Connaught Place—where memory pays rent, and nostalgia never vacates.

There are cities, and then there are emotions disguised as cities. And for me, Connaught Place—or simply CP—is not a marketplace; it is a yearly pilgrimage. Like some people must visit Vaishno Devi to feel spiritually aligned, I must circle CP at least once a year to reassure myself that time, though mischievous, has not entirely defeated memory.

I come from Kolkata to Delhi three to four times a year, but one visit to CP is non-negotiable. It is my personal audit—of life, of ageing, and of inflation.

As a schoolboy, CP was intimidating. The shops looked at me the way a five-star hotel looks at a man carrying a jhola—politely, but with boundaries. My engagement with CP was limited to the cinema halls—Odeon Cinema, Plaza Cinema, Rivoli Cinema and Regal Cinema. Those were temples of a different kind—air-conditioned dreams where heroes solved problems I hadn’t yet encountered.

Eating? That was an elite sport. My budget permitted only respectful glances at restaurants, except for occasional visits to Standard Coffee House—where I would stretch one cappuccino and a biscuit into a full philosophical session. The jukebox there was my Spotify of the 60s. One coin, one song, and for three minutes, I was king of CP.

Later, as an IIT-going young man—slightly richer in pocket, much richer in confidence—I upgraded my culinary geography. Mohan Singh Place became my adda. Affordable food, unlimited discussions, and the illusion that we were shaping the nation between two cups of chai.

Time, however, is a ruthless redevelopment authority.

Yesterday, during my annual pilgrimage with Madhuri, I felt a pinch of that quiet sadness. My trusted winter companion, Snowhite, is closing down. For years, it had wrapped me in woollens and nostalgia. Shops don’t just sell goods—they store fragments of our lives. When they shut down, a part of us is evicted without notice.

And then there was Gaylord—long gone, replaced by Pind Balluchi. I have nothing against butter chicken nationalism, but memories don’t change tenants so easily.

The ritual, however, continues unchanged—especially the pre-lunch marital debate.

Choosing a restaurant with one’s wife is a structured process:

1. Reject 10 options.

2. Disagree on the 11th.

3. Blame each other for hunger.

4. Finally settle somewhere neither had originally proposed.

This time, I brought in modern technology—consulted ChatGPT. Madhuri looked at me as if I had outsourced my marital responsibilities.

“अब ये भी बताएगा क्या खाना है?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said with confidence I did not possess.

Thus we landed at 38 Barracks, after a determined march from E Block to M Block—CP ensuring that one earns one’s भोजन.

The place had a colonial army theme—portraits, memorabilia, and a quiet reminder that once upon a time, even leisure had discipline. We arrived early (a rare achievement), and though most tables wore “Reserved” signs like VIP badges, we managed to secure one—proof that in India, timing is everything, including lunch.

The menu arrived like a UPSC syllabus. I handed it to Madhuri with the generosity of a statesman.

“You decide,” I said.

She scanned it, turned a few pages, sighed, and surrendered.

“तुम ही कर लो।”

Victory.

Little did she know, the decision had already been taken the previous day while writing about butter and its philosophical implications. Butter Chicken with butter naan—it was destined.

The gravy arrived rich, unapologetic, shimmering with butter as if cholesterol had declared independence. The chicken, admittedly, was slightly lacking in enthusiasm, but the gravy more than compensated—like a good politician covering up for a weak candidate.

A bowl of mixed vegetable salad sat quietly, like the conscience of the meal—present, but ignored.

In the background, a young man with a guitar sang old Hindi songs softly. On my way to the washroom, I could not resist offering unsolicited advice—a habit acquired over decades of management.

“मन लगाकर अच्छा गाना गाओ,” I told him.

He nodded politely—the universal signal for “I will forget this immediately.”

We stepped out satisfied—stomach full, nostalgia slightly stirred, and wallet respectfully lighter.

The final ritual remained—a visit to the footpath bookstall. There, among uneven piles and literary democracy, I found a book by Haruki Murakami. CP never lets me return empty-handed; it insists on sending me back with a story.

As I walked past M Block, I noticed that The TGF (Thank God It's Friday) is preparing to occupy space there. Another new chapter, another old memory waiting to be overwritten.

Such is CP.

Every year, something disappears. Every year, something arrives. And every year, I walk its circles—half as a visitor, half as a witness.

Because Connaught Place is not just a place.

It is a reminder that while cities evolve, we continue to search for our younger selves—somewhere between a cup of cappuccino, a butter-laden gravy, and a song playing faintly in the background.

From Krishna’s Makhan to Boardroom Buttering—A Journey in Taste and Tact

That evening at the DDA Sports Complex in Paschim Vihar had the softness of winter slipping into Delhi. The light was fading gently, like butter melting on a warm surface—unhurried, indulgent. Perhaps it was no coincidence that my mind, already steeped in the world of Butter by Asako Yuzuki, was seeing everything through that lens.

I met him near the walking track—a compact man with a quiet authority, the kind that comes not from words but from years of stirring pots and watching flames. He introduced himself simply as Chawla. A chef. A veteran, as I would soon discover.

Our conversation began, as most meaningful ones do, without design. I mentioned, almost apologetically, that I had been “thinking a lot about butter these days.” He smiled, the knowing smile of a man who has seen obsessions rise and fall like dough.

“Butter,” he said, “is not just food. It is history, mythology, indulgence—and sometimes, sin.”

That intrigued me.

He began not with recipes, but with scriptures. How butter—makhan—was churned from curd in ancient households, the rhythmic motion of the wooden churner echoing like a prayer. He spoke of Krishna, the divine thief, stealing butter from earthen pots, not out of hunger but out of love for its richness. “Why do you think God chose butter?” he asked. “Because it is the essence—the best part extracted with patience.”

I could almost see those pots hanging from the rafters, the child-god reaching out, laughter in his eyes. Butter, in that moment, was no longer an ingredient. It was intimacy.

I told him how, these days, even a simple act—spreading a thick slab of butter over crisp toast—felt like a quiet ceremony. The knife sinking in, the butter resisting for a moment, then yielding… and that first bite, where warmth meets richness. I described it to him as a sensation of going down in a lift—smooth, enveloping, slightly disorienting.

He laughed. “You are already halfway to becoming a chef. You are describing food, not eating it.”

Encouraged, I confessed my childhood indulgence—stealing spoonfuls of butter from the fridge when no one was looking. He nodded, as if this too was part of some universal rite of passage.

Then, like a maestro shifting from philosophy to performance, he began to speak of cooking.

“Take butter chicken,” he said. “People think it is just gravy. No. First, the chicken must earn the butter.” He described the process—marinating, roasting in the tandoor until it carried the memory of fire, then cutting it into pieces. “And then,” he paused, “a generous chunk of white butter… not oil, not ghee… butter.” He cupped his hands as if holding something sacred. “Let it melt slowly, let it sizzle gently. Add herbs, tomatoes, a touch of cream. The butter must not be hurried. It must be allowed to speak.”

I told him about my IIT Kharagpur days—those youthful improvisations. How we would sometimes carry a small lump of butter to the mess and request the cook, almost conspiratorially, to pour it over the humble yellow dal. “Just let it sizzle once,” we would say. And that ordinary dal would transform—its aroma deepening, its taste acquiring a softness that felt almost luxurious.

Chawla laughed heartily. “Ah, you discovered tadka dal with butter before you knew its name!”

He went on to describe it properly—the tempering of cumin, garlic, and red chillies, and then, at the end, that final flourish of butter melting into the dal, binding everything together like a quiet reconciliation.

I shared with him my simplest pleasures—arhar dal with buttered chapatis, a raw onion on the side. Or rice, plain and steaming, with a small knob of butter slowly disappearing into it, leaving behind a fragrance that needed no accompaniment.

At this point, I also confessed to him my discovery of Chicken Kiev during my Ukraine visit in 2003.... Rediscovering it at Tolly Club and my fondness for Chicken Kiev. “A marvel of deception,” I told him. “It looks modest, almost disciplined. But the moment you cut into it, warm butter flows out—silently, generously—like a secret finally revealed.” He nodded appreciatively. “Ah, butter hidden within… that is refinement,” he said. “Not everything has to shout. Some things must surprise.”

He listened with interest, then added his own litany of buttered delights—parathas crisped on the tawa with butter seeping into their layers, pav bhaji finished with an almost theatrical slab of butter, khichdi elevated from convalescent food to comfort by a single spoonful, even a humble corn cob rubbed with butter and salt.

“Butter,” he concluded, “is not just taste. It is emotion. It forgives all roughness. It smoothens life.”

By then, the lights around the sports complex had come on. People were finishing their walks, conversations dissolving into the soft hum of evening. Chawla waved me off with a gentle nod, as if our conversation too had reached its perfect simmer.

I walked back slowly, carrying with me the aroma of butter—not in my hands, but in my thoughts. From Krishna’s चोरी to hostel mischief, from the chef’s practiced hands to my own quiet indulgences, and now even to a Ukrainian table, butter had revealed itself as more than an ingredient. It was memory, comfort, and a quiet accomplice in life’s small joys.

And somewhere along the way, I couldn’t help smiling at a different kind of butter altogether. No wonder, I thought, the word “buttering” has found its place in our language as a gentle art of pleasing those in power. After all, what butter does to food—softening edges, enhancing appeal, making everything more agreeable—is perhaps exactly what a few well-chosen words do to a human ego. In my long years of service, I have seen many such “culinary experts” who never entered a kitchen, yet knew exactly where and how to apply butter!

But another companion was waiting for me.

