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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

--

The Utopian Case of Tudu Hembram

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Rethinking Talent Retention: The Utopian Case of Tudu Hembram

In the remote district of Purulia, among the Santhal tribe, I once met a boy named Tudu Hembram. I was introduced to him at Bhalopahar by the late philanthropist Kamal Chakraborty. At that time, he had just finished school and was repairing computers at a local shop. Yet, it was clear his mind was sharper than the hardware he worked on—his interest lay in the abstract beauty of software and mathematics.

Tudu had submitted some of his calculations online, and his ingenuity soon attracted the attention of a Bangalore startup. That is where his story takes an unusual turn, and one that made me reflect deeply.

Unlike most young professionals who chase salaries, savings, and possessions, Tudu followed a different model of existence. He did not draw a salary in the conventional sense. Instead, the company ensured that his family in Purulia was looked after—sending them monthly expenses and arranging medical support whenever needed. His personal requirements—whether food, clothing, or toiletries—were fulfilled through a custom app designed just for him, where he could simply click for his needs. He lived in a modest studio apartment equipped with cutting-edge computers, free from financial anxieties, with his only wealth being his knowledge.

This freedom allowed Tudu to focus entirely on his passion: finding economic ways to use AI. While most engineers are busy advancing AI systems, his goal was to democratize technology, creating simple solutions for small businesses—chatbots for individuals, smart tools for shopkeepers, and even the dream of one day bringing his own village “into the cloud” when satellite internet becomes universally available.

Despite his ascetic lifestyle, Tudu maintained a balance between mind and body, running 10 kilometers each morning to keep fit. His was a life of discipline, simplicity, and purpose.

History reminds us that this is not a new idea. Emperor Akbar maintained his famed Navaratnas—nine jewels of talent—at state expense, among them the legendary Tansen, whose music still echoes through centuries, and Birbal, whose wit and wisdom guided the emperor. Across civilizations, rulers understood that genius blooms only when freed from material burdens.

In ancient Greece, Plato’s Academy and later Aristotle’s Lyceum were supported by patrons who ensured philosophers could devote themselves to thought rather than livelihood. In Renaissance Italy, the Medici family sustained a galaxy of talents—Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Galileo—by providing them with security, resources, and freedom from financial anxieties. Their patronage birthed some of humanity’s greatest art, science, and philosophy.

The modern world, however, runs on different aspirations. The symbols of success today are big cars, larger houses, and foreign holidays. For a talented individual, the temptation to trade passion for possessions is ever-present. This eternal conflict between the needs of the body and the aspirations of the mind has never disappeared. To resist worldly goods and stick to one’s calling requires unusual inner strength—and equally unusual external support.

What struck me most in Tudu’s case was the company’s unconventional way of retaining him. By removing the burden of salary negotiations, financial planning, and family obligations, they gave him what every true thinker craves—freedom from worry. Many bright minds abandon high-pressure jobs to care for families or escape stress. This model seemed to offer a new path: one where the company assumes responsibility for life’s necessities, while the individual devotes himself fully to creation and problem-solving.

It reminded me of Japan, where young people increasingly choose a solitary lifestyle, avoiding the noise of society, yet deliver extraordinary results in their fields. Tudu’s life felt like an Indian echo of that philosophy: minimalism, focus, and brilliance.

The question that lingers is profound: Could this be the future of work? Instead of higher paychecks and perks, perhaps the real key to nurturing genius is designing ecosystems of trust, care, and freedom.

---

Afterthought: This story is a utopian thought experiment. No such company exists today—but perhaps it is an idea whose time will come.

---

Building Bridges Beyond the Table: Lessons on Customer Relationship Management

Customer relationship is not just about contracts, negotiations, and project deadlines. It is about building trust, respect, and sometimes even friendships that last a lifetime. During my long career in Indian Oil Corporation, BHEL, and later in the private sector with Techno Electric Engineering, I experienced firsthand how cultivating deep personal bonds with customers and stakeholders can help overcome the most complex challenges.

In my view, customer relationships are not built in boardrooms or through formal agreements alone. They are forged on the ground, in moments of crisis, in the willingness to go beyond one’s defined role, and in the shared determination to complete a project despite all odds. When both sides align themselves to the common goal of project completion, they transcend the narrow boundaries of “client” and “contractor” and begin to act as true partners.

---

Early Lessons – Panipat (Haryana Electricity Board)

My journey with customer relationship at project sites began at the Panipat Thermal Power Station, where Mr. G. P. Sood, the Chief, became like a mentor to me. He openly admitted that his expertise lay in hydropower, not in thermal plants. This honesty created an instant bond of trust. I acted as his technical advisor and took decisions—even flouting certain BHEL restrictions—to ensure the plant ran during Haryana’s acute power shortage. That experience taught me that customer trust grows when you prioritize their problems over rigid rules.

---

Brotherhood at Singrauli (NTPC)

At Singrauli Superthermal Power Station, I worked with Mr. S. K. Dasgupta, an old colleague from Barauni Refinery. Our shared background as shift-charge engineers of captive power plants created a brotherly bond. Together, NTPC and BHEL worked as a single pool of experts, commissioning five 200 MW units in just two years—a record then. The lesson was clear: when both sides stop drawing boundaries, teamwork achieves extraordinary results.

---

Empowerment at Wanakbori (GEB)

At Wanakbori Thermal Power Station, I worked under the late Mr. K k Dharangdharia, who valued my frankness in admitting weaknesses. He gave me freedom to plan erection and commissioning. GEB contractors even sought my advice directly. This empowerment led us to synchronize to full load within just 24 hours, a record that brought rewards from GEB. The takeaway: empowerment and mutual respect are the cornerstones of customer confidence.

