? Oh, the swagger I had wearing that!"

That one comment sent me tumbling down memory lane straight to 1964 — the year of our epic study tour across Bombay, BHEL Bhopal, and Bhilai Steel Plant. Bombay, in particular, had left quite an imprint. Not because of the Gateway of India or Marine Drive — but because of *a blazer and a cabaret*.

 The Marine Engineering Connection

I was staying at the hostel of my late friend Adarsh Saxena, then a proud Marine Engineering student at Dufferin. Poor Adarsh — years later, duty would claim him in a tragic ship fire at some foreign dockyard. But in 1964, he was alive with mischief and stories.

That evening, over endless tea and stale samosas, we began recalling our childhood in Delhi's Chummeries — our old flats at 14 and 26 in Block 95, the endless cricket matches, and the mischief shared with Kutu,Saily, Subhash, Binder, Tej Bahadur, Sarupa, and Khokon.

"Remember how Kutu used to bowl those impossible spinners?" Adarsh chuckled.

"And you'd still manage to hit them for a six!" I replied. "My badminton skills were no match for your cricket wizardry."

Then Adarsh, his eyes twinkling with mischief, asked, "Ever been to a night club?"

I nearly choked on my tea. "Night club? Like... the ones in movies?"

He grinned. "Exactly. Like Howrah Bridge. Cabaret, music, dancing!"

"But don't they have dress codes? Suits and all that?"

"College blazers work perfectly," Adarsh said, producing a gleaming blazer like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "Tonight, you're a college gentleman."

The Taxi Ride of Nerves

Our mutual friend Vikram — another Marine Engineering student — joined us as we hailed a taxi. The moment we settled into the black-and-yellow cab, my anxiety kicked in.

"Adarsh, what if they ask us questions? What if they know I'm not from Bombay?" I whispered.

The taxi driver, overhearing, turned around with a grin. "First time, sahib?"

Vikram burst out laughing. "Uncle, how did you know?"

"Arre, thirty years driving in Bombay. I can spot a nervous first-timer from Marine Lines to Colaba!"

Adarsh patted my shoulder. "Relax, yaar. Just sit back, sip your drink, and enjoy the show. Don't stare too much, don't talk too loud, and whatever you do, don't look shocked when the dancer comes near our table."

"What if she talks to me?"

"She won't," Vikram chimed in. "One look at our student faces and empty pockets, she'll know we're here for the 'cultural experience' only."

The taxi driver chuckled. "Sahib, which club are you going to?"

"The one near Churchgate," Adarsh replied casually.

"Ah, very good place. Music, dance, cold drinks. But sahib," he looked at me in the rearview mirror, "don't look like you're attending a wedding. Smile a little!"

I tried to smile but felt like I was grimacing.

"Beta," the driver continued, "I dropped many boys like you. First time is always nervous. But remember — you're paying customer, not criminal!"

As we neared the club, Adarsh turned serious. "Listen, the entry fee is steep. After that, we'll have just enough for cold drinks and maybe some snacks. No fancy dinner tonight."

"That's fine," I said, adjusting the borrowed blazer. "I'm too nervous to eat anyway."

 The Great Cabaret Experience

The doorman glanced at our blazers and waved us in, perhaps thinking we were future captains of industry. We found a table at the back, clutched our cold drinks like lifelines, and tried to act casually sophisticated.

The lights dimmed. Music swelled. And *she* appeared — the cabaret dancer in shimmering attire, swirling and spinning like a human kaleidoscope. I nearly dropped my glass.

"Close your mouth," Vikram hissed. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I've never seen anything like this," I whispered back.

Adarsh was thoroughly enjoying my bewilderment. "This is nothing. Wait until she starts the table rounds."

And sure enough, she began moving from table to table, smiling, tossing her hair, collecting tips as gracefully as Helen herself. When she approached the businessmen near us, they stuffed notes into her sequined belt with practiced ease.