On my dining table lay my unfinished copy of Butter by Asako Yuzuki, almost as if it had been patiently holding its breath. I hurried back, settled into my chair, and placed the book on my reading stand—leaning comfortably into its familiar grip, like an old friend holding me steady.

Outside, the night settled quietly over Delhi. Inside, with the book open and my mind still flavoured with butter—from scriptures to street, from hostel to home, and even across continents—I resumed my journey.

And this time, I read not just with my eyes, but with a lingering taste on my tongue.

Chicken Kiev

ফারাক্কায় ফারি

ফারাক্কায় ফারি

ফারি যখন আমাদের জীবনে এল, তখন সে মাত্র এক মাসের—এক মুঠো তুলোর বলের মতো। সে একেবারে খাঁটি Indian Spitz, কলকাতা থেকে আমার স্ত্রী আর একমাত্র ছেলে অনীশ তাকে নিয়ে এসেছিল। প্রতিবেশীর বাড়ি থেকে পাওয়া—মানে একপ্রকার ‘হস্তান্তর’, কারণ কুকুররা কখনোই নিজেদেরকে দেওয়া-নেওয়ার বস্তু ভাবে না; তারা ঠিক করে নেয়, কোথায় তাদের শাসন কায়েম করা হবে।

সেই সময় আমি Bharat Heavy Electricals Limited-এর হয়ে ফারাক্কায় পোস্টেড—NTPC Limited-এর ২×৫০০ মেগাওয়াট ইউনিটের সাইট ইনচার্জ। বাইরে আমি বড়সড় পাওয়ার প্ল্যান্ট দাঁড় করাচ্ছি, আর বাড়ির ভেতরে ফারি নিঃশব্দে আমাকে ‘ম্যানেজ’ করার প্ল্যান্ট বসাচ্ছে।

আমাদের বাংলোটা ছিল Ganges-এর ধারে। পেছনে কিচেন গার্ডেন, একদিকে লন, আরেকদিকে গ্যারেজ—সব মিলিয়ে ফারির কাছে এক বিশাল সাম্রাজ্য। আমরা নাম দিলাম “ফারি”—কারণ প্রথম দিকে ওর ভেতরে আর কিছু দেখা যেত না, শুধু ফার।

কিন্তু কয়েক মাস যেতে না যেতেই ফারের ভেতর থেকে মুখ বেরোল, আর সেই মুখে ফুটে উঠল এক অদ্ভুত আত্মবিশ্বাস—যাকে আমরা সহজ ভাষায় বলি “অ্যাটিটিউড”।

একদিন দেখি, একটা বিস্কুট মুখে করে দৌড়ে কিচেন গার্ডেনে গেল, মাটি খুঁড়ে সেটা লুকিয়ে রাখল। আমি জিজ্ঞেস করলাম,

—“এটা কী করছো?”

সে এমনভাবে আমার দিকে তাকাল, যেন আমি অষ্টম শ্রেণির ছাত্র হয়ে পিএইচডি ক্লাসে প্রশ্ন করেছি।

তার চোখ বলল,

“এমার্জেন্সি স্টোরেজ। তোমরা মানুষ পাওয়ার প্ল্যান্ট বানাও, আমি বিস্কুট প্ল্যান্ট বানাই।”

এক শীতের রবিবারে আমি লনে বই নিয়ে বসে আছি। ফারি দৌড়ে এল, মুখে একটা বল। আমার সামনে রেখে ঘেউ ঘেউ।

অনুবাদ:

“বই পড়া বন্ধ করো। এখন খেলা হবে।”

আমি নড়লাম না।

আরেকবার ঘেউ।

“আমি বলছি—ছুঁড়ে দাও।”

আমি ছুঁড়লাম। সে দৌড়ে গিয়ে নিয়ে এল। আবার ছুঁড়তে বলল।

এইভাবে আমার ট্রেনিং শুরু হল।

মানুষ ভাবে, সে কুকুরকে ট্রেনিং দেয়। আসলে কুকুর মানুষকে ট্রেনিং দেয়—ফারি আমাকে শিখিয়ে দিল কীভাবে বল ছুঁড়তে হয়, কীভাবে ‘শেক হ্যান্ড’ করতে হয়, আর কীভাবে নিজের খাবার স্বেচ্ছায় হস্তান্তর করতে হয়।

সে দু’পায়ে দাঁড়িয়ে আমার হাত থেকে খাবার নেওয়ার চেষ্টা করত। সেই সময় কোনো ‘ডগ ফুড’ ছিল না—যা আমরা খেতাম, সেও তাই খেত।

মনে হত,

“কমন ডায়েট, কমন ইন্টেলিজেন্স।”

গাড়ি ছিল তার আরেক দুর্বলতা—আমাদের Maruti 800। মাঝে মাঝে আমি শুধু ব্যাটারি চার্জ করার জন্য গাড়ি স্টার্ট করতাম, আর ফারিকে পিছনের সিটে বসিয়ে দিতাম। গাড়ির কম্পনে সে ভাবত, আমরা চলেছি।

সে একেবারে গম্ভীর মুখে জানলার বাইরে তাকিয়ে বসে থাকত—যেন কোনো গুরুত্বপূর্ণ মিশনে যাচ্ছে।

আমার বাবা সেটা দেখে হেসে গড়াগড়ি খেতেন।

“ফারি!”—ডাকতেন।

কিন্তু ফারি নির্বিকার।

“আমি এখন ভ্রমণে আছি। বিরক্ত করবেন না।”

তার সবচেয়ে প্রিয় জায়গা ছিল রান্নাঘরের সামনে। আমার স্ত্রী রান্না করছেন, আর সে বসে আছে—একজন অভিজ্ঞ সুপারভাইজারের মতো।

চোখ বলছে,

“লবণটা একটু ঠিক আছে। চালিয়ে যাও।”

দিনভর সে আমার স্ত্রীকে অনুসরণ করত, আর আমি প্ল্যান্টে ব্যস্ত থাকতাম। কিন্তু ফারির প্রভাব শুধু আমাদের ঘরেই সীমাবদ্ধ ছিল না।

সাইটে যারা কাজ করত, তাদের ছোট ছোট ছেলেমেয়েরা আমাকে আর আমার স্ত্রীকে এক অদ্ভুত নামেই ডাকত—

“ফারির বাবা” আর “ফারির মা”।

আমার নিজের পরিচয়—ইঞ্জিনিয়ার, সাইট ইনচার্জ, ম্যানেজার—সব মুছে গিয়ে আমি হয়ে গেলাম এক কুকুরের বাবা। প্রথমে একটু অবাক লাগলেও পরে বুঝলাম, এটাই হয়তো জীবনের সবচেয়ে সরল ও সত্য পরিচয়।

কারণ মানুষ আপনাকে পদবী দিয়ে চেনে, কিন্তু ভালোবাসা আপনাকে সম্পর্ক দিয়ে চেনে।

সন্ধ্যায় যখন আমার গাড়ি বাংলোর কাছে আসত, ফারি অনেক দূর থেকে সেই শব্দ চিনে ফেলত।

ঘেউ ঘেউ শুরু।

“শেষমেশ ফিরলে! এত দেরি কেন?”

আমি বাড়ি ঢুকলে সে পিছু নিত, আর চেয়ারের নিচে বসে পড়ত। আমি তার কানের পেছনে চুলকিয়ে দিতাম—যেখানে সে নিজে পৌঁছাতে পারে না।

সে চোখ বুজে থাকত।

“এই পরিষেবা গ্রহণযোগ্য।”

তবে দীপাবলি ছিল তার জীবনের সবচেয়ে দুঃসহ সময়। পটকার শব্দে সে ভয়ে কাঁপত। আমার স্ত্রী তার কানে মাফলার বেঁধে তাকে গাড়ির ভেতরে বসিয়ে দরজা বন্ধ করে দিত।

তবুও সে কাঁপত, আর আমাদের দিকে তাকিয়ে থাকত এক অদ্ভুত দৃষ্টিতে।

“তোমরা মানুষ সত্যিই অদ্ভুত। আনন্দ করতে গিয়ে এত শব্দ করতে হয়?”

ফারাক্কায় সেই আড়াই বছর—তার জীবনের সেরা সময়। আমার কাছে সেটা ছিল সবচেয়ে কঠিন পোস্টিংগুলোর একটি।

কিন্তু প্রতিদিন সন্ধ্যায়, প্ল্যান্টের সমস্যা মাথায় নিয়ে আমি যখন লনে বসতাম, ফারি পাশে থাকত।

আমি বলতাম,

—“আজ একটা বড় সমস্যা হয়েছে।”

সে চুপচাপ শুনত।

তার চোখ বলত,

“সমস্যা মানে কী? একটু খুঁড়ে দেখো। সমাধান মাটির নিচেই আছে—ঠিক বিস্কুটের মতো।”

অদ্ভুতভাবে, অনেক সমস্যার সমাধান তখনই পরিষ্কার হয়ে যেত।

শেষমেশ আমি বুঝলাম—আমরা ভাবতাম আমরা ফারিকে পুষেছি, কিন্তু আসলে ফারিই আমাদের সামলেছে। সে আমাদের খাওয়া দেখেছে, গাড়ি দেখেছে, মনোবল দেখেছে—এমনকি একজন সাইট ইনচার্জের মানসিক ভারসাম্যও বজায় রেখেছে।

একটা তুলোর বল থেকে শুরু করে—একজন নিঃশব্দ দার্শনিক।

এই হল ফারি। 🐾

Furry at Farakka

When Furry arrived, he was barely a month old—small enough to fit comfortably in one’s hands and fluffy enough to resemble a travelling ball of cotton. He was a young Indian Spitz, brought from Kolkata to Farakka by my wife and our only son, Anish. They had received him from a neighbour in Kolkata who apparently believed that a household could never have too much happiness—or fur.