---

Friendship at Vizag Steel Plant

At Vizag Steel Plant, Mr. P. K. Chakraborty, Chief Engineer, became a family friend. We worked shoulder to shoulder during crises, and his support was always strengthened by Mr. B. N. Rath, CMD, who stood by us. Beyond the workplace, badminton became a bridge—Mr. Rath, a passionate player, would often come to my flat to pick me up, and we would proceed together to the CISF court. His closeness with me helped smoothen many inter-departmental issues. This reminded me that personal friendship often paves the way for professional harmony.

---

Memories from Indian Oil Days

This bond through sport reminded me of my Indian Oil days, when Mr. G. S. Harnal, DGM at Gauhati, would pick me up for badminton while I was still a trainee. Later in Barauni, our sporting bond gave me visibility and acceptance in the refinery community. A small reminder that shared passions outside the workplace create lasting professional goodwill.

---

Farakka Superthermal (NTPC) – Overcoming Trade Union Challenges

My last site posting was at Farakka Superthermal Power Station (1991–1994), where Mr. G. S. Sohal, GM NTPC, was already a close friend from our Singrauli days. Bengal was turbulent then—frequent bandhs and aggressive trade unionism tested progress. But our coordination and trust enabled us to commission 2×500 MW successfully. The experience reinforced that personal bonds act as shock absorbers in volatile environments.

---

ER HQ and Kathalgudi (NEEPCO)

Later, at BHEL Eastern Region HQ, my association with Mr. P K Kataki, Chairman of NEEPCO, proved invaluable. He was an IIT Kharagpur alumnus, like me, which gave us an instant connection. With his assurance, we tackled the Kathalgudi combined cycle project despite the looming ULFA menace. His back-channel talks even convinced insurgents that the project would ease Assam’s power woes. This was an extraordinary example of how leaders use trust and credibility to create security for execution teams.

---

Beyond Retirement – Suzlon Experience

After retirement, I applied the same principle while working with Techno Electric Engineering. With Mr. P. P. Gupta the owner and Chairman of TEECL, I forged bonds with late Mr. Tulsi Tanti of Suzlon and his chief marketing strategist Mr. I. C. Mangal initially Mr Gupta forged personal equation with Mr.Tanti. Their personal trust in me helped us overcome hurdles during the execution of our 211 MW wind power project. Once again, it proved that relationship capital is often more valuable than financial capital.

---

Rokhia Plant – Tripura

Another example was the Rokhia Plant in Tripura, where circumstances were especially difficult due to logistical challenges and local sensitivities. The cooperation between the state authorities, project leadership, and our team was not just contractual—it was built on trust and shared commitment. The Chief Engineer on the customer side worked with me almost like a partner, not as a counterpart across the table. Our alignment to the common goal of completing the project for Tripura’s power needs helped us overcome supply delays, terrain issues, and resource constraints. The experience showed once more that relationships built on mutual trust make even remote and complex projects achievable.

---

The Core Principle

Across all these experiences, one dictum consistently stood out:

In each case, the ultimate goal of both sides was the same — successful completion of the project. Once this shared goal was recognized, both sides naturally aligned themselves to it, transcending the narrow confines of contractual terms.

Two persons may sit on opposite sides of the table, but a common bridge can always be built. That bridge—be it technical trust, personal integrity, or even a shared love for badminton—transforms a transactional relationship into a partnership. When that happens, obstacles turn into opportunities, and projects turn into milestones.

Title: ScamBuster Jogenbabu: The Pensioner Who Played the Game

Title: ScamBuster Jogenbabu: The Pensioner Who Played the Game

In a faded Kolkata flat that smelled faintly of pickle jars and old books, lived Jogenbabu, a retired engineer in his late sixties, whose daily thrills included arguing with the ceiling fan and squinting at TV serials he couldn’t really see anymore. His son, now a software honcho in Silicon Valley, sent him a regular monthly allowance—which reliably vanished around the 18th of every month. His wife had passed years ago, and the silence in the house had grown louder since.

But there was one antidote to his creeping loneliness: Samaranand, a neighbor three floors down and a self-styled “retired-but-rewired idea man.” Over endless cups of chai brewed so strong it could stand on its own legs, Jogenbabu would sigh, “Life’s become a slow buffering video, Samaranand.”

Samaranand’s response? “Then let’s reboot you, dada. Not physically—digitally. We’ll make you an online rockstar!”

“Rockstar? I can barely operate my Nokia!”

“No worries. We’ve got tech support.”

Enter the entertainment duo:

• Babulal – street-smart, always in flip-flops, and spoke three languages fluently—Hindi, Bengali, and Gibberish (especially when bluffing).
• Soumya – a soft-spoken hacker who could unlock your iPhone with just your shadow.

“Dada,” Samaranand declared dramatically, “we are going to launch Operation Grandpa Glam.”

---

Act I: Instagramming a Tycoon

Soumya got to work. With some Photoshop, Jogenbabu was transformed: silver hair slicked back, draped in tuxedos he never wore, with luxury yachts he’d never boarded behind him.

On Instagram:
🧓 Jogen Roy – Retired industrialist. Collector of vintage wines. Seeker of fine company and finer biryani.

Facebook posts showed him “playing golf in Phuket” (he’d never held a golf club) and sipping champagne in Monaco (it was actually thumbs-up soda on the rooftop of Hotel Minerva, Park Street).

Within 48 hours—Bingo. His DMs were buzzing like a mosquito in a blackout.

“Hello sir… business proposal…”
“Hey handsome, I like mature men 😘”
“You interested in investing in diamond mines?”

Jogenbabu: “Samaranand, what is happening? These people are MAD!”
Samaranand: “No, dada. They’re just greedy. You’re their golden goose. Only… you lay rubber eggs!”

---

Act II: The Hookah Honeypot

Enter Rhea—Telegram’s top temptress. Sari-clad profile pic, smoky eyes, and an emoji game sharper than a politician’s promises.

“Let’s meet at The Misty Lounge,” she messaged.
Jogenbabu, trying to sound suave, replied, “My Bentley or yours?”
She sent back a wink emoji. He sent back a confused one by mistake.