"She's coming our way," I panicked.

"Smile and nod," Adarsh instructed. "Act like you belong here."

She glided past our table, gave us a professional smile, realized we were broke students, and moved on without missing a beat.

"Did she just... ignore us?" I asked, not sure whether to be relieved or insulted.

Vikram snorted. "Welcome to Bombay economics, my friend. No tips, no special attention."

 The Morning After - Return to Reality

The next morning, I made my way back to Victoria Terminus where my IIT Kharagpur friends were staying in a railway bogey on a siding — our budget accommodation for the study tour. The contrast couldn't have been starker: from the glittering cabaret to a railway siding that smelled of coal smoke and morning tea.

My friend Rajesh was brushing his teeth with a mug of water when I climbed into the bogey.

"Where were you last night? We waited for dinner!"

"I was... exploring Bombay culture," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Kumar looked up from his engineering textbooks. "Culture? In that borrowed blazer?"

"Wait, wait," said Prasad, sensing a story. "Sit down and tell us everything. And don't skip details."

So I sat on the wooden bench of our railway bogey and began my tale. "Well, you see, Adarsh suggested we visit a night club..."

"Night club!" Rajesh nearly choked on his toothpaste. "Our innocent badminton champion went to a night club?"

"There was a cabaret dancer," I continued, "and she was spinning around like in the movies..."

"Like Helen in Howrah Bridge?" Kumar asked, eyes wide.

"Exactly! But here's the thing — she completely ignored us because we looked like broke students."

Prasad was laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. "So you paid all that money to be ignored by a dancer?"

"But the experience, yaar! The lights, the music, the... the glamour!"

"And here we were eating dal-chawal in a railway bogey while our friend was living it up in Bombay nightlife," Rajesh shook his head in mock disappointment.

 The Retelling at IIT Kharagpur

Weeks later, back at IIT Kharagpur, the story had gained legendary status in our hostel. During one of our evening adda sessions, someone inevitably brought it up.

"Tell them about the cabaret, yaar," Prasad would say, and I'd have to repeat the tale.

"The best part," I'd always conclude, "was the taxi driver. He said, 'First time is always nervous, but remember — you're paying customer, not criminal!' I think that was the wisest thing anyone said that entire evening."

My hostel mates would roar with laughter, especially when I described how the dancer gave us one look and decided we weren't worth her time.

"From cabaret in Bombay to coal smoke in railway bogey," Rajesh would summarize. "That's the true engineering student experience!"

Years later, standing in Paris at the famous Lido — all glitter and sophistication — I couldn't help but chuckle. "Ah," I thought, "this is grand, but my first cabaret in Bombay — with a borrowed blazer, a pounding heart, and friends who laughed at my expense — now *that* was an education."

The borrowed blazer had opened doors I never knew existed, and closed them just as quickly. But the memory? That was mine to keep forever.

The Song Before the Gunfire

A Song Before the Gunfire  

*A Cherished Unfinished Memory*  

Whenever I meet someone new, I prefer to watch from a distance before approaching. If the person seems easygoing—smiling, perhaps with a book in hand—I take it as a sign from fate that a good conversation awaits. For a storyteller, life is an infinite anthology, and strangers are just unwritten pages.  

I still remember my early days at the Gauhati Refinery of Indian Oil Corporation. Back then, there was no direct broad-gauge line to Gauhati. The route took you from Delhi to Barauni by broad gauge, and then onward by meter gauge to Gauhati. Today’s seamless rail connections are faster, but they lack the gentle rhythm of those journeys, the leisurely stations, and—most of all—the companionship of shared travel.  

In those first-class compartments, often two of the four berths were taken by army officers. It was 1965, and Assam, bordering East Pakistan, had a strong military presence. The Assam Mail seemed half train, half khaki-clad convoy—officers on transfer, soldiers returning from leave, and young recruits with duffel bags full of hope and apprehension.  