At that time, in the early 1990s, I was posted in Farakka by Bharat Heavy Electricals Limited as the site in-charge for erecting and commissioning two 500-megawatt units for NTPC Limited. My bungalow stood beside the majestic Ganges in the temporary NTPC township. Behind the house lay a large kitchen garden; on one side there was a lawn and on the other a small garage. To Furry, it soon became clear that this entire territory belonged to him.

We named him Furry, because at the beginning that was all he seemed to be—fur with a nose. But within a few months his face began to emerge from that cloud of hair like a commander stepping out of camouflage, and along with it appeared a definite personality—almost an attitude.

Dogs, I discovered, have very firm opinions about humans.

Consider the matter of biscuits.

Whenever he received one, Furry would sometimes dash to the kitchen garden, dig a small hole, and carefully bury it. The first time I witnessed this behaviour I asked him, “Why are you doing that?”

Furry looked at me with the tolerant expression of a professor dealing with a slow student.

Emergency storage, his eyes seemed to say.

You humans build power plants for future needs. We bury biscuits. Same principle.

One winter Sunday I was reclining in the lawn with a book when Furry appeared carrying a rubber ball. He dropped it beside my chair and barked.

Translation: Move your lazy bottom. We are going to play.

I ignored him.

He barked again.

Throw.

So I threw.

He ran, fetched the ball, returned, and dropped it again. Thus began my training.

Contrary to popular belief, dogs do not learn tricks from humans. Humans learn tricks from dogs. Soon I had mastered several essential commands: throw the ball, shake hands, and surrender food. Furry could even stand on his hind legs to reach whatever I happened to be eating.

There was no specialised dog food in those days. He simply ate whatever we ate.

Good, he seemed to think.

Shared diet. Shared intelligence.

He was particularly fond of travelling in our car, a loyal little Maruti 800. Sometimes, merely to keep the battery charged, I would start the engine while he sat in the back seat. The vibration convinced him the vehicle was moving.

He would sit upright, gazing seriously out of the window like an important passenger.

My father, who was staying with us then, found this enormously amusing.

“Furry!” he would call.

But Furry remained completely absorbed in his journey.

I am travelling, his posture seemed to say.

Please do not disturb.

His favourite place in the house, however, was directly in front of the kitchen when my wife was cooking. There he would sit like a vigilant supervisor of culinary operations.

Yes, his eyes would say approvingly,

that looks correct.

Throughout the day he followed my wife faithfully while I was busy at the plant dealing with boilers, turbines, and human complications.

Yet he possessed one remarkable talent—he could recognise the sound of my car from far away. The moment the Maruti approached the bungalow gate, he would begin barking excitedly.

Finally, the bark meant.

What kept you so long?

Once I entered the house he would follow me and settle beneath my chair. When I scratched behind his ears—an area dogs cannot easily reach themselves—he would close his eyes in quiet satisfaction.

Acceptable service, he seemed to say.

Diwali, however, was the worst time for him. The explosions of firecrackers terrified him. My wife would wrap a muffler gently around his ears and place him inside the Maruti with the doors closed to reduce the noise.

Even then he would tremble and look at us with deep reproach.

You humans, that look clearly said,

are remarkably inventive when it comes to unnecessary noise.

Those two and a half years at Farakka were perhaps the happiest period of Furry’s life. For me, the site posting was among the most demanding of my career.

But every evening after returning from the plant, burdened with technical issues and management puzzles, I would sit in the lawn and talk to him.

“I have a problem at the site,” I would say.

Furry would listen patiently.

Simple, his calm eyes seemed to suggest.

Think. Dig. Store the solution. Just like biscuits.

Strangely enough, many problems became clearer after such conversations.

In the end I realised something important: while we believed we had adopted Furry, it was actually Furry who had adopted us—supervising meals, monitoring vehicles, maintaining morale, and occasionally offering silent advice on engineering management.

Not bad for a creature who began life looking like a ball of fur.

The Ghost Who Wouldn't Leave JK alone

The Ghost Who Wouldn’t Leave JK Alone

As usual our round of golf ended not at the 18th hole but at the tea table. Golf, in our group, is merely an excuse for conversation. The real game begins after the scorecards are forgotten.

That morning JK was in great form. Once he starts narrating stories of his youth, we all become silent spectators. His life, according to him, had been a combination of adventure, romance and narrow escapes — mostly involving ladies and occasionally angry husbands.

“Arrey Roy saab,” he said, leaning back in the chair with theatrical style, “those days in the Middle East were something else. Kabul, Istanbul, Karachi… everywhere life was full of… how to say… possibilities.”

MS laughed. “Possibilities or liabilities?”

JK ignored him and continued.

“In Istanbul,” he said proudly, “there was a Turkish lady who used to teach me local customs.”

“Customs?” I asked. “Or chemistry?”

Everyone burst out laughing.

Encouraged by the response, JK moved to his Kabul story.

“Kabul was different,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “I was staying in a big haveli as a guest of a trader. Old type house… thick walls, wooden doors, inner courtyard… the works.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a ghost story,” I said.

“Wait, wait,” JK waved his hand dramatically. “Ghost comes later.”

He explained that the trader’s family lived there — brothers, children, servants and one particularly attractive sister-in-law.

MS raised his eyebrows. “Now the plot is thickening.”

JK .continued with a grin.

“One night,” he said, “after dinner everybody went to sleep. But some of us had… unfinished discussions.”

“Ah!” I said. “Diplomatic negotiations.”

“Exactly,” JK nodded solemnly.

He described how late at night he quietly slipped out of the lady’s room to return to his own.

“Suddenly,” he said, “I heard footsteps in the corridor.”

“Probably her husband,” MS suggested helpfully.

“That is exactly what I feared!” JK replied dramatically.

In panic he pushed open the nearest door and slipped inside.

The room was bolted from inside but apparently unused. Moonlight was coming through a window, casting long shadows across the floor.

“It was completely silent,” JK said. “Only my heartbeat was making noise.”

“To be fair,” I said, “after such adventures anyone’s heartbeat would be loud.”

Ignoring my comment, JK continued.

“In the middle of the room there was a table with a drawer. I thought maybe I should sit quietly till the footsteps pass.”

“Why open the drawer then?” MS asked.

“That is human curiosity,” JK said defensively.

So he pulled the drawer open.

“And then,” he said, lowering his voice further, “I suddenly felt someone standing behind me.”

We all leaned forward.

“I turned around quickly.”

“Was it the husband?” MS asked.

“No one.”

“Servant?”

“No one.”

“Then?”

JK paused for effect.

“I could still feel someone standing right behind me… breathing almost on my neck.”

A small silence fell over the table.

I asked quietly, “What did you do?”

“I ran,” JK said simply.

Everyone laughed.

“No, no, seriously,” he insisted. “I rushed out and ran down the corridor to my room. But the strange thing was… the feeling remained.”

“Feeling of guilt?” I suggested.

“Not guilt,” JK said. “Presence.”

He said it felt as if someone invisible had followed him.

“Like Fevicol,” MS said. “Strong adhesive.”

“Exactly!” JK agreed. “Sticking like gum.”

He closed the door of his room and switched on the light.

“The feeling was still there,” he said.

So he walked to the mirror.

“I looked carefully behind me.”

Nothing.

“Of course,” I said, “ghosts don’t have bodies.”

“That is what I realised later,” JK replied seriously.

“But at that moment I was terrified.”

“What did you do then?” MS asked.

JK said he picked up the only weapon available — a hairbrush lying on the dressing table.

“You fought the ghost with a hairbrush?” I asked.

“What else to do?” JK said defensively. “One must use available resources.”

He demonstrated how he started brushing vigorously around his shoulders and back.

“Shoo! Shoo!” he said, reenacting the scene.

Our entire table burst into laughter.

“So finally what happened?” I asked.

“Eventually,” JK said, “I lay down on the bed fully alert. After some time the strange feeling disappeared.”

MS shook his head.

“Jaggi, that was not a ghost.”

“Then what?”

“Your conscience,” MS said.

I added, “Or perhaps the spirit of the haveli protesting against your midnight diplomacy.”

JK protested loudly.

“No, no, it was definitely a ghost!”

We finished our tea still laughing.

But while driving back home I reflected on JK's story. Old havelis, moonlit rooms and guilty minds can produce many sensations. Whether it was a ghost, imagination, or simply the fear of being caught by an angry Afghan husband — only JK knows the truth.

But one thing is certain.

That night in Kabul, if there really was a ghost in that haveli, it must have been thoroughly confused — watching a terrified young man trying to chase it away with a hairbrush. 👻

When One Chair Falls Silent:

When One Chair Falls Silent: Living After a Life Partner’s Departure

In our golf circle there was a cheerful member, AS. He had a lively presence on the course and an easy habit of teasing our friend MS. The banter between them was part of the atmosphere of our mornings. Unfortunately, AS had been battling cancer for some time, and the illness finally took him away.

I knew him, though not very closely. Yet, as often happens in clubs and social groups, a person’s personality becomes woven into the environment. When such a person disappears, the silence is felt by many.

A few weeks after his passing, something happened that left a deep impression on me. One day his wife, J, came to the club carrying a pink Greg Norman T-shirt. She said that during their recent trip to the United States, AS had specially bought it for MS. She handed it over quietly.

MS was visibly moved. Holding the shirt, he looked up and said softly, “Thank you, AS, wherever you are.”

In that moment the entire group felt the strange continuity of human relationships. A man who was no longer physically present had still managed to send a message of affection through time.