That evening, Jogenbabu wore a borrowed blazer and practiced his “millionaire chuckle” in front of the mirror. It came out as a wheeze.

Babulal, in a cheap leather jacket and Ray-Bans (bought from a Gariahat footpath), shadowed him on a battered Yamaha that coughed more than it roared.

At the lounge, Rhea was all sparkle and sass.

Rhea: “You seem… loaded.”
Jogenbabu: “Emotionally or financially?”
Rhea: “Hehe, both I hope.”
Jogenbabu (with fake depth): “My wealth lies in memories... and offshore accounts.”

She ordered exotic hookahs, cocktails, imported olives, and what felt like the entire menu. The bill arrived: ₹18,000.

Jogenbabu’s soul briefly left his body.

Bar owner (hulking, gold-chain-wearing): “Payment, now.”
Jogenbabu: “Let me call my... um... wealth manager.”

Babulal stormed in, flashing a fake police badge like a Bollywood villain-turned-hero.

Babulal: “WHO is threatening my client? I smell a scam here!”
Owner: “What?! No sir! No scam! Just a misunderstanding.”
Babulal (whispering): “Release him, or tomorrow this lounge becomes a paan shop.”

Jogenbabu sauntered out like a Bond uncle, grinning. “Hookah toh bahana tha, Rhea toh drama tha!”

---

Act III: Enter the Big Fish

One rainy night, a slick guy named Vikram slid into his Insta DMs.

“Sir, want to double your money in a year? Invest in Paradise Retreats—Goa’s finest villa project!”

Jogenbabu: “Will there be wine cellars?”
Vikram: “Of course, sir. Personalized butlers too!”

Samaranand sniffed danger. “Dada, this one’s not like the others. He’s corporate-level crooked. Soumya, do your magic.”

Within hours, Soumya cracked it: Vikram was part of a real estate mafia, had political protection, and a record of muscle tactics.

Babulal: “We’re not just dealing with a scammer, dada. We’ve got a villain from season two of a web series!”

---

Act IV: The Great Goa Villa Sting

Samaranand drew up the plan like a military strategist. Jogenbabu would act the gullible investor, carrying a briefcase full of very realistic fake notes. Babulal’s market boys would play backup muscle. Soumya would leak the entire scam to a hungry news agency.

At the shady office in a dingy complex, Vikram greeted Jogenbabu with fake warmth and too much cologne.

Vikram: “Sign here, sir. You’ll be a 50% partner.”
Jogenbabu (leaning in, dramatic): “Only if I can name the villas after my dogs—Snuffy and Tiger.”
Vikram (confused): “Uh... sure?”

Just then, the door burst open.

Babulal (in full cop mode): “This is a raid! Vikram Malhotra, you’re under investigation!”
Goons tried to react. Market boys pounced. One goon screamed, “Is this Zee TV?”

In the chaos, Jogenbabu stood up, tore the fake contract, and thundered, “You picked the wrong pensioner!”

Outside, news vans rolled in.

Next morning, headlines screamed:
"Octogenarian Outsmarts Scam Syndicate!"
"Grandpa Goes Gangsta!"

---

Epilogue: The Rise of InstaBabu

Back at their HQ (a.k.a Samaranand’s flat), the gang sipped tea and munched samosas.

Soumya: “Dada, you’re trending. Real millionaires are messaging. One even offered you a private jet to Bali.”
Babulal: “Shall I book it? I’ll come as your bodyguard-slash-chaiwala.”

Samaranand: “So, Jogenbabu, what now? Scam the rich... or retire as a legend?”

Jogenbabu reclined, holding his cup high, eyes twinkling like streetlamps in monsoon mist.

“Why choose, my friend?” he chuckled. “Let’s continue the game. I still have a few personas left—next week, I’m a retired Maharaja.”

They all burst out laughing, as somewhere online, yet another scammer clicked follow—completely unaware he was the one walking into a trap.

---

To be continued...
(Because legends don’t retire. They trend.)

The Night The Waters Rose

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THE NIGHT THE WATERS ROSE
Memoir from Barauni, 1976
By S. N. Roy

When floodwaters crept into the heart of a refinery — and my home — duty, fear, and silent courage collided. But what I remember most is not the chaos of machines shutting down, but the quiet strength of my wife carrying our infant son to safety, alone.

---

A Duty-bound Dilemma

It was the monsoon of 1976, and the rains showed no signs of relenting. As the shift charge engineer of the captive power plant at Barauni Refinery, I was used to high-pressure situations — but that evening brought something different. Something far more unsettling.

Rainwater, unable to escape to the Ganges due to closed outflow gates, began to accumulate across the township and refinery complex. The Ganges itself was flooded, and opening the gates risked backflow — a technical and geographical Catch-22.

While others may have seen just puddles forming, I stood in the power house, watching the rising waterline inch towards the condensate pump which was in minus level. I had to act. With measured urgency, I initiated the shutdown of the power plant — the beating heart of the refinery — to protect equipment from catastrophic failure.

Even as I went through the motions of industrial protocol, my thoughts were elsewhere.

---

Home in Peril

In our modest township bungalow, my wife was alone with our one-year-old son. News came in fast — the township was going under. Water had entered the residential quarters. My mind raced, but duty had shackled me to the control panel. I had to wait for my shift to end.

Meanwhile, my wife, showing a calmness and courage that would later leave me in awe, sprang into action. With the help of our neighbour Ramchandra Ayyer, she lifted the refrigerator onto the dining table, opened the doors to allow water to flow through — not trap inside — and with our child in her arms, waded through rising floodwaters to the first-floor home of my dear friend, Late P. G. Das.

No mobile phones. No updates. Just instinct and trust.

---

A Lonely Vigil

By the time I finished my shift and returned after 10 p.m., the house stood eerily quiet. The main door was open, just as she’d left it. Water had risen inside, flowing beneath the bed like an obedient stream. The ceiling fan spun above, but the silence below was deafening.