One journey stands out vividly. I was placed in a two-berth coupé alongside a young army officer, Lieutenant Anand. He was barely past twenty-three, bright-eyed, and brimming with mischief. Within minutes of settling in, he pulled from his wallet a well-handled photograph—a young woman smiling with both shyness and affection.  

“Her name’s Meera,” he said warmly. “She still calls me ‘Anu.’ Military enough for the kitchen, but not for the parade ground.”  

I smiled. “Nicknames are medals of the heart. Far more precious than the ones issued officially.”  

Over dinner—chicken, chapatis, and a pudding of uncertain color—Anand produced a bottle of Old Tavern rum. “Officer’s ration,” he announced with mock ceremony. “For high morale in low spirits.”  

He then spoke of Meera—how they met at Delhi University, how she loved romantic songs, especially the haunting melody Kishore Kumar had sung in *Mr. X in Bombay* the year before: *“Mere Mehboob Qayamat Hogi…”* He said it was “their” song, playful yet tinged with longing.  

As he spoke, a memory flitted across my mind—a story from the Delhi newspapers in 1964. An army officer had shot his girlfriend in a café after a breakup. The café’s jukebox had been playing *“Mere Mehboob Qayamat Hogi”* when it happened. That detail had haunted me ever since—the cruel dissonance between a song’s tender yearning and the violence that followed it.  

Listening to Anand, I found myself silently praying that his tale would not echo that tragedy. His laughter was bright, but that memory reminded me how easily love can turn fragile under the weight of absence and fear.  

“You’re thinking like a writer again, aren’t you?” he asked, noticing my quietness.  

“Perhaps,” I admitted. “Writers can’t help seeing storms in calm waters.”  

He lifted his glass with a grin. “Then let’s drink before the rain begins.”  

By morning, Gauhati appeared through mist and drizzle. On the platform, Anand adjusted his cap, shook my hand, and said, “If you ever write about me, make me sound brave—but human.”  

“That’s the only kind I know how to write,” I replied.  

We parted as travelers often do—with an unspoken promise and a friendship destined to live only between stations.  

When the War Came  

Later that year, war arrived.  

One evening at the refinery officers’ club, we were mid-game in badminton when the siren wailed. The shuttlecock froze midair as someone shouted, “Enemy aircraft!” The generators went off instantly, plunging the compound into darkness. Then the two anti-aircraft guns stationed on the hills beside the refinery roared to life.  

Tracer shells streaked upward, weaving fiery paths across the night sky. The air shuddered with sound and courage. We dropped flat on the court as our guns kept firing. Moments later, Indian fighter jets thundered overhead, streaking through the clouds in pursuit of the intruders.  

When silence finally returned, no one moved. The officers’ club lights stayed off, and the dark seemed to hum with memory. I lay staring at the stars, my mind turning to Lieutenant Anand—somewhere beyond those hills, perhaps crouched behind his own gun, maybe thinking of Meera and that photograph he carried.  

And faintly, from the corners of remembrance, I could almost hear Kishore Kumar’s voice echoing: *“Mere Mehboob Qayamat Hogi…”*  

War, I realized, doesn’t just destroy—it interrupts. It cuts short songs, conversations, dreams unfinished.  

That night, as tracer smoke faded into silence, I sent a quiet wish into the sky for him—that his story would not end in gunfire, but continue softly, like a song still playing long after the jukebox has stopped.  

And that is how I remember him—not just a soldier I once met on a train, but a note suspended between love and duty, somewhere in the melody of an unfinished memory.  

---  

Madame Mirza and the spirits of Muscat

Madame Mirza and the Spirits of Muscat  

It was the last thing I expected at a Durga Puja pandal in Pashchim Vihar,Delhi—a lady in one corner, draped in velvet, doing tarot readings between stalls selling bhog and jalebis. The sight jolted a memory loose, carrying me back to a faraway place: Muscat, Oman.  