---

The Immediate Void

The death of a spouse creates a vacuum that is difficult for others to fully comprehend. When two people live together for several decades, their lives become interwoven in countless visible and invisible ways.

There are the obvious practical things—bank accounts, mobile apps, bills, and household management. J mentioned to me that she was struggling with some of the banking apps AS used. She was not very comfortable with technology. I suggested that deinstalling the apps so that those can't be hacked!.

But these practical problems are only the surface.

Underneath lies a far deeper disruption: the sudden disappearance of a companion who had been present in every small rhythm of life.

Morning tea shared together.

A remark about the news.

An argument about something trivial.

A reminder about an appointment.

These things appear insignificant while they exist. But when they stop, their absence becomes enormous.

---

The Mind’s Refusal to Accept

J told me something very touching. She said that when she is alone in the flat, sometimes her mind tells her that AS is still somewhere in the house.

This feeling is not unusual. The human mind does not easily accept abrupt discontinuities. When a person has been present in one’s life for forty or fifty years, the mind continues to expect their presence.

One may hear an imaginary footstep, or feel that the other person will call from the next room. These are not illusions in a pathological sense. They are the mind’s gentle way of adjusting to a new reality.

Time slowly teaches acceptance, but the heart takes longer than the intellect.

---

Adjustment: The Gradual Process

Fortunately, J has some support around her. Some relatives live nearby. She also drops into the club occasionally and finds someone to talk to.

Conversation, even casual conversation, plays an important role in healing. Human beings are social creatures. Silence and isolation can magnify grief.

Gradually, she is learning to live with the absence. This process cannot be hurried. Each person moves through it at a different pace.

Grief does not disappear; it transforms.

---

Two Different Responses to Loss

Observing people over the years, I have noticed that widows and widowers tend to respond to such loss in two broad ways.

The first group rebuilds life actively.

Some people rediscover interests, travel, join social activities, or even relocate. They construct a new routine and gradually move forward.

Occasionally, observers may feel that they have moved on “too quickly,” but in reality this is simply their way of coping.

The second group remains deeply attached to the memory of the departed partner.

They preserve the past carefully—the room arrangement, the habits, the photographs. Their lives revolve around remembrance.

Neither response is right or wrong. Human emotions do not follow a standard manual.

Some people move forward by embracing change; others move forward by preserving continuity.

---

Was the Partner Holding Them Back?

Sometimes people say that after the death of a spouse, a person begins living a completely different life—as if the partner had been holding them back.

But this interpretation may be too simplistic.

Relationships always involve adjustments and compromises. When one partner is gone, the surviving partner suddenly finds themselves free from those constraints. Naturally, they may explore new directions.

Yet this does not mean that the earlier relationship lacked love or meaning. It simply means that life has entered a new phase.

---

The Philosophical Dimension

From a philosophical perspective, the situation reflects one of life’s universal truths: impermanence.

Everything in life changes—positions, health, wealth, friendships, and eventually the people closest to us.

The ancient philosophers across cultures have spoken about this. In the Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna reminds Arjuna that the body is temporary while the spirit continues its journey. Similarly, many philosophical traditions emphasize that attachment to permanence in an impermanent world leads to suffering.

But philosophy becomes meaningful only when it meets lived experience. When we witness someone like J adjusting to life without AS, these abstract ideas suddenly acquire emotional depth.

---

The Importance of Social Circles

One positive element in this situation is the presence of a community. The golf club, casual conversations, and familiar faces provide a social cushion.

When people gather regularly around shared interests—sports, reading clubs, community organizations—they unknowingly create support systems.

In such environments, grief does not have to be faced entirely alone.

A simple greeting, a cup of tea, or a light conversation can reduce the weight of loneliness.

---

Memory as a Form of Continuation

The pink T-shirt that AS bought for MS is a small object, but it carries symbolic value.

Through such gestures, the departed continue to remain part of the living world.

Every time MS wears that shirt, it will probably remind him of his friend’s humour and companionship. In that sense, AS has not disappeared entirely; he has simply shifted from presence to memory.

Human memory is a powerful form of continuity.

---

Living With the Absence

Perhaps the real challenge after losing a life partner is not forgetting them, but learning to live with their absence.

This means allowing memories to exist without letting them paralyze the present.

It means continuing daily routines while accepting that a certain chair will remain empty.

It means finding meaning again, even though a part of life’s original structure has disappeared.

---

The Universal Journey

What J is experiencing today is a journey that many people eventually undertake. No marriage, however long and happy, escapes this reality. One partner will inevitably face the world alone.

The question is not whether this will happen, but how one learns to navigate it.

Some will rebuild their lives energetically.

Some will quietly carry memories like precious heirlooms.

Most will do a mixture of both.

---

A Quiet Lesson

The episode of the T-shirt taught me a simple but profound lesson.

Even after death, human affection continues to travel in subtle ways—through objects, through memories, through stories shared among friends.

And perhaps that is the consolation offered by life itself: while people may leave physically, the relationships they create continue to ripple through the lives of others.

AS may no longer walk on the golf course with us. But in the laughter remembered, the stories retold, and the pink T-shirt worn by MS, a part of him still remains among his friends.

কেউ সাফল্য মাপে টাকায়, কেউ মাপে মানুষের হাসিতে।

কেউ সাফল্য মাপে টাকায়, কেউ মাপে মানুষের হাসিতে।

---

রবিবারের দুপুরগুলো সাধারণত একটু শান্ত হয়।
শহরের কোলাহল যেন কিছুটা থেমে থাকে, আর মানুষের মনও তখন নিজের ভেতরের দিকে তাকানোর সময় পায়।

শুভেন্দু সেদিনও বারান্দায় বসে ছিল। অবসর নেওয়ার পর তার জীবনটা অনেকটাই সরল হয়ে গেছে। সংসার চালানোর মতো যথেষ্ট টাকা আছে, আর খুব বেশি চাহিদাও নেই। তাই বহুদিন ধরেই সে একটা অভ্যাস তৈরি করেছে—প্রতি মাসে কিছু টাকা আলাদা করে রাখে, যাদের সত্যিই প্রয়োজন তাদের সাহায্য করার জন্য।

তার বন্ধু কমল চক্রবর্তী যখন পুরুলিয়ার অনুর্বর জমিতে গাছ লাগিয়ে গড়ে তুলছিল, তখন থেকেই শুভেন্দু তাকে সাহায্য করত। কর্পোরেট সংস্থাগুলোর কাছে গিয়ে, পরিচিতদের সঙ্গে কথা বলে, কখনও নিজের পকেট থেকেও—যেভাবে পারত সাহায্য করত।

কমলের হঠাৎ মৃত্যুর পর অনেকেই ভেবেছিল এই উদ্যোগ হয়তো থেমে যাবে।
কিন্তু তা হয়নি।

সেই দায়িত্ব তুলে নিয়েছে Joyoti।

Joyoti শহরের মেয়ে। চাইলে সে অন্যরকম জীবন বেছে নিতে পারত। কিন্তু সে থেকে গেছে পুরুলিয়ার মাটিতে, সাঁওতাল গ্রামগুলোর মাঝখানে। Bhalopahar-এ একটি ছোট্ট প্রাথমিক স্কুল চলছে—গরিব সাঁওতাল শিশুদের জন্য। সেই স্কুলটাকে বাঁচিয়ে রাখার জন্য Joyoti যেন নিজের জীবনটাই উৎসর্গ করেছে।

সে বিয়ে করেনি।
নিজের জন্য আলাদা কোনও ভবিষ্যতের পরিকল্পনাও করেনি।

সকালবেলা স্কুল, বাচ্চাদের পড়ানো, তাদের দেখাশোনা—কখনও অসুস্থ হলে প্রাথমিক চিকিৎসার ব্যবস্থা—সবকিছুতেই Joyoti নিজে জড়িয়ে থাকে।
শুভেন্দু যখনই Bhalopahar-এ যায়, তার মনে হয় এই মেয়েটার ভিতরে এক অদ্ভুত শক্তি আছে—নিঃশব্দ, কিন্তু গভীর।

শহরের এত শিক্ষিত মানুষদের মাঝেও এমন নিবেদন খুব কমই দেখা যায়।

সেই রবিবার দুপুরেই ফোনটা এল।

ওপাশে তার ভাইঝি। খুব আনন্দের সঙ্গে জানাল—সে মুম্বাই চলে যাচ্ছে। নতুন চাকরি, নতুন জীবন। আর একটি নতুন ফ্ল্যাট—দাম কয়েক কোটি টাকা।

শুভেন্দু তাকে অভিনন্দন জানাল।
ফোন কেটে গেল।

তারপর কিছুক্ষণ সে চুপ করে বসে রইল।

মনের ভেতর যেন দুটো ছবি পাশাপাশি ভেসে উঠল।

একদিকে Joyoti—
পুরুলিয়ার শুকনো মাটিতে দাঁড়িয়ে থাকা এক মেয়ে, যে নিজের জীবনটা উৎসর্গ করেছে গরিব সাঁওতাল বাচ্চাদের জন্য।

আর অন্যদিকে তার ভাইঝি—
মেধাবী, পরিশ্রমী, সফল এক আধুনিক পেশাদার নারী, যে নিজের যোগ্যতায় মুম্বাই শহরে কোটি টাকার ফ্ল্যাট কিনছে।

দুটো ছবিই সত্যি।
দুটো পথই আলাদা।

একটায় আছে আত্মত্যাগের শান্ত আলো।
অন্যটায় আছে সাফল্যের উজ্জ্বল দীপ্তি।

হঠাৎই শুভেন্দুর মনে প্রশ্নটা এসে দাঁড়াল।

আজ তো আন্তর্জাতিক নারী দিবস।

তাহলে সত্যিকারের সফল নারী কে?