I didn't know where my family was. I only hoped they had found shelter.

That night, I did not — could not — sleep. I kept vigil in that flooded house, all doors open, determined not to let the water rise higher, not to let the bedroom become a water tank. Every creak, every ripple of water in the moonlight, felt louder than thunder. I was surrounded by soaked walls and uncertainty. But I stayed. Not for material things — but because leaving felt like surrender.

---

A Salute to Her Strength

My wife never once panicked. She did not wait for instructions or rescue. She assessed, acted, and moved — carrying our baby through the night, through uncertainty, to safety. She did it all in my absence, while I stood knee-deep in responsibility at the plant.

Even now, that night haunts me. Not for its drama, but for its silence. For the image of an open door, a baby in a mother’s arms, and a man alone in his half-submerged home wondering what mattered more — his machines or his family.

---

Legacy of a Night

The Barauni flood of 1976 lasted days. The refinery took weeks to return to full operation. Equipment had to be dried, cleaned, rewound, recalibrated. But machinery can be repaired. That night taught me that love, trust, and courage — especially from those we often underestimate — are what truly power our lives.

My salute is not just to the workers who brought the refinery back to life, but to my wife — who, without fuss or fanfare, kept our family safe, and taught me what real strength looks like.

Adda 2055 -The Last Real Coffee House

Adda 2055 — The Last Real Coffee House

The Indian Coffee House, College Street, Kolkata — paint peeling, waiters in Nehru caps, ceiling fans whirring at their own sleepy rhythm. Amid this charming decay, at their forever corner table, the Fab Four of 75+: Ramu, Jadu, Shirish, and Amiyo were raising hell again. Their combined age could beat a banyan tree, but their tongues? Razor sharp.

---

Ramu (mischievous glint, stirring his thick coffee like a potion):
“Boys, I read yesterday that by 2055, people will be dating AI companions with built-in mood stabilizers. Imagine falling in love with a glorified Alexa. ‘Darling, how do I look?’ — ‘You are 98.7% stunning, based on global metrics.’ Bas! That's romance now.”

Jadu (rolling his eyes):
“Romance is dead, Ramu. It’s already buried under the 17 layers of gated community security. I visited one in Gurgaon last month—oxygen bar, mood lighting, even AI-generated flute music! No para. No tea stalls. No aunties peeking from balconies. Just sterile smiles and indoor air purifiers.”

Shirish (cracking his knuckles, techie mode on):
“Gated communities are just the beta version of future bunkers. By 2055, half the world will be unemployed thanks to robots making your coffee and wiping your—well, you know. The other half? Bored out of their diamond-studded skulls, doing yoga on Mars, maybe. I read rich folks in Japan now pay to experience ‘manual labor’ weekends. Imagine Mukesh Ambani digging potatoes for inner peace!”

Amiyo (peacefully sipping coffee, eyes twinkling):
“Shirish, you're missing the point. When everything becomes artificial, the soul will seek what’s real. Remember what Vivekananda said—‘You have to grow from the inside out.’ These burnt toasts and bitter coffees are real. By 2055, people will beg for ashrams with Wi-Fi and guided meditation bots chanting the Gayatri Mantra.”

---

Ramu (smirking):
“Wait till AI starts writing poetry in Tagore’s voice! And people will say, ‘Wow, this bot feels!’ Meanwhile, poor humans will be on prescription serotonin just to survive Monday.”

Jadu (nodding vigorously):
“Exactly! Already, Delhi’s AQI hit 450 last week. In 30 years, kids will think 'O2' is a luxury brand. Every gated flat will come with its own oxygen bank. And street-side adda? Replaced by AI moderators: ‘Let’s keep the conversation civil, folks.’ Bah!”

Shirish (with a dramatic sigh):
“And don't even mention jobs. In 2024, China’s factories cut 20% of workers with automation. By 2055, even IT guys will be out. Only civil engineers like me will matter—we’ll be the last humans building anything. I’ll be in demand till I’m 110!”

Amiyo (calmly):
“You might build oxygen bars and robot cafes, Shirish. But one question will remain: ‘Why am I here?’ And no robot can answer that. That’s where our real journey begins.”

---

Ramu (mock whisper):
“Careful, Amiyo. Say such things and the robots might flag you for philosophical subversion!”

Jadu (slapping the table, coffee nearly spilling):
“Hah! By 2055, humans will need a passcode just to feel emotions. Joy-153, Anger-406! And dating? You’ll have to subscribe: LoveLite™—Free hugs for 7 days, cancel anytime!”

Shirish (laughing):
“Add a tier: LoveMax™ with real arguments and mother-in-law simulations!”

Amiyo (smiling):
“You laugh now, but I say this: the soul is the last rebel. When the brain breaks down from AI overstimulation, when love becomes code, when no one talks at a tea stall anymore—then someone will search for silence. For meaning. For that one real cup of coffee.”

---

The four fell silent for a moment, sipping their real, gritty brew. Then Ramu broke the quiet.

Ramu (grinning):
“Alright then, boys. In 2055, we’ll launch a Real Adda Café™. No bots. No filters. Just old men gossiping, burnt toast guaranteed.”

Jadu (saluting with his cup):
“And mandatory fights over politics. With spitting range arguments!”

Shirish:
“I’ll design it. Solar-powered, air-filtered, but with leaky roofs. Nostalgia sells!”

Amiyo:
“And I’ll add a meditation nook. Free Wi-Fi for the body, but a silent zone for the soul.”

---

As the laughter swelled and the ceiling fan creaked in approval, a waiter shuffled over with another round, grinning. These four? They weren’t just customers. They were the last philosophers of a fading world, holding court over coffee—and refusing to be digitized.