Years ago, while working on a project at Hubara, my colleague Sethu—who had a mischievous streak wider than the Gulf itself—had insisted on showing me “a secret of Muscat.” We left the polished highways and malls and wandered into a narrow sunlit lane that smelled of cardamom, diesel, and old paper. Eventually, we arrived at a dimly lit room tucked behind a half-closed wooden door.  

Inside was a world far removed from Muscat’s shining exteriors. The chamber was lit by lanterns and candles, their shadows crawling on shelves stacked with strange objects: strings of beads, old maps, brass bowls, dried herbs. At the center sat a woman with sharp eyes and silver bangles that seemed to jingle in tune with her thoughts.  

The moment I stepped in, she tilted her head and said, “Bengali, right?”  

I froze. “Yes… how did—”  

Before I finished, Sethu gave me a villainous grin. “She knows everything. Next she will predict what you had for breakfast.”  

The woman smirked. “Banana skipped. Aloo paratha too oily.”  

My jaw nearly hit the floor. “WHAT?!”  

Sethu slapped his thigh and burst out laughing. “I told you, my friend—she is *dangerously accurate*.”  

I was trembling between awe and suspicion when Sethu whispered in my ear, “Don’t worry. She’s not actually a psychic. She’s a historian from Dhaka, married to a sheikh. Tarot is her… side hobby.”  

The woman leaned back, amused at my expression. “History, tarot, spirit world—what is the difference? Everything is about interpreting traces of the past.”  

She picked up a crystal ball, squinted into it with mock solemnity, and announced, “Sometimes I help people find lost things—keys, passports, goats…”  

“Goats?” I asked.  

“Yes,” she replied with grave seriousness. “Goats wander, souls wander—it’s the same business.”  

Sethu was shaking with laughter. “Last month she helped old Karim find his missing water pump!”  

The woman held up one finger. “Correction: an old spirit with bad knees told me the pump was behind the chicken coop.”  

I chuckled nervously. “That doesn’t sound like a ghost. That sounds like a nosy neighbor.”  

Her eyes glimmered. “Maybe there’s no difference between the two. Both gossip, both refuse to leave you in peace.”  

That line sent Sethu into such hysterics that tears rolled down his cheeks.  

Trying to compose myself, I leaned forward. “But tell me honestly, Madame Mirza. Do you actually believe in this… spirit communication?”  

She shrugged with the calm of someone ordering tea. “Belief is for priests and politicians. I only provide stories and comfort. Most people don’t want ‘truth.’ Truth is boring. They want mystery—and a little fun.”  

Sethu patted my shoulder, whispering theatrically, “See? She’s not a fortune-teller. She’s a philosopher disguised as a card-dealer.”  

The woman began shuffling her deck, casually flicking cards onto the table. “You, mister. You are a traveler. Not careful enough. You will one day leave your socks in a hotel bathroom. Spirits of lost laundry are vindictive—you will never find their pair.”  

Sethu nearly toppled from his chair clutching his stomach in laughter. I sat stunned, trying not to imagine vengeful poltergeists made of mismatched socks.  

The evening passed in riddles, jokes, half-truths, and laughter. When we finally stepped back into Muscat’s neon-lit streets, I couldn’t decide whether I’d met a scholar, a trickster, or a genuine mystic.  

Years later, watching the tarot reader at the pandal shuffle her glittering cards under Durga’s gaze, I had to smile. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw Madame Mirza’s twinkling eyes again—half-mocking, half-wise—whispering that history, mystery, and humor are often all the same story.  

---  

Echoes of Kanishka

The Agra Conspiracy  

A Budha statue of Kushan Era

I had gone  to Delhi from Kolkata for the Pujas when I ran into **Sam Singh**, just back from Agra. He looked restless, full of a story he couldn’t wait to share. Over cups of chai in my flat, he leaned forward and said, almost in a whisper,  

*“You won’t believe what I just saw down there. It started at Meena Bazaar…”*  

Sam Singh’s Account  

Agra’s Meena Bazaar is something else—you feel like every stall is a doorway into another century. Brass lamps polished to perfection, antique wooden toys, Mughal-style miniatures. I’m not really an art man, but I was staring at one shop when I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt, the German couple staying in my hotel.  