মুম্বাইয়ের আকাশছোঁয়া ফ্ল্যাটে থাকা সেই পেশাদার মেয়ে?
নাকি পুরুলিয়ার Bhalopahar-এর মাটিতে দাঁড়িয়ে থাকা Joyoti, যে নিজের জীবনটাকে অন্যের জন্য বিলিয়ে দিয়েছে?

উত্তরটা সহজ নয়।

সম্ভবত জীবনের মতোই—
উত্তরটাও প্রত্যেকের নিজের ভিতরেই লুকিয়ে থাকে।

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“At the Threshold of Silence: When Philosophy Becomes the Final Comfort.”

That afternoon at the Kolkata airport departure lounge I was reading the book " Life after Life " by Raymond A Moody. The accounts of near-death experiences—tunnels of light, serene detachments, a review of one’s own life—had left me contemplative.

I did not notice the tall, bespectacled gentleman observing the cover of my book until he spoke.

“Are you convinced?” he asked quietly.

I looked up. “Convinced of what?”

“That consciousness survives clinical death.”

He introduced himself: Swaminathan. His visiting card was simple, almost austere. Under his name were the words: Guide to the Afterlife.

I confess, I was intrigued.

---

The Beginning: A Philosophy Student’s Unexpected Calling

Over coffee, he narrated how it all began.

“I was doing my B.A. (Hons.) in Philosophy,” he said. “Immersed in Plato, Shankara, Kant… arguing about Being and Non-Being.”

One afternoon, his friend Saigal rushed into the hostel room.

“Swami,” Saigal said breathlessly, “Dadaji is critically ill. Doctors say it’s only a matter of time. The house… it’s unbearable. Will you come?”

They drove to South Extension. The house was sprawling, affluent, but submerged in gloom. Relatives moved about in whispers. The old patriarch lay skeletal, eyes half-open, breath laboured.

“I don’t know what compelled me,” Swaminathan told me. “Perhaps it was something beyond philosophy. I sat beside him. I held his hand. His skin was cold.”

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I began with the Kathopanishad. The dialogue between Nachiketa and Yama. The boy who asks the Lord of Death what lies beyond.”

He leaned forward slightly and recited:

‘Na jāyate mriyate vā kadācin…’
The Self is never born, nor does it ever die.

“The old man’s breathing slowed,” he said softly. “His fingers tightened around mine.”

From that day onward, Swaminathan visited daily. He spoke of the imperishable Atman, of the Bhagavad Gita’s assurance:

‘Just as a man casts off worn-out garments and puts on new ones,
so the soul casts off worn-out bodies and enters new ones.’

Gradually, something remarkable happened. The relatives stopped weeping outside the room. They began gathering around him.

“Are you saying he will live again?” a daughter-in-law once asked.

“I am saying,” Swaminathan replied calmly, “that death is not extinction. It is transition. The mind, the subtle impressions, the samskaras—these continue. What departs is the body, not the experiencer.”

He spoke of rebirths from the Mahabharata—of Shantanu and Ganga’s sons, the Vasus reborn to expiate a curse; of Bhishma choosing his time of death, lying on a bed of arrows; of Abhimanyu’s valour echoing through lineage and destiny.

The old man began to smile faintly during these sessions.

And one morning, as Swaminathan described the luminous path of the departing soul, the patriarch exhaled gently and did not inhale again.

“There was a smile,” Swaminathan said. “Not of denial. Of recognition.”

---

The Spread Across Delhi

News travels swiftly in certain circles. Soon, calls began coming from , , , and even the .

“I was still a student,” he said with a half-smile. “But I was summoned to drawing rooms where crystal chandeliers hung, and behind closed doors, fear sat heavier than wealth.”

Expensive gifts arrived as tokens of gratitude—silk shawls, watches, envelopes discreetly placed. But he insisted that the true currency was something else.

“Peace,” he said.

He went on to complete his M.A. in Metaphysics. What began as an accidental intervention became a vocation. He positioned himself not as a priest, nor as a miracle-worker, but as a counsellor for the dying—a philosophical companion at the threshold.

---

The Necessity in a Scientific Age

“Science,” I said to him at the airport, “tells us that consciousness is a product of neural activity. When the brain stops, experience ceases.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Science observes the instrument. It does not yet understand the musician.”

He was not dismissive of science. Rather, he saw a limitation in its present framework.

“When a person is dying,” he continued, “what is their greatest fear? Not pain. It is annihilation. The idea that everything—memory, love, identity—will vanish.”

He pointed to my book.

“Moody’s cases show something profound. Even when the heart stops, people report continuity of awareness. Whether we call it metaphysical truth or neurological phenomenon, the psychological effect is undeniable: assurance eases transition.”

He paused.

“In India, our satsangs, our ashrams, our recitations of the Gita—they serve a social necessity. They prepare the mind for separation from the body. Even if one interprets it symbolically, the reassurance has therapeutic value.”

I reflected on the elderly faces I had seen—fear mingled with confusion. In our time of ICUs, ventilators, and sterile corridors, death is often stripped of narrative meaning. Yet the human mind seeks continuity.

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An Invitation

I asked him, “But you must receive calls from all over India. How do you manage alone?”

He smiled mischievously.

“I am training retired people—pleasant-looking, composed, well-versed in scriptures. People who can sit quietly and speak gently. We need such companions in every city.”

He looked directly at me.

“Would you be interested in becoming my man in Kolkata?”

I laughed nervously. But his gaze remained steady.

“You have lived,” he said. “You have read. You understand impermanence. At the final phase, when mind begins loosening from body, what one needs is not argument—but assurance.”

---

The Larger Reflection

As my boarding call was announced at , I considered something deeply unsettling yet undeniable: whether or not science ultimately proves the independence of consciousness, the experience of dying is a profoundly human event.

The Rig Veda declares:

“From the unreal lead me to the Real,
From darkness lead me to light,
From death lead me to immortality.”

Perhaps the literal interpretation will forever remain debated. But the emotional truth persists: human beings require a framework to face the unknown.

The separation of mind and body is not merely a biological shutdown. It is the final existential crossing. And in that crossing, narrative, faith, philosophy—call it what we will—becomes a bridge.

Swaminathan’s work may stand at the intersection of metaphysics and psychology, tradition and modernity. Not in defiance of science, but in response to a vacuum science has not yet filled.

As I settled into my seat, his card rested inside my copy of Life After Life.

For the first time, I wondered—not whether the soul survives—but whether society can afford to neglect those who help us die without terror.

When the CMD exploded- and So did I

When the CMD Exploded — and So Did I

Kathalgudi, 1994 — Steam, Gas… and Temper

In 1994, when I took charge as GM (Projects), BHEL Eastern Region, I believed I had developed a reasonably thick skin. After commissioning thermal stations across the country, I thought I understood pressure — mechanical and managerial.

Kathalgudi corrected that assumption.

This was NEEPCO’s first combined cycle power plant at Kathalgudi — a prestigious project funded under the Japanese OECF loan. Our partner was Mitsubishi Heavy Industries (MHI). Gas turbines, steam turbines, HRSG — jointly supplied by MHI and BHEL.

Mitsubishi was performing like a disciplined samurai.

We, unfortunately, were struggling with site coordination and execution delays.

And the review meeting was to be held right there — in BHEL’s site conference hall at Kathalgudi. On the battlefield itself.

The Review That Became a Trial

The hall was full — senior officers from NEEPCO, MHI, and BHEL. The atmosphere was formal, but tight.

Chairing the review was Mr. Das, CMD of NEEPCO— a senior IIT Kharagpur man, much my senior in experience and stature. It was my first interaction with him.

I had joined Eastern Region barely two months earlier. Our seasoned site in-charge, SNS, had been stationed there for two years and had even toured Japan at MHI’s works. I was confident the technical aspects would be properly represented.

The meeting began smoothly.

Mr. Das was generous in his praise for Mitsubishi.

> “Excellent planning. Exemplary discipline. That is why Japan funds such projects.”

I relaxed slightly.

Then he looked up sharply.

> “Who is in-charge of BHEL here?”

I stood.

“Sir, I am S. N. Roy.”

That introduction acted like ignition in a combustion chamber.

Without giving me an opportunity to explain ground realities, he launched into a fierce criticism.

> “Shoddy execution! No seriousness! Repeated delays! This is unacceptable!”

I attempted politely:

> “Sir, if I may explain the constraints—”

But he did not allow a word.

Then came the statement that changed everything.

Turning to NEEPCO’s GM, he said:

> “Stop further payments to BHEL until performance improves.”

That was not just criticism — that was operational suffocation.

I have endured harsh reviews before. But denying payment without hearing our position? That struck at institutional dignity and practical reality.

I waited for him to finish. I allowed the steam to escape fully.

Then I replied — calmly, but firmly:

> “Sir, if payments are stopped, we cannot pay our agencies. If that is the decision, then perhaps the intention is not to complete the project. In that case, we may have to close our operations.”

You could hear the silence settle like dust after a blast.

He was clearly not accustomed to being answered back — especially by someone he probably viewed as a supplier rather than a partner.

His face tightened. Papers were gathered abruptly.

> “This is insubordination!”

And he walked out of the conference hall.

After the Storm

For a few seconds, nobody moved.

Then senior NEEPCO officers quietly approached me.

> “Mr. Roy, well said.”

“Someone had to point out the practical side.”

“We were surprised at his hostility.”

It appeared the issue was not purely technical. Sometimes authority seeks compliance more than clarity.

But the day’s drama was not over.

Dinner — The Second Act

As per tradition, we hosted a dinner in the evening for NEEPCO, MHI, and our officers.