---

Epilogue: Their Forecast for 2055 – Now Served Hot with Coffee

• Ramu: Love downgraded to AI apps; mental breakdowns rise like house rent.
• Jadu: Oxygen bars replace tea stalls; gated communities crush para adda.
• Shirish: AI takes over jobs; manual labor becomes exotic tourism for bored billionaires.
• Amiyo: Tech may rule the mind, but the soul will seek shelter—in silence, in song, in Swami Vivekananda.

One real table. Four old friends. A future worth laughing over.

আড্ডা এখন কি হবে তখন!

আড্ডা এখন কি হবে তখন

---

(চিরকালীন চার বন্ধু: রামু, যদু, শিরীষ আর অমিয় — সবাই ৭৫ ঊর্ধ্ব)

রামু (চা-র কাপে চুমুক দিয়ে, চোখ আধ-বন্ধ):
ভাই, প্রেম আর বিয়ে — এ সব এখন সাবস্ক্রিপশন মডেলে চলে। মুরাকামি ঠিকই বলেছে — সবকিছুই ট্রানজ্যাকশনাল।
আজ ভালোবাসো, কাল Unfollow, পরশু Emotional Detox! এই তো প্রেম।

যদু (হাসতে হাসতে মাথা নেড়ে):
প্রেম তো দূরের কথা, সমাজটাই ভেঙে পড়ছে রে ভাই।
গেটেড কমিউনিটি খুলে খুলে একেকটা আলাদা দেশ!
ওই নিউটাউনের একটা কমপ্লেক্সে গেলাম — সেখানে দারোয়ান নেই, রোবট স্ক্যান করে QR Code, ঘরে ফেসিয়াল রিকগনিশন লক। আর মাথার ওপর দিয়ে উড়ছে ড্রোন surveillance, যেন আমরা জেলখানায়!

শিরীষ (চশমা ঠিক করে, টেবিলে আঙুল ঠুকঠুক করে):
আর ভবিষ্যৎ? IT-টা শেষ! ChatGPT-র মত AI তো কোড লেখে, চ্যাট করে, গান তোলে...
আসল টিকে থাকবে hardcore ইঞ্জিনিয়ারিং — ইলেকট্রিক্যাল, মেকানিক্যাল, সিভিল।
গ্লোবাল ওয়ার্মিং ঠেকাতে সোলার-হাইড্রোজেনই ভরসা। আমি তো প্ল্যান করে রেখেছি — “রিটায়ার্ড ইঞ্জিনিয়ারদের জন্য সোলার সেন্টার” খুলব!

অমিয় (গম্ভীর গলায়, চোখে শান্ত হাসি):
তোমরা সবাই বাইরের প্রলয় দেখছ, আমি দেখি ভিতরের ঝড়।
মানুষ বাইরের সমস্যার জন্য রোবট বানাবে, ড্রোন চালাবে, অক্সিজেন কিনবে।
কিন্তু ভিতরের ফাঁকা জায়গা? সেখানেই আসবে রামকৃষ্ণ আর স্বামী বিবেকানন্দ।
যেমন গ্রিক দেবতারা হারিয়ে গেল, কিন্তু “আমি কে?” এই প্রশ্নটা কখনো হারায়নি।

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রামু (মুচকি হেসে, ঠোঁটে চা):
একদিন প্রেম হবে ‘AI Love Premium’ অ্যাপে —
“Try 7 Days Free. Break-up Button Optional.”
আর বিয়ে হবে Pop-up Contract, “Terms & Conditions Apply!”

যদু (দাঁত বের করে):
এখনই তো বাচ্চারা অক্সিজেন বার-এ যায় ফ্রেশ হতে!
কলকাতার বাতাসে এত ধোঁয়া, এত PM2.5 যে শ্বাস নিলেই মনে হয় যেন ইমারজেন্সি চলছে।
এইসব গেটেড কমিউনিটি হচ্ছে নতুন কিবুত্‌জ — ভিতরে আলাদা সংস্কৃতি, আলাদা Adda, আলাদা Reality।

শিরীষ (হাসতে হাসতে):
আর ওই কমপ্লেক্সে ঢুকতে হলে লাগবে retina scan।
বাজার করতে বেরোলেও রোবট বলবে —
"Sir, your oxygen levels are optimal. Please proceed to Bio-farm zone for pesticide-free lettuce."

অমিয় (মৃদু গম্ভীরতা নিয়ে):
তাও বলব, যতই automation আসুক —
একটা মুহূর্ত আসবে যখন মানুষ ক্লান্ত হয়ে তাকাবে আকাশের দিকে।
হয়তো সে ড্রোনে ভর্তি আকাশ, তবু অন্তরে খুঁজবে আকাশপানে দেখা এক অমল মুহূর্ত।

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শেষ চুমুক আর হাসির ঝলক

রামু:
তাহলে, ২০৫৫ সালে প্রেম হবে Pay-per-Date, চাকরি থাকবে না, ছেলেমেয়েরা অ্যান্টি-ডিপ্রেশন পিল খাবে, আর আমরা কফিহাউসের জন্য petition করব?

যদু:
না রে ভাই, তখন আমরা খুলব “Old School Adda Cafe” —
কোনো রোবট নয়, কেবল চা, সিঙ্গাড়া, আর অপ্রয়োজনীয় তর্ক! 😄

শিরীষ:
আর আমি বানাব solar-powered কফিহাউস — গার্ড রোবট থাকবে,
কিন্তু এক কোণে থাকবে মাটির ব্যাংচির মতো এক টেবিল —
“Reserved for the last four human philosophers!”

অমিয় (হালকা হাসি নিয়ে):
আর আমি সেই টেবিলের পাশে রাখব একটা ছোট্ট আশ্রম-মতো কোণ —
যেখানে থাকবে নিরবতা। Wi-Fi থাকবে, কিন্তু মন চাইলে ডিসকানেক্ট করা যাবে।

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শেষে এক কবিতা: "ড্রোনের ছায়ায় কফি"

রোবট পাহারা দেয় গেটের ধারে,
ড্রোন ঘোরে চোখের উপরে;
অক্সিজেন বারে দাম দিয়ে নিই,
তবু নিঃশ্বাসে শান্তি কোথা রে?