They looked excited. Turned out they were chasing something rare: a *Magadh style* painting influenced by the **Kushan dynasty**. I knew a little about it. The Kushans were a Central Asian people who swept into India around the 1st century CE. At their peak, they ruled from Afghanistan into northern India, even brushing shoulders with the Roman and Chinese worlds. What made them special wasn’t just war—it was what they built. Their empire was a bridge across civilizations, thanks to the Silk Road.  

And their art… ah, that was extraordinary. In Mathura, under their patronage, the Buddha came alive for the first time in human form: broad-shouldered, smiling, robes flowing. Their paintings had clean lines, rich pigments, influenced by both Greek naturalism and Indian spirituality. Later, when the Mughals came, painters in Mathura revived that Kushan-inspired aesthetic, blending it with Persian touches. That was the famous *Magadh school of painting*—and that’s what the Schmidts were after.  

That same day they found one. Bought it for two lakhs from a dealer. But when I saw them that evening at the hotel lounge, they were pale. The painting was gone—stolen from their room.  

We rushed to reception, checked the CCTV. And there he was—the very dealer, walking out of the hotel, painting under his arm. But here’s the twist: how had he gotten inside their locked room? Swipe-card access only.  

That night, I stayed in the lobby. Around midnight, I spotted the hotel IT boy—thin, nervous—picking up a fresh swipe card. I followed. On the phone, I heard him mutter, *“I’m going to the Frenchman’s room… he bought the ashtadhatu Krishna, 14th century. Card’s ready.”*  

And boom—it all fit together. Duplicate cards, inside job. The Schmidts weren’t the only targets.  

I tailed him out into the alleys of Agra. He went straight to a broken-down warehouse by the Yamuna ghat. Inside, waiting for him, was **Salim**, the art dealer. And in Salim’s hands? The stolen Magadh painting.  

I tried to stay hidden, but one wrong step on gravel gave me away. Salim’s scarred face swung toward me. Knife in hand, he lunged. What followed was chaos—I sprinted through alleys full of rickshaws, startled dogs, sacks of turmeric spilling gold dust into the air, with Salim hot on my heels like a hawk.  

At the riverside, I thought I was cornered—but that’s when the police, tipped off earlier by me, swooped in sirens blazing. Officers tackled Salim mid-run, his knife skittering across the stones. The IT boy froze, then broke down crying.  

When the police unrolled the painting, there it was—the calm face of a Bodhisattva, rendered in that ancient Kushan style: simple, powerful lines, meditative eyes, pigments still alive after centuries.  

The racket tumbled quickly. The IT boy confessed to forging cards. The receptionist had been feeding guest details. Salim had been stealing back items he “sold” and passing them off to smugglers. The Frenchman was saved from losing his Krishna idol, and the Schmidts got their painting back.  

Henrietta touched it gently, whispering, *“It feels like time itself survived just to reach us.”*  

And in that moment, my mind went back to the Kushans. To Kanishka, the emperor who built massive stupas, hosted the Buddhist council, and made sure Mathura’s art reached far beyond India. Without them, Buddhism’s imagery might never have traveled across Asia, inspiring caves in Afghanistan, China, even Japan. They were nomads once—but they became patrons of eternal art.  

Funny, isn’t it? Centuries later, I’m there in Agra, chasing thieves through lanes, still trying to protect the same art they once saved. History doesn’t die—it just changes its thieves.  

**

The Skyline of Ujjain

---

🌑 The Skyfire of Ujjain

Chapter One: When Rahu Devoured the Sun

It was the early 6th century CE, in the ancient city of Ujjain, when whispers of the heavens stirred the people. Word had spread through the bazaars that Rahu, the headless demon, would rise that day to devour the sun. Priests in saffron robes sprinkled holy water on the temple steps, urging the people to gather with drums and conch shells.