When Mr. Das arrived, I went forward to receive him.

He looked through me as if I were invisible.

I smiled. Engineers develop insulation early in life.

After a few pegs, however, insulation failed.

He began searching for me in the gathering.

> “Roy! You think you are very smart?”

His voice was loud, animated.

My own temperature began rising again. Before I could react, GM Barkatoki of NEEPCO leaned close and whispered in my ear:

> “Mr. Roy, please ignore him. When he drinks, he doesn’t know what he is doing.”

That whisper probably prevented a second explosion.

Our senior colleague Mr. B. P. Dey tactfully moved beside him and gently steered him toward the exit, almost like taking a vibrating machine safely offline.

Once his car left, the mood changed instantly.

NEEPCO officers surrounded me — laughing.

> “Mr. Roy, this is always the last scene after a few pegs!”

“Today you were the unfortunate co-actor.”

Apparently, my response during the meeting had bruised his ego, and the dinner was his attempt at retaliation.

Fortunately, within two months he retired.

A Different Leadership

Mr. Katoki took charge thereafter — another IIT Kharagpur man, but entirely different in temperament.

Measured. Professional. Solution-oriented.

Our interactions were constructive. Issues were discussed, not dramatized.

The project regained momentum and steadily moved toward scheduled completion.

At that time, another uncertainty loomed — the shadow of ULFA activity in Assam. There were whispers, concerns, risk assessments.

I once expressed my apprehension to Mr. Katoki.

He smiled reassuringly.

> “Don’t worry, Roy. Through mediators, I have explained to them that this project will bring prosperity to Assam. Stable power means industry, employment, development. Even they understand that.”

That quiet confidence carried weight.

Management Reflections — From a Controlled Explosion

Looking back, I admit I lost my cool — but only after restraint had been exhausted.

Kathalgudi taught me:

1. Let anger exhaust itself before responding.

2. Never allow financial throttling to be used as intimidation.

3. Authority without listening weakens institutions.

4. Temperament is as critical as technical competence.

5. Projects run on trust as much as on turbines.

In engineering terms, that day was a pressure test.

The system oscillated. The safety valve lifted. The fuse nearly blew.

But ultimately, stability was restored.

And the Kathalgudi combined cycle plant did come online — not merely with gas and steam — but with mutual respect restored and relationships reset.

Sometimes leadership is not about avoiding confrontation.

It is about knowing when to stand firm — and when to step back — so that the larger project, and the larger purpose, can move forward.

Farakka when I had to live with my wits alone

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Farakka: When I Had to Live by My Wits Alone

There are comfortable postings.
There are challenging postings.
And then there are postings that test whether you deserve to call yourself a leader.

My posting to Farakka fell in the third category.

At that time, I was at Vizag Steel Plant, having just completed the erection of the captive power station with blowers as Site In-Charge. The work was tough but satisfying — the kind where you sleep well because steel and steam obeyed you during the day.

Then came the order from Corporate Office, Delhi.

Overnight transfer.

Destination: Farakka Super Thermal Power Project.
Role: Replace the existing Site Head from BHEL.
Reason (unofficial but well known): NTPC was unhappy.

In two years, only 7% progress had been achieved on the 500 MW project.

I was being sent to control the damage.

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Prelude in Kolkata: The First Skirmish

Before proceeding to Farakka, I halted in Kolkata. At that time, Eastern Region was under RNB. I met him as a matter of courtesy.

To my surprise, Mr. Dube from HR calmly declared:

“Eastern Region has not received any copy of such transfer order.”

I showed him the Corporate Order.
I showed him the Southern Region release order.

Still, procedural silence.

Now, I am generally a polite man. But I dislike bureaucratic theatre.

So, sitting in RNB’s office, I reached for the telephone.

Not dramatically. Just quietly.

“I think I should speak to CMD,” I said.

The CMD himself had initiated this transfer to pacify NTPC’s growing irritation. I had earlier worked at Singrauli, so NTPC’s higher management knew me.

That simple gesture — reaching for the phone — did the trick.

Suddenly, files started moving.

My joining was “accepted”.

Later I realised something important.

This was not confusion.

It was orchestration.

The sitting Site In-Charge at Farakka — let us call him SKG — had been there since Phase I (3 × 220 MW). Nearly 10 years in one location. Deep roots. Political contacts. Contractor loyalties. Trade union friendships.

And now, an outsider was coming.

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The Art of Not Giving Charge

I reached Farakka with the naïve optimism of a soldier reporting to the battlefield.

I assumed I would take charge within a week.

SKG had other ideas.

For nearly a month, he copied letters to every possible office. Queries. Clarifications. Administrative technicalities.

Charge was not handed over.

I contacted RNB again.

He expressed “inability.”

That was when I realised something fundamental:

In leadership, authority on paper is different from authority in action.

So I applied a simple management principle — create a deadline with consequences.

I gave SKG two days.

Calmly.

“In two days, if charge is not handed over, I escalate to CMD.”

No shouting. No drama. Just a timeline.

He vacated.

But before leaving, he planted what I call “time bombs.”

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The Minefield

When a man spends 10 years at one site, he doesn’t just build projects — he builds ecosystems.

Farakka in early 1990s was not an engineering site alone. It was:

• Political undercurrents
• Trade union activism at its peak
• Contractor networks
• BHEL site staff enjoying informal privileges
• Hostile officers who were unsure about the new man

And there I was — with no real backing from HQ.

For the first time in my career, I felt I was living purely by my wit.

But life had prepared me.

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Lessons from Barauni Refinery

My early years at Barauni Refinery were in a rough, demanding industrial environment. There, if you showed fear, you were finished.

Those days taught me:

1. Never react emotionally in hostile environments.
2. Understand the power structure before exercising authority.
3. Separate noise from risk.
4. Win the neutral majority before confronting the vocal minority.

Farakka needed exactly that approach.

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Strategy 1: Stabilize Before Speed

The temptation was to prove myself quickly.

But I first stabilised the ecosystem.

• I met NTPC officials individually.
• I listened more than I spoke.
• I assessed real progress versus paper progress.
• I identified bottlenecks: engineering gaps, contractor delays, labour indiscipline.

When entering turbulence, the first job is not acceleration — it is balance.

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Strategy 2: Don’t Fight All Battles

Trade unions were aggressive.

If I had chosen confrontation, the project would have stalled further.

Here, my late friend G. S. Sohal of NTPC became invaluable. He understood the internal dynamics and helped moderate union tensions.

Lesson:

In hostile territory, build at least one trusted ally within the system.

He became that bridge.

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Strategy 3: Remove Informal Privileges Gradually

Some BHEL site employees had grown accustomed to “advantages.”

Direct removal would have triggered rebellion.

So instead:

• I introduced process discipline.
• Linked privileges to measurable output.
• Shifted discussions from entitlement to performance.

When systems become objective, personal grievances lose oxygen.

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Strategy 4: Visible Commitment

In troubled projects, morale is low because people don’t believe completion is possible.

So I made it visible:

• Regular site rounds.
• Daily review meetings.
• Transparent milestone tracking.
• No closed-door politics.

When the leader is seen on the ground, resistance weakens.

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The Numbers That Matter

When I took over, only 7% work had been completed in two years.

In the next two and a half years, we completed the remaining 93%.

Two 500 MW units were commissioned.

That was not merely engineering success.

That was organizational turnaround.

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What Farakka Taught Me

Looking back, Farakka remains one of the toughest assignments of my career.

Not because of engineering complexity.

But because:

• There was no cushion from HQ.
• A section of officers was hostile.
• Political and union pressures were intense.
• The predecessor had deep networks.

I survived and delivered because of a few principles:

1. Authority Must Be Asserted Early

Delay invites resistance.

2. Calmness Is a Weapon

When others expect anger, offer silence.

3. Escalation Is a Tool — Use It Sparingly

Reaching for that phone in Kolkata worked because I did not misuse that power later.

4. Performance Silences Politics

Once turbines begin rotating, opposition weakens.

5. Tough Postings Build Character

Comfortable postings build resumes.

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A Touch of Humour

Many years later, someone asked me:

“Roy saab, were you not afraid?”

I said,

“In Barauni I learnt to handle boilers. In Farakka I learnt to handle human boilers.”

Both require pressure control.

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Final Reflection

At 80, when I look back at my long journey — from Barauni to BHEL to NTPC projects — Farakka stands out.

There, I was not protected by systems.

There, I had to rely on:

• Experience
• Instinct
• Relationships
• And a little strategic stubbornness

Leadership is tested not when everything supports you.

It is tested when:

• You are isolated.
• The environment is hostile.
• The clock is ticking.
• And results are non-negotiable.

Farakka was that crucible.

And I remain grateful for it.

Because it proved something to me:

When institutions hesitate, individuals must act !

The Terminal of Eternity

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The Terminal of Eternity

Saxena was one of those overworked IT honchos whose smartwatch kept reminding him to breathe as if he were a guest user on his own lungs. His startup was at that delicate stage where it needed funding, which basically meant Delhi, meetings, and unlimited “follow-ups.”

He flew from Bangalore to Delhi, met a series of HNIs( high networth individuals )—each one promising “Let me think about it”—until midnight. By then he was stretched thinner than a government file.

He checked into a super deluxe hotel, ordered his so-called power dinner, and collapsed on the bed. He expected to wake up tired. Instead, he woke up nobody.

No room.

No bed.

Not even a body.

Just a vast, silent emptiness—something like an airport terminal whose architect forgot to submit the drawings. Saxena wasn’t sure he even had eyes, but he felt awake.