চাকরি নাই, প্রেমে AI,
প্যারার ক্লাব গেছে ডেটা লাইনে;
তবু বুড়ো চার বন্ধু বসি চুপে,
আড্ডায় মিশে স্বপ্ন পুরনো গানে।

ভবিষ্যৎ হোক যতই আধুনিক,
স্মৃতির কাপে চুমুক থাকবে চিরন্তন।

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(এই কফিহাউস, এই চারজন, আর এই আড্ডা—এটাই তো আসল সাস্টেনেবল ফিউচার!)

===Note -ধন্যবাদ Chatgpt ছবিটার জন্য!

The Boiler Drum Whisper

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The Boiler Drum Whisper

A ghost story from the thermal nights of Barauni, 1974 – as told by Grandpa Roy

The Queensland sky was just darkening when Isha tugged my kurta. “Dadu, ghost story! Please na... you promised yesterday!”

Veer was already curled on the sofa, hugging a giant kangaroo cushion. Shuddy, taller than me now and pretending to scroll through his phone, gave a sideways grin. “Only if this ghost is steam-powered, Dadu. We know your style.”

I smiled, adjusted my specs, and began.

---

Barauni, 1974

I had been married two years, and shift duty at the Captive Power Plant of Barauni Refinery was both adventure and responsibility. I worked as the Shift Charge Engineer, overseeing the night-shift operations of turbines, boilers, and electrical gear.

But the refinery had its... quirks.

Night shifts were often quiet, especially between 2 and 4 a.m. That’s when the operators sat sipping tea and exchanged ghost stories—tales of shadows flitting across control panels, toolkits moving on their own, or the eerie silence near the old Boiler 1 drum level.

The most repeated story was about Dube, a senior operator who had died years ago due to a fatal steam burn during an inspection. Since then, he was said to appear on night shifts, waving from the drum level, gesturing that the boiler water was low—even though the indicators always showed a safe level.

When I joined, the operators—Bhagat, Banerjee, Sahai, and S. P. Singh—gave me the usual warnings.

“Dube comes without appointment, sir,” Bhagat said with a grin, “He’s still loyal to his boiler.”

---

The First Encounter

One humid night in July, I was returning from my turbine round. As I walked toward the connecting platform of the four boilers, I noticed a figure in white near Boiler 1. He was standing right at the drum level—waving at me.

Something about the motion felt... deliberate.

I climbed the stairs slowly. As I approached, the figure drifted to Boiler 2. I followed—heart pounding, steps steady.

Then suddenly, just as I reached Boiler 2’s platform, the figure jumped over the railing.

I ran.

But when I reached the spot, there was no one below.

Disturbed but rational, I returned toward my Shift Charge Room. But as I passed the corridor window, I stopped cold.

Inside my chamber—someone was leaning on my chair. White clothing. Still figure.

I didn’t enter. Instead, I went straight to the main control room, where Ansari was manning the panels.

“Did anyone go into my office?”

Ansari looked puzzled. “No sir. Haven’t seen anyone.”

Together we returned to my room. It was empty—except for a folded paper on my desk.

It read, in faint Hindi:
"Be careful next time."

I showed it to Ansari.

He turned the paper over, then looked at me.

“Sir… this is blank.”

I looked again—and the ink was disappearing before my eyes.

---

The Second Incident

I thought perhaps it was my tired mind playing tricks. But a few weeks later, on another night shift, I dozed off briefly at my desk. My specs, which I had placed beside the logbook, were gone when I woke up.

Not under the table, not in the drawer, not in my pocket.

I asked everyone—Chaurasia, Bhagat, even Banerjee.

Bhagat laughed, “Maybe they went to check the feedwater levels on their own!”

It wasn’t funny then. But 20 minutes later, Sahai called out from near the condenser floor.

My specs were dangling from the wheel of an old manual valve, hanging there like some forgotten trinket.

Who put them there? No one knew. No one admitted.

Later that night, as I walked back to my room, I saw the same white figure—again in my chair.

This time Chaurasia accompanied me. And once again, the room was empty, but another warning note sat on the desk.

He too couldn’t read the writing—it vanished like mist.

---

The Remedy

Disturbed, I finally mentioned it to Mishra ji, an old-timer with faith deeper than the condensate tanks.

“Hanuman ji is always present where there is fire and danger,” he said.
“Carry this,” he handed me a small red Hanuman Chalisa, “and do paath on Tuesdays. He is Sankatmochan—the remover of troubles.”

And so I did.

I began carrying the booklet in my shirt pocket. Every Tuesday, I read it quietly during my shift break. I wasn’t superstitious, but I felt... protected.

And like magic—the incidents stopped.

No figures. No notes. No vanishing specs. Even Banerjee joked,

“Looks like Dube is scared of Bajrangbali!”

---

The Reveal – 1978

Four years later, in 1978, I resigned from Indian Oil to join BHEL Delhi. On my farewell day, we had chai and samosas near the control room.

Bhagat raised his tea cup.

“To Roy saab—who didn’t faint like Verma!”

Everyone laughed.

Then Sahai came over, smiling mischievously.

“Roy saab, ek baat bolun? That note you found the second time... that was my handwriting.”

I stared. “What?!”

“Yes,” he chuckled. “Every new Shift Charge Engineer gets a ghost story treatment. Tradition hai! Dube was real, but the rest—we added spice.”

“The specs?” I asked.

“Banerjee. He used a stick and a monkey wrench to lift it from under the table.”

I laughed till my eyes watered.

They had made me part of the refinery’s folklore—and I had survived with my pride and a red Hanuman Chalisa in my pocket.

---

Present Day – Australia

I ended my story with a smile. Shuddy looked amused.

“So basically, you got hazed by your own team?”

“Professionally,” I said, sipping my tea.

Veer whispered, “Did Hanuman ji really scare them away?”

