My Wanakbori Adventure

From Sulking to Smiling: My Wanakbori Adventure

If anyone tells you that promotions always bring happiness, don't believe him. Sometimes a promotion arrives wrapped in shiny paper but contains a problem inside.

The year was 1985. I was posted in Delhi, happily working as Stabilisation Manager in BHEL. My job was to stabilize the newly commissioned thermal power units after we had successfully completed the commissioning of five 200 MW units at Singrauli Super Thermal Power Station in record time. Those were the days when getting your first promotion was almost as difficult as finding a seat in a crowded Delhi bus during office hours.

Then came the promotion order. Senior Manager at last!

I looked at the order with great excitement.

Then I read the fine print.

Posting: Wanakbori, Gujarat.

My excitement immediately developed a leakage.

Now, let me introduce my boss, the late Mr. Rengarajan. May God bless his soul. Somehow that gentleman and I never seemed to vibrate at the same frequency. Around that time, Wanakbori project was running behind schedule and somebody had to be sent there.

One Mr. Thiruvenkatam had originally been earmarked for the job. Unfortunately, he had developed a sudden and deep attachment to Gandhinagar. His son's education, he argued, would suffer if he moved.

A perfectly valid argument.

The only problem was that I had exactly the same problem.

My son Anish's education would also suffer.

But management asked Mr. Rengarajan who should go.

With remarkable generosity he suggested my name.

After all, I had just completed a record-breaking assignment at Singrauli. Why waste such talent in Delhi?

It was a masterstroke.

He got rid of me from Delhi and saved poor Thiruvenkatam from displacement.

Everybody was happy.

Except me.

---

On my way to Wanakbori, I landed in Baroda and met the late Mr. Raja to arrange transportation.

He calmly informed me that a jeep would come from Wanakbori in two days.

Two days!

I wanted to leave the very next day.

Already annoyed by my transfer, I became even more annoyed by the transport arrangement.

I conveyed my displeasure to Gururajrao, my local contact, and informed him in very diplomatic language that I would repay this treatment with interest at a later date.

Gururajrao wisely conveyed my message to Mr. Raja.

The effect was instantaneous.

Mr. Raja became more active than a boiler feed pump during peak load.

By next morning a hired car had magically appeared, and my family and I were dispatched to Wanakbori in style.

Sometimes diplomacy works best when lightly seasoned with threat.

---

On reaching Wanakbori, we were accommodated in the Gujarat Electricity Board guest house.

So far, so good.

Then I met the site in-charge, Mr. Pathak.

In the course of conversation he casually informed me that an E-Type quarter had been allotted to me.

Now, for those unfamiliar with government housing classifications, E-Type quarters were generally meant for the lowest grades.

I was a newly promoted Senior Manager.

Mr. Pathak himself was staying in a B-Type quarter.

I nearly swallowed my tongue.

Immediately I contacted Mr. Rengarajan.

I informed him, in language that left little room for misunderstanding, that if proper accommodation was not arranged, I could not guarantee smooth progress of the project.

This message somehow reached senior officials of the Gujarat Electricity Board.

Suddenly everyone discovered that suitable accommodation was indeed available.

Miracles happen every day in India.

You simply need the correct pressure.

---

Looking back, I am almost embarrassed at how negative I felt when I arrived at Wanakbori.

I was unhappy about the transfer.

I was unhappy about the schooling problem.

I was unhappy about transport.

I was unhappy about accommodation.

In short, I was professionally unhappy and personally miserable.

To ensure Anish received proper education, I eventually admitted him to the hostel of Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan in Baroda.

That was not easy for any parent.

But then something unexpected happened.

People happened.

---

Many years later, this morning in fact, my old colleague Anand called me after reading my previous article on Gujarat.

He was delighted that I had mentioned him and his wife Meenaben.

During our conversation I told him something I had perhaps never expressed fully before.

I had arrived in Gujarat with a negative mindset.

But people like Anand, Meenaben, their son Chaka, Mr. Dharangdharia, P. C. Patel of GEB and many others gradually changed my outlook.