Voices floated around him—shocked, confused, multilingual. A Tamil worry, a Punjabi protest, an English complaint. He understood all of them, perfectly. Strangely, none of them had faces. Or forms. They were just… presences.

A soft glow appeared, like an inverter bulb saving electricity for someone else. A calm voice announced:

“Welcome. You are at the Terminal of Eternity. Departures only.”

Panic erupted.

“Terminal? Kaun sa flight?”

“I have an early meeting!”

“My EMI is due!”

“Return ticket??”

Saxena, who had seen enough production issues at 2 AM to stay calm, asked, “What happened to us?”

The voice replied with the efficiency of a seasoned passport officer:

“Simple. You died. Your brain carried your memories. That hardware is gone. You are now just consciousness—without baggage.”

Saxena felt oddly peaceful.

No deadlines.

No term sheets.

No KPIs breathing down his neck.

Just awareness.

One by one, the formless presences were pulled toward a soft radiance—each “boarding” silently.

Saxena drifted too, and the voice spoke one last time:

“Life gave you a name, a job, and memories.

Death takes them back.

What remains is only you—without roles, without fear, without hurry.”

He felt himself becoming lighter, like a flame without a lamp.

“Your life was the waiting room,” the voice added.

“The journey begins when you drop the baggage you carried for years.”

Saxena dissolved gently into the glow—

not as an IT honcho,

not as a founder chasing investors,

but as a small spark rejoining a limitless light.

The Terminal of Eternity faded behind him.

The real journey had begun.

--

"Asato ma sat gamaya,

Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya,

Mrityor ma amritam gamaya."

Meaning:

- "Asato ma sat gamaya": Lead me from unreal to real (or from darkness to light).

- "Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya": Lead me from darkness to light.

- "Mrityor ma amritam gamaya": Lead me from death to immortality.

This mantra is from the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad and is a prayer for guidance and enlightenment. It's a beautiful expression of the human desire for spiritual growth and self-realization. 🙏

“The Editor Who Wrote the Plot — and Quietly Scripted My Beginning.”

Saraswati’s Evening Lamp — and the Secret Apprenticeship of a Nephew

When my uncle, Nishith Roy, took over the editorship of Saraswati in the late 1970s, he inherited not merely a magazine but a century of expectation. Founded in Allahabad in 1900, Saraswati had shaped modern Hindi literature. By the time he assumed charge, however, the literary climate had changed. The glory years were past; finances were strained; readership patterns were shifting.

Yet he did not treat it as a fading relic. He treated it as a living responsibility.

He believed that even in twilight, a lamp must burn steadily.

---

The Administrator Who Observed Humanity

Before he was an editor, he was a Deputy Magistrate — a role that exposed him daily to the theatre of human nature.

He encountered:

• Land disputes older than the litigants themselves
• Respectable men who lied politely
• Petty criminals who philosophised
• Shady characters who mistook cunning for intelligence

These encounters did not remain confined to government files. They quietly transformed into literature.

The celebrated series “Dipti ki Chitthi” became one of the distinctive features of his tenure. Structured as letters, it carried administrative realism wrapped in personal reflection. Through Dipti’s voice, readers glimpsed the loneliness of authority, the ethical dilemmas of governance, and the subtle humour that emerges when power meets absurdity.

The letters were neither sensational nor sentimental. They were observant. Balanced. Humane.

---

The Detective Before the Editor

4 Lowther Road, Allahabad 

Even before taking the reins of Saraswati, my uncle had been writing detective fiction.

His sleuth, Man Singh, was unmistakably inspired by the intellectual sobriety of Byomkesh Bakshi — analytical, restrained, psychologically perceptive. Yet the structure of the plots bore the elegance of Agatha Christie: carefully placed clues, closed circles of suspects, and climactic revelations grounded in logic.

And where did this cerebral detective operate from?

Our ancestral house —
4, Lowther Road, Allahabad.

The quiet colonial bungalow became fictional headquarters. Verandahs turned into planning chambers; drawing rooms hosted interrogations. Alongside Man Singh stood Dhunayee, his loyal assistant — practical, grounded, occasionally bemused but essential to the detective’s success.

For us, the boundary between fiction and domestic life blurred delightfully. One half expected a mysterious visitor to knock at odd hours.

---

The Literary Ambush

Then came the episode that, in hindsight, feels like both mischief and mentorship.

After 1978, a few articles appeared in Saraswati under my name.

The minor technical issue was that I had not written them.

He had.

When I raised a hesitant objection, he brushed it aside with the composure of a magistrate dismissing a weak appeal. His logic seemed unassailable:
Now that your name has appeared in print, you must grow worthy of it.

It was the most elegant literary trap I have ever encountered.

Looking back, I realize he was not misusing my name; he was investing in it. Once one’s name is in a serious literary journal, one feels accountable. That quiet pressure perhaps nudged me toward eventually writing my own books.

If I became an author, the seed may well have been planted by that playful forgery.

---

From Bench to Bar — The Strategist Revealed

In 2002, he spent a month with us in Bhopal. Those evenings became informal seminars. It was then that he narrated another remarkable chapter of his life.

After resigning from judicial service, he had practiced as a lawyer in the Allahabad High Court.

In one significant case, his opponent was the formidable Siddharth Shankar Roy — distinguished lawyer and statesman, known for his command over argument.

My uncle described how he had patiently constructed his reasoning, leading the argument step by step into a position from which retreat required concession. It was not aggression; it was architecture.

After the exchange, Siddharth Shankar Roy reportedly remarked in lighter vein:

“You must be a Bengali to trap me like that.”

He narrated this not with pride, but with a soft, amused smile.

It was the same smile, I suspect, with which he had once placed my name beneath his articles.

Strategy, in his hands, was always subtle.

---

The Editor as Custodian

During his stewardship, Saraswati may not have regained its former circulation, but it retained dignity. He resisted dilution. He upheld literary seriousness. He infused the magazine with realism, intellectual detective fiction, and reflective prose.

When the magazine eventually ceased publication in 1980 due to financial difficulties, it did so with grace, not surrender.

---

A Legacy Beyond Pages

Looking back, I see a remarkable continuity:

• As Deputy Magistrate, he understood human motives.
• As Lawyer, he mastered argument.
• As Writer, he shaped narrative.
• As Editor, he protected tradition.
• As Uncle, he engineered my reluctant initiation into authorship.

Some legacies are measured in awards or circulation figures. His was measured in influence — quiet, steady, transformative.

And somewhere, in memory, I still see 4, Lowther Road:
Man Singh thinking deeply, Dhunayee waiting attentively, Dipti’s next letter arriving — and my uncle, pen in hand, smiling at yet another carefully constructed plot.

In preserving Saraswati during its twilight, he ensured that its final glow was neither dim nor desperate.

It was dignified.
Like the man himself.

Note:

A Note on Saraswati Magazine

Saraswati was the first significant modern Hindi literary monthly, launched in January 1900 from Allahabad (now Prayagraj) by the Indian Press under Chintamani Ghosh. It soon became the most influential Hindi journal of the early twentieth century.

Its golden period began under the editorship of Mahavir Prasad Dwivedi (1903–1920), a phase often referred to as the Dwivedi Yug in Hindi literature. During this era, Saraswati played a decisive role in standardizing Khari Boli Hindi prose, promoting literary discipline, and encouraging socially conscious writing.

Many of the most celebrated Hindi writers either contributed to or were nurtured by Saraswati, including:

Maithili Sharan Gupt

Premchand

Suryakant Tripathi ‘Nirala’

Jaishankar Prasad

Mahadevi Verma

Ramdhari Singh ‘Dinkar’

Subhadra Kumari Chauhan

Through poetry, essays, fiction, and literary criticism, Saraswati shaped modern Hindi literature and became a cultural institution rather than merely a magazine. Its influence extended beyond literature into social reform, nationalism, and linguistic development.

For decades, to be published in Saraswati was not merely an achievement — it was a recognition of literary legitimacy.

The Great Kolkata Cash Carousel

 The Great Kolkata Cash Carousel

In the sweltering heat of Kolkata's summer, a flashy ad popped up in every dingy tea stall and on the cracked screens of second-hand mobiles: "EARN 15,000 MONTHLY! NO QUALIFICATIONS NEEDED! ANY GENDER, CASTE, RELIGION WELCOME! INTERVIEWS AT GRAND HOTEL, TODAY ONLY!" It was like Diwali came early for the city's underbelly. By noon, a queue snaked around the block, longer than the one for subsidized rice during floods. Slum dwellers, rickshaw pullers, and even a few housewives with dreams of escaping their in-laws' nagging lined up, clutching crumpled resumes that were basically just their Aadhaar cards.

Inside the hotel's stuffy conference room, Rajesh, the "HR Manager" – a slick guy with a fake gold chain and a mustache that screamed '80s villain – scanned the crowd with a grin. "Next! You, the one with the hungry eyes. Name?"

"Vimal, sir," mumbled a lanky kid from the Salt Lake slums, his shirt two sizes too big. "I... I can do anything. Sweep floors, lift boxes, even dance if you pay extra."

Rajesh chuckled, eyeing Vimal like a pawn in a chess game. "Dance? Ha! No need for that, beta. We're a data entry firm. Sit tight, type stuff. Easy peasy. Selected!"

By evening, 50 lucky souls were chosen – all from the city's forgotten corners, where "steady job" meant hawking chai or dodging eviction notices. They high-fived each other outside, whispering, "Finally, bhai! No more begging from relatives."

A week later, they crammed into a rickety auto-rickshaw headed to the "office" – a two-story hovel squeezed into a narrow lane in North Kolkata, where laundry lines crisscrossed like spider webs and stray dogs ruled the alleys. The place looked more like a haunted adda than a workplace. Faded posters of Bollywood stars peeled from the walls, and the "computers" were four ancient desktops that wheezed like asthmatic uncles.