Among the crowd stood four young companions — Durya, Vihan, Arav, and Saanvi. They had slipped away from their homes, eager not only for the spectacle but also for the whispered promise of something greater: the prediction of Aryananda, the young astronomer of Nalanda.

“Look at them,” Vihan chuckled, nodding toward a group of elders already chanting hymns. “They truly believe Rahu stretches his jaws to swallow the sun.”

Durya frowned. “Our parents believe it too. My mother would not let me eat this morning — she says food becomes poisoned when the demon is out.”

Arav smirked. “If Rahu can eat the sun, why does he spit it out again? Why not swallow it whole and be done?”

Saanvi, her eyes bright, whispered, “Aryananda says it is not Rahu at all, only the moon passing before the sun. He even wrote the time on his palm for me yesterday — he said the darkening will begin just after the temple bell of midday.”

The air grew heavy. Priests raised their voices, urging devotion.

“People of Ujjain! Do not fear the darkness. Strike your drums, beat your vessels! Drive away Rahu with the thunder of your faith.”

The temple bell rang. A hush fell. The first bite of shadow crept across the blazing sun.

“It is happening!” Saanvi gasped. “At the very moment he said!”

The crowd broke into cries, the priests into louder chants. Drums thundered, cymbals clashed. Yet the four friends stood still, watching in awe as day turned to twilight, birds flew confused, and a ring of fire crowned the darkened sun.

Vihan whispered, “This is no demon’s bite. It is a shadow.”

Durya’s voice trembled. “If Aryananda is right, then our parents are wrong. What will they say?”

Saanvi’s gaze never left the sky. “They will say what they wish. But we saw the truth today.”

The eclipse passed. The sun blazed again, and the priests proclaimed triumph:

“Your devotion has defeated Rahu!”

The crowd cheered, but the four exchanged knowing glances. A seed of doubt had been planted.

---

Some Years Later

Another eclipse was foretold. Aryananda once again gave his calculation, and once again the heavens obeyed his numbers.

Durya murmured, “It cannot be chance.”

Arav grinned. “Faith alone cannot time the heavens.”

Saanvi whispered, “Truth shines, even when eclipsed.”

And Vihan said softly, “Perhaps one day the people will listen.”

The priests scowled, but the youth of Ujjain were beginning to turn their eyes to the stars with new wonder and quiet courage.

-

---

Footnote:

This story is set in the 5th century CE, during the time of Aryabhata (476–550 CE), one of India’s greatest mathematician-astronomers. While the characters are fictional, it is likely Aryabhata faced both reverence and resistance for his rational postulations, which often contradicted prevailing mythological beliefs. His key contributions include:

Heliocentric hints: Proposed that the Earth rotates on its axis, causing day and night.

Eclipses explained: Stated that lunar and solar eclipses occur due to the shadows of Earth and Moon, not mythological demons like Rahu and Ketu.

Pi (π): Calculated π ≈ 3.1416 with remarkable accuracy.

Algebra & trigonometry: Introduced concepts of sine (jya) and cosine (kojya), used in astronomy.

Zero & place value: Advanced the Indian number system that became the foundation of modern mathematics.

Planetary models: Gave methods to predict planetary positions with surprising precision for his time.

---

Sidhu, the Bengali Robot

---

Sidhu, the Bengali Jules

The chicken cutlet at DKS was hot, crisp, and so mustardy that my nose felt like Netaji had just marched through it. That’s when Samaranand dragged in a young man whose hair looked like it had permanently taken part in a College Street rally.

“Meet Dr. Bhaumik,” he announced proudly, “professor of Robotics at Jadavpur.”

“Robotics? In Jadavpur?” I almost choked. “I thought you people only produced poets and protest marches. Now robots too?”