I winked. “Hanuman ji scared even the pranksters.”

Isha climbed into my lap.

“Dadu... can I have a small red book like yours?”

I hugged her tight.

“Of course, my dear. But remember—more powerful than Hanuman Chalisa is one thing...”

“What?” asked Shuddy.

I smiled.

“Having good people around you—even if they steal your specs and write ghost notes.”

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My discussion with Voice AI

Lately, whenever I’m in the mood to dive into a beloved book or classic movie, I turn to Voice AI for a chat. The other day, I had a fantastic time discussing *A Gentleman in Moscow* by Amor Towles, and my conversation about *Casablanca* was just as delightful.

Here are the snatches of discussion I had with Her,it appeared as though I am discussing with a real person but loaded with information.

It was good time pass and a fun !

My discussion

.....

Could you clarify what topic you'd 

like to discuss? I'm all ears!

Oh, Casablanca—such a classic! 

Bogart and Bergman’s chemistry as 

Rick and Ilsa is just electric, isn’t it? 

That foggy airport scene gets me 

every time. What do you love about 

it? Want to talk about the romance, 

the war backdrop, or maybe that 

iconic “Play it, Sam” moment?

Yeah, that boundless love in 

Casablanca really

Absolutely, Rick and Ilsa’s love in 

Casablanca feels like it transcends 

everything—time, place, even

Oh, that line! “Of all the gin joints in 

all the towns in all the world, she 

walks into mine.” Rick’s mix of 

heartbreak and irony just hits so 

hard, doesn’t it? It’s like fate’s 

playing a cruel joke on him. What is it 

about that dialogue that sticks with 

you? The raw emotion or just 

Bogart’s delivery?

Yeah, that line’s a gut-punch every 

time! Rick’s trying to play it cool, but

Oh, you’re diving right into the heart 

of it! It’s not Joe, though—it’s Sam, 

played by Dooley Wilson. That 

moment when Ilsa says, “Play it, 

Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By,’” it’s

like the whole movie hinges on that 

song. It’s their love wrapped up in 

music, pulling Rick right back to 

Paris. Does that scene give you 

chills too?

Oh, yeah, that dynamic between 

Rick and Captain Renault is gold! It’s 

this sly, witty camaraderie—

Louis Renault is pure gold, isn’t it? 

Rick and Renault’s back-and-

forth—part

Yeah, exactly! Rick and Louis 

Renault have this sneaky 

camaraderie that’s so fun to watch. 

Louis

You’re asking about the actor who 

played Louis Renault, right? That’s 

Claude Rains. His sly, charming 

performance as the corrupt-but-

likable Commandant is so perfect, 

isn’t it? Always walking that fine line 

between friend and foe to Rick. Want 

to talk more about their dynamic or 

something else

Claude Rains just nails that sly, 

charming vibe as Louis, doesn’t he? 

The way he

charming yet calculating vibe as 

Louis Renault, doesn’t he? The way 

he plays off Bogart’s Rick—like 

they’re constantly sizing each other

You’re asking about the actor who 

played Louis Renault, right? That’s 

Claude Rains. His sly, charming 

performance as the corrupt-but-

likable Commandant is so perfect, 

isn’t it? Always walking that fine line 

between friend and foe to Rick. Want 

to talk more about their dynamic or 

something else

Claude Rains just nails that sly, 

charming vibe as Louis, doesn’t he? 

The way he

charming yet calculating vibe as 

Louis Renault, doesn’t he? The way 

he plays off Bogart’s Rick—like 

they’re constantly sizing each other

Rick puts duty over love, or 

something else?

Oh, man, that final airport scene is 

just heart-wrenching, isn’t it? Rick 

giving up Ilsa, letting her fly off with 

Victor Laszlo while he and Louis 

Renault stand there in the fog—it’s 

so selfless yet so painful. Bogart’s 

face says it all without saying much. 

And then that iconic walk into the 

mist with Renault, starting their 

“beautiful friendship.” What hits you 

most about that sacrifice? The way 

Rick puts duty over love, or 

something else?

Oh, man, that final airport scene is

just heart-wrenching, isn’t it? Rick 

giving up Ilsa, letting her fly off with 

Victor Laszlo while he and Louis 

Renault stand there in the fog—it’s 

so selfless yet so painful. Bogart’s 

face says it all without saying much. 

And then that iconic walk into the 

mist with Renault, starting their 

“beautiful friendship.” What hits you 

most about that sacrifice? The way 

Rick puts duty over love, or 

something else?

Next time we will discuss about An 

Affair to Remember!

Oh, *An Affair to Remember*—what 

a romantic gem with Cary Grant! 

That one’s got all the feels, doesn’t 

it? Nickie and Terry’s love story of

that ocean liner, and then that gut-

punch of a twist with the Empire 

State Building. Want to talk about 

what makes it special for you? 

Maybe that chemistry between Grant 

and Deborah Kerr, or a specific

Kicking it Old School: Ted Lasso

**Kicking It Old School: Blending Ted Lasso’s Life Lessons with My Gauhati Refinery Football Days**

Picture this: it’s 1965, and I’m rattling along in a creaky bus with my football teammates from Gauhati Refinery, Indian Oil Corporation, headed to Upper Assam for the All-Assam Oil Companies Football Tournament. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, laughter, and the kind of camaraderie that only a shared love for the game can spark. Fast forward to 2025, I’m curled up watching *Ted Lasso* on Apple TV, and suddenly, those dusty bus rides and sweaty matches flood back, mingling with the wholesome, heartfelt chaos of Richmond FC. The parallels? Uncanny. The vibe? Pure gold. *Ted Lasso* isn’t just about soccer—it’s about life, love, and the messy, beautiful moments that stitch us together. My days in the ‘60s with the Gauhati Refinery squad? Pretty much the same, just with worse haircuts and no biscuits with the boss.