"Welcome, team!" Rajesh boomed, handing out forms. "Fill in your bank details. Salary straight to account – no chit-chat with pesky tellers."

Priya, a feisty girl from the same slum as Vimal, raised an eyebrow. "Bank details? Arre, boss, I don't even have a bank account that isn't overdrawn. What if you deposit and it vanishes into thin air?"

Rajesh winked. "Trust me, didi. Magic happens here."

On joining day, ping! 7,500 rupees hit their accounts as "advance." The group erupted in cheers. Vimal stared at his phone screen. "Yaar, this is more than I've seen in months! I was this close to pickpocketing tourists at Victoria Memorial."

"Shh, idiot," hissed Ratan, a burly guy with a tattoo of a cobra on his arm. "Don't jinx it. Finally, we eat biryani instead of khichdi."

Their "job"? Taking turns on those four creaky computers, entering nonsense data like "apple banana cat dog" into endless spreadsheets. Most of the time, they lounged on plastic chairs, sipping chai from a street vendor, gossiping about everything from cricket to crushes.

By month's end, another 7,500 landed. No questions asked. In the dim office light, they huddled like conspirators.

Vimal leaned in. "Guys, this is too good. We're getting paid to do jackshit. I feel like a king... or a conman. Remember, I almost turned to thievery? This is better – legal thievery!"

Priya smirked, fanning herself with a torn magazine. "Legal? Ha! Last week, I typed 'boobies' by mistake, and no one cared. But seriously, bhaiya, if they kick us out, I'm back to selling fake jewelry on the streets. At least here, I can flirt with the chai-wala without my ma yelling."

Ratan flexed his muscles. "Flirt? Didi, with your sharp tongue, you'd scare off a tiger. But yeah, I'm staying. My wife's already planning a new TV. If this is a scam, let it scam me rich!"

One fateful afternoon, Rajesh summoned them all. The air thickened with tension – was this the boot? Instead, in strolled Jacob, a towering Nigerian with muscles like a Maidan footballer, dreadlocks bouncing, and a smile that could sell ice to Eskimos. He looked like he could bench-press a tram.

"Listen up, my friends!" Jacob boomed in a thick accent, his voice echoing off the peeling walls. "I'm Jacob, your new big boss from Lagos. You all been good mules – wait, I mean, employees! From now, salary bump to 20,000! But rule one: Money drops in your account? Withdraw pronto and hand to Rajesh. No delay, no questions."

Vimal's eyes widened. "Mules? Like donkeys? Boss, I'm confused. And why the hurry? What if I want to buy a new phone first?"

Jacob laughed, a deep rumble. "Ha! Donkey? No, no, smart boy. Think of it as... express delivery. Big sums coming – lakhs, maybe crores! You withdraw, give to Rajesh. We handle the rest. And rule two: Mouth shut! Tell anyone – poof! Job gone. Family trouble too, eh?"

Priya crossed her arms, eyeing Jacob up and down. "Big sums? Sounds fishy, uncle. What are we, ATMs with legs? And you look like you could play for Mohun Bagan – why not scam on the field instead?"

Jacob grinned wider. "Feisty one! I like you. Football? Been there, scored that. But this game's more fun – no red cards, only green bucks. You all needy, right? Slums, struggles? We help each other. Win-win!"

Ratan nodded eagerly. "I'm in, boss! My account's ready. Deposit away – I'll withdraw faster than Usain Bolt!"

From the next day, it was chaos comedy. Ping! A lakh hits Vimal's account. He bolts to the bank, sweating bullets. "Arre, didi at the counter, quick! Withdraw all!"

Back at the office, he hands it to Rajesh. "Boss, felt like I was in a Bollywood heist. Heart pounding – what if cops show?"

Rajesh pockets it smoothly. "Good boy. Next time, act normal. Smile like you're buying veggies."

Priya's turn: Two lakhs. She struts in, cash in a plastic bag. "Here, take your dirty money. But boss, if this is illegal, at least make it exciting. Add some drama – chase scenes, maybe?"

Jacob, overhearing via video call, chuckles. "Drama? Girl, this is Kolkata – traffic's enough drama! Keep quiet, get paid. Or else... well, let's say I know people who make problems disappear faster than your monsoon floods."

Vimal whispered to Priya later, "Yaar, we're mules for scammers! Nigerian prince stuff, but real. I was gonna pickpocket, now I'm the pocket!"

Priya giggled. "Shh! At 20k a month, I'll mule till the cows come home. But if Jacob asks me out, I'm saying yes – those abs could crack coconuts!"

Ratan butted in. "Abs? Focus, people! Next deposit's mine. Let's make this the best fraud family ever!"

And so, the mule network thrived in that shabby lane, a hilarious web of desperation, deposits, and dodgy deals. They laughed off the risks, bantering like old pals, until one day... but that's another scam story. For now, in Kolkata's underbelly, easy money flowed like the Hooghly – murky, fast, and full of surprises.

The Great Kolkata Cash Carousel: Part 2 – Mule Mayhem

The shabby office in that North Kolkata lane buzzed like a beehive on steroids. The 50 mules – er, employees – had settled into their routine: Ping goes the phone, dash to the bank, hand over the cash to Rajesh, pocket their cut, and repeat. It was like a twisted game of musical chairs, but with lakhs instead of seats. Vimal, Priya, and Ratan formed the unofficial "Mule Trio," cracking jokes to mask the growing unease.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the crumbling rooftops, Jacob called another meeting. He sauntered in, football under his arm like a trophy, his jersey stained from a recent match with some local club. "My people!" he boomed, flashing that megawatt grin. "You all stars now. But let me tell you my story – keep it real, eh?"

Vimal perked up, munching on a samosa. "Story time? Boss, you look like you could star in a Nollywood flick. Spill!"

Jacob leaned against a rickety table, which creaked under his bulk. "Ah, started as foreign student, you know? Came to Kolkata for uni – cheap fees, spicy food, crazy traffic. But books? Boring! I play football for East Bengal reserves – score goals, make fans cheer. With match cash and... side gigs, I build this. Smart business, no? You all family now. More money coming – digital arrests, fake lotteries, all that jazz from my boys back home."

Priya's eyes narrowed, but she couldn't help smirking. "Digital arrests? Like, 'Hello, this is police, pay up or jail'? And you're funding it with football kicks? Boss, that's next-level multitasking. But why us slum rats? Couldn't you hire posh kids from Salt Lake?"

Jacob laughed, a thunderous sound that rattled the ancient fans. "Posh kids? They snitch! You all hungry – do anything for rupee. Like you, skinny boy," he pointed at Vimal. "Rajesh say you almost pickpocket? Ha! Now you pro – no touch, just withdraw!"

Ratan flexed, trying to match Jacob's vibe. "I'm in, chief! But what's a digital arrest? Sounds like my phone getting grounded."

"Simple, muscle man," Jacob explained, tossing the ball in the air. "Call from 'police' – say victim in big trouble, transfer money quick. Victim panics, sends to our accounts here. You mules withdraw, money vanishes into air. Poof! We split – I get lion's share for my... investments."

Just then, Rajesh slithered in, his fake gold chain glinting under the bulb. He clapped his hands sharply. "Enough chit-chat! Listen up, you lot. Jacob's the brain, I'm the muscle here. And among you – yeah, you innocents – I got my own guys. Spies, watchers. One wrong word, one sneaky call to cops? They'll report. Boom – you're out. Or worse."

Vimal gulped, nearly choking on his samosa. "Spies? Like James Bond in our group? Boss, that's paranoid! We're all broke buddies here."

Rajesh's mustache twitched menacingly. "Paranoid? Smart, beta. Last batch? One fool blabbed to his girlfriend. Now he's... let's say, enjoying free room and board in Tihar. You think this is game? Calls come from Nigeria, Dubai, even Cambodia – untraceable. Money spreads like wildfire, vanishes. You get 20k, I get... well, more. High pay for high risk. Now scat – next deposit tomorrow!"

Priya whispered to the trio as they shuffled out. "Spies? Ha! Bet it's that quiet guy in the corner, always staring. But 20k? I'll spy on myself if needed. Vimal, you okay? You look like you saw a ghost."

Vimal wiped his brow. "Yaar, I was gonna steal wallets, now I'm in international scam league? Jacob's footballer by day, fraudster by night – like Batman, but evil. And Rajesh? That crook's probably rolling in crores, buying gold chains for his gold chains!"

Ratan grinned, slapping Vimal's back. "Lighten up! Think of it as adventure. Next time money drops, I'll withdraw in style – maybe moonwalk out the bank. 'Officer, it's legit – from my Nigerian uncle!'"

Priya rolled her eyes. "Moonwalk? With your two left feet? Please. But seriously, if spies are watching, let's act normal. No more samosa parties – wait, screw that, bring extra tomorrow!"

As the mules dispersed into the humid night, the operation hummed on. Jacob headed to his next match, Rajesh counted his stacks in the back room, and the trio plotted their next banter session. Little did they know, the web was tightening – but for now, in Kolkata's chaotic lanes, the cash carousel spun wildly, fueled by desperation, deposits, and a dash of dark humor.

*Footnote: This tale draws from real-life scams routinely busted by Indian police, where mule networks launder money from digital arrest frauds, phishing, and international cybercrimes. Funds from panicked victims get dispersed through such accounts and vanish into untraceable channels. Local handlers like Rajesh are often well-compensated operatives, while calls originate from foreign hubs like Nigeria or Southeast Asia.*