Bhaumik smiled, his hair still rioting.

“Sir, we’ve made a robot that can blink, smile, and nod when you talk.”

“Wah!” I clapped. “So, basically, you’ve invented the perfect Bengali husband.”

---

The Bengali Frankenstein Lab

Between watery coffee and Samaranand’s smug face, I learned the truth. They had stitched together man-sized robots:

Plastic skin from a doll-maker in Howrah,

Amazon-ordered motors (free delivery, mind you),

Coimbatore micro-engineering,

Korean lithium-ion cells (because Indian batteries faint after two torchlight sessions).

“They even look human,” Bhaumik said proudly. “We wrapped the machinery inside mannequins.”

“Next you’ll tell me they complain about fish prices in Gariahat,” I muttered.

---

Enter Talukdar and Sidhu

Their prototype was gifted to lonely Talukdar, a widower with a son in America who believed that one WhatsApp call a month was enough to prove devotion.

At first, Talukdar treated Sidhu—that’s what he named the robot—like a toy car, driving it around with a remote. But slowly, Sidhu became a companion.

Mornings, Talukdar would dress him in shorts and T-shirt.

“Exercise korte hobe, Sidhu. Health is wealth,” he declared, patting his metal shoulder.

By evening, Sidhu wore a kurta.

“Adda without kurta is like macher jhol without mustard.”

At night, Talukdar lovingly put him in a sleeping dress and placed him beside the bed. If he woke up at 2 a.m., he would whisper:

“Sidhu, ekhono ache to?”

Sidhu’s eyelids blinked twice. Comforted, Talukdar drifted back to sleep.

The bond grew. Sidhu didn’t just listen, he looked present—a silent, smiling shadow in Talukdar’s house. One day, Talukdar even offered him luchi at the dining table. By some mechanical twitch, Sidhu raised a guava to his mouth.

“Dekho, he’s eating!” Talukdar shouted proudly.

---

Banerjee Joins the Club

Banerjee, Talukdar’s friend, had a wife whose daily quarrels could defeat Arnab Goswami in a shouting match. When he discovered Sidhu, his jaw dropped.

“Sidhu, bol to, am I wrong, or is my wife a hurricane in a sari?”

Sidhu blinked. Nodded.

Banerjee gasped. “You understand me better than anyone!”

From then on, he visited morning and evening, pouring his heart out. Sidhu blinked, Sidhu nodded—marriage counseling without fees.

The housing society buzzed.

“Talukdar aar Banerjee ekdom alokito hoye gache! Is it yoga? Baba from Burdwan? Or foreign multivitamin?”

Nobody guessed it was a plastic-faced robot in a lungi.

---

Samaranand’s Triumph

Meanwhile, Samaranand strutted like a Bengali Edison.

“See? Loneliness cured! Jules had an alien, Bengal has Sidhu.”

Dr. Bhaumik nodded, hair still defying gravity. “Robotics with Rabindrasangeet touch.”

Then they turned to me.

“Royda, apni-o ekta nebey?”

I laughed so hard my tea spilled.

“Are you mad? I already have Sikka, Jaggi, Paul to talk nonsense with. If I bring Sidhu home, my wife will say—‘Good, now sell your friends and buy another robot.’ Then what will happen to our adda? Robots can nod, but can they argue Mohun Bagan vs East Bengal?”

---

The Afterthought

That night, though, I couldn’t help thinking. If Sidhu had existed when my father was alive, he would’ve loved it—someone to listen for hours, nodding, blinking, smiling, never contradicting.

Maybe loneliness doesn’t always need aliens like in Ben Kingsley’s Jules. Sometimes all it takes is a plastic-faced listener in a kurta who blinks on time.

And in Bengal, that’s rarer than hilsa in December.