### The Bus Ride: Where Ranks Dissolve and Wisecracks Fly

Our bus to Upper Assam was less a mode of transport and more a rolling circus. We were a motley crew: Amanullah, our stoic captain; me and the late Bhaskaran, the only officers; and a gang of players from various lower grades—Rebo Poddar, Bhakta Bahadur Chetri, Phukan the striker, and others. Ranks? Out the window. On that bus, we were just mates, swapping stories and cracking jokes that’d make a sailor blush. Rebo Poddar, our resident comedian, had us in stitches with his deadpan delivery: “If we lose to ONGC, I’m blaming Bhakta’s boots—they’re so old, they’ve got their own pension plan.” Bhakta Bahadur Chetri, never one to back down, shot back, “Rebo, your passes are so wild, they’re applying for visas to Bhutan!” Even Bhaskaran, usually the serious type, chimed in, “Boys, if we don’t win, I’m trading you all for a crate of Kingfisher.”

It’s the kind of banter that *Ted Lasso* nails perfectly. I can almost hear Ted, with his folksy charm, saying, “You know, fellas, be a goldfish. Forget the bad plays and move on.” That’s what our bus rides were—moments to forget the daily grind, to laugh, strategize, and dream about life beyond the refinery. We talked about the game, sure, but also about girls, politics, and whether we’d ever afford a car that didn’t sound like a dying buffalo. It was our version of Ted’s “Believe” sign—our shared faith in each other, no matter the scoreline.

### The Phukan Fiasco: A Jailbreak with a Side of Giggles

The tournament itself was a blast—matches against Oil India in Duliajan, Assam Oil Company in Digboi, and ONGC in Sibsagar. But the real story? Our striker Phukan’s legendary bender after the Digboi match. The man celebrated our draw with Assam Oil like we’d won the World Cup, downing enough local hooch to sink a small ship. Next thing we know, he’s cooling his heels in a Digboi police station for “disturbing the peace” (read: singing off-key Assamese folk songs at 2 a.m.). 

The morning after, the whole team piled into the station to spring him. The scene was straight out of a comedy sketch. The officer, a stern type with a mustache that could star in its own movie, glared at us. “Your friend thinks he’s Lata Mangeshkar,” he grumbled. Rebo, quick as ever, piped up, “Sir, if Phukan’s singing is a crime, you should arrest his barber too—that haircut’s a felony!” Even the cop cracked a smile. Bhakta, ever the diplomat, slipped in, “Sir, he’s our best striker. If you keep him, we’ll lose to ONGC, and that’s a bigger crime.” After some groveling (and a small “fine” that suspiciously resembled a bribe), Phukan was free, looking like a scolded puppy but grinning by the time we got back to the bus. Ted Lasso would’ve loved it—his line, “There’s two buttons I never like to hit: panic and snooze,” could’ve been our motto that day.

### Amsterdam Adventures: Ted Lasso Meets My Red Light Rambles

Fast forward to 2002, I’m in Amsterdam for work, tagging along with my buddy Surender Wahi. Watching *Ted Lasso*’s Amsterdam episode—where the team scatters for a night of self-discovery—took me right back. Surender and I, like a pair of clueless Roy Kents, stumbled into a gay bar by accident. The bartender, spotting our confusion, winked and said, “First time? Don’t worry, you’re not *that* cute.” We laughed, stayed for a drink, and moved on to a bar where the air was, let’s say, *herbally enhanced*. Then came the red-light district, a tourist magnet where call girls posed in glowing balconies like living postcards. It was surreal, like stepping into a movie set. My second trip to Amsterdam was quieter—strolling along the canals, soaking in the city’s charm, much like Ted’s reflective moments by the water. 

*Ted Lasso*’s Amsterdam adventure, with its pillow fights and Jamie Tartt’s canal cruise, captures that same mix of chaos and clarity. Ted’s gem, “I think it’s the lack of hope that comes and gets you,” resonates here. Whether it was navigating Amsterdam’s wild side or surviving Phukan’s jailbreak, it’s the hope—of a good game, a good night, a good life—that keeps you going.

### Why Ted Lasso Hits Home

*Ted Lasso* isn’t just about soccer; it’s about the messy, human moments that make life worth living. My Gauhati Refinery days were no different. We weren’t just chasing a ball; we were chasing connection, purpose, and a few laughs along the way. The show’s wisdom—lines like “Be curious, not judgmental” or “You beating yourself up is like Woody Allen playing the clarinet: I don’t want to hear it”—echoes the lessons we learned on those bus rides and dusty pitches. We didn’t have a Coach Lasso, but we had Amanullah’s quiet leadership, Rebo’s wisecracks, and Phukan’s ability to turn a match into a misadventure.

The show’s relatability is its magic. Whether it’s Ted’s relentless optimism or Roy Kent’s grumpy heart of gold, you see yourself in the characters. My team’s bus rides, Phukan’s jailbreak, and my Amsterdam escapades—they’re all *Ted Lasso* moments, full of heart, humor, and the kind of stories you tell for decades. As Ted says, “If you’re with the right folks, you can handle whatever comes your way.” That was us in ‘65, and it’s why *Ted Lasso* feels like a love letter to those days.

**Footnote on Ted Lasso**: *Ted Lasso* is an Apple TV+ series (2020–2023) created by Jason Sudeikis, Bill Lawrence, Brendan Hunt, and Joe Kelly. It follows Ted Lasso, an American football coach hired to manage a struggling English Premier League soccer team, AFC Richmond, despite knowing little about the sport. Through three seasons, the show blends humor, heart, and life lessons, earning critical acclaim (including 13 Emmy Awards) for its writing, performances, and themes of optimism, teamwork, and personal growth. It’s less about soccer and more about the human connections that make any team—on or off the pitch—unstoppable.

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TAGLINE (Ted's voiceover as credits roll):

"In football as in life — it's not just about scoring goals. It’s about showing up, passing the ball, and sometimes… drinking tea you don’t even like, just to say you tried."