--

Ghosts by the Hoogly :A Widows Rebellion

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Ghosts by the Hooghly: A Widow’s Rebellion

In the dim glow of oil lamps and the faint moonlight filtering through the banyan trees of 19th-century Bengal, when electricity was but a distant dream and villages slumbered under the weight of ancient customs, winds of change whispered faintly. It was the age of Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, the tireless reformer of Bengal, who dared to challenge the ironclad traditions that bound society.

With scholarly fervor, he pored over scriptures in his modest home, presenting arguments before courts and progressive thinkers.

“These young girls,” he declared, “widowed before they even knew womanhood, deserve life, not exile.”

Yet the orthodox ridiculed him mercilessly. Whispers in bazaars called him mad, pamphlets caricatured him as a destroyer of dharma. Before him, Raja Rammohan Roy had slain the demon of Sati, but Vidyasagar’s war—against child marriage, enforced widowhood, and the rampant polygamy of lecherous old men across castes—was an even steeper hill.

Old men, swollen with wealth and lust, traveled village to village in search of brides barely ten or eleven. Families, crippled by poverty, surrendered their daughters for dowry’s cruel exchange. And when these aged husbands perished, the child-brides were cast out—shorn of hair, draped in white, condemned to lifelong mourning in ashrams or the ghats of Kashi.

---

The Secret Sisterhood

Far from Calcutta’s courts, on the banks of the Hooghly, rebellion brewed among these forsaken souls. A band of young widows—Sita, Lakshmi, Radha, and others, none above twenty—met in secret at the village pond during ritual baths. Their whispers were carried on the ripples of water.

“No more,” hissed Sita, her eyes burning beneath her veil. “These old vultures feast on our lives. Let them taste fear.”

Their sympathetic brothers—silent allies ashamed of society’s cruelties—hid nearby, ready with sticks and courage. While Vidyasagar waged his battle with pen and petition, here, in the shadows, justice would take a ghostly form.

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The Haunted Path

One sultry evening, as dusk bled into night, Hari Babu, a notorious old groom of sixty-five, trudged toward a poor farmer’s home. His belly jiggled, his teeth were red with paan, and his thoughts gleamed with greed: gold bangles, a corner of land, another trembling child-bride.

But the path wound past the misty village pond. And from its reeds emerged figures in tattered white saris, their faces smeared with ash, hair wild and unbound.

“Harrrriiii…” they wailed, voices hollow as the wind. “You left us to rot… we have returned!”

Hari froze. His mind reeled—ghosts! Ghosts of the young wives he had taken, abandoned, buried in shame.

Lakshmi, drenched in pond water, stretched her arms like a spirit risen from death. The others swayed and shrieked, their howls mixing grief with laughter.

Hari shrieked, dropping his betel pouch. “The widows! My brides returned from the pyres!” He bolted, stumbling through mud, his dhoti unraveling as he howled for help.

From the bushes, the brothers leapt, striking harmless blows with reeds to deepen his terror. Sita’s voice rose above the chaos:

“Begone, you leech! No child will bear your chain again!”

Hari, humiliated and terrified, tumbled into a ditch, scrambled out filthy and trembling, and fled the village, swearing never to return.

By dawn, word spread that the pond was haunted by widows’ spirits. Superstition became a shield, and the predatory elders kept away.

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The Greater Battle

While in villages, laughter cloaked as haunting chased away predators, Vidyasagar’s real war raged on. He endured ridicule, slander, and threats, but his resolve did not waver.

Finally, in 1856, his relentless advocacy bore fruit:

The Hindu Widows’ Remarriage Act was passed—granting widows the right to remarry, to reclaim dignity and life.

In that moment, the voices of countless widows, whether wailing at ponds or sighing in ashrams, found a champion.

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Epilogue

By the Hooghly, the widows’ secret sisterhood dissolved back into the rhythm of village life. But sometimes, late at night, travelers swore they still heard laughter—half grief, half triumph—echoing over the misty pond.

And in Calcutta, Vidyasagar, “the ocean of compassion,” pressed forward, knowing each battle won was only the beginning.

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