Their friendship made the transition smooth.

The work itself was challenging and exciting.

And then there were those legendary monthly gatherings at Anand's flat.

A few pegs of whisky.

Meenaben's outstanding chicken curry.

Mr. Dharangdharia's stories.

Laughter flowing more freely than the whisky.

Those evenings did more for my morale than any management seminar ever could.

---

In fact, I often joked that I was the "SC of BHEL."

No, not Scheduled Caste.

Shit Cleaner.

Whenever there was a difficult project, a delayed commissioning, a troubled site, or a crisis nobody wanted to touch, somebody would inevitably remember Roy.

And off I would go with my broom.

Strangely enough, those difficult postings shaped my career.

Barauni had done it earlier.

Now Wanakbori was doing it again.

---

What started as a punishment posting became one of the most rewarding phases of my life.

I got the opportunity to work closely with warm-hearted Gujaratis.

I visited Anand, the home of India's famous milk cooperative movement.

I travelled frequently to Ahmedabad and Baroda.

I sought blessings at the Ranchhodraiji Temple in Dakor.

I built friendships that have survived decades after retirement.

And somewhere along the way, the resentment disappeared.

---

The Lesson

Life has a peculiar habit.

Many of the doors we enter reluctantly turn out to lead to our best experiences.

When I boarded that car from Baroda to Wanakbori, I was carrying irritation, resentment, and disappointment.

I had no idea that I was also travelling toward friendship, professional growth, unforgettable memories, and a lifelong affection for Gujarat.

That is perhaps the greatest lesson I learnt.

After every dark night there is sunshine.

The trick is to keep moving until sunrise.

And if the journey includes good friends, a few pegs of whisky, and Meenaben's chicken curry, the sunrise arrives much faster. 😊

My experience with RSS

 October-November 1984: A Week I Will Never Forget

It was the 31st of October, 1984. I was posted in Delhi as Manager, Stabilization, at BHEL, working out of our office in Ashoka Estate near Connaught Place. It started as an ordinary day. By mid-morning, a murmur began spreading through the office, hushed voices, people stepping away from their desks to whisper. There had been an attempt on the life of Indira Gandhi.

Nobody knew anything for certain. The uncertainty was unbearable, so during a break I walked down to the Hindustan Times building, where an electronic news board ran a scrolling ticker outside, visible to anyone passing on the road. I stood there with a small crowd of strangers, all of us craning our necks, waiting for the letters to repeat themselves. The news was the same as what we had heard in the office: an attempt had been made. No names, no details, just that bare, frightening fact.

I went back to work, but nobody was really working. Every few minutes someone would walk past with a fresh rumor. In the evening, I boarded the chartered bus that took us back to West Patel Nagar, where I was staying at the time. The bus was unusually quiet, and then it wasn't, conversations would flare up in hushed tones, die down, and flare up again somewhere else. Everyone was speculating. Who had done it? Was she alive? Nobody knew who had attempted the assassination, and that not-knowing sat heavily over all of us.

By late evening, the news was confirmed. Her own bodyguard, a Sikh, had shot her. She was dead.

The next day, a holiday was declared, as one would expect after the assassination of a sitting Prime Minister. My parents lived in the Western Extension Area in Karol Bagh, and I decided to visit them with my wife Madhuri. I took her on my scooter, and our son Anish followed us on his own bike. It felt, that morning, like an ordinary family visit. We had lunch with my parents, and afterward, the three of us went up to the rooftop, the way families often do in Delhi, just to sit, talk, get some air.

That's when we saw it. Smoke was rising from the direction of Paharganj, thick and black, the kind of smoke that doesn't come from a kitchen fire. Then we heard sounds from the road below, shouting, running, a kind of noise that didn't belong to a holiday afternoon. Something was very wrong.

I told my parents I had to leave immediately. I could sense trouble coming, though even then, I had no idea what was actually unfolding. I had no idea that Sikhs were being targeted by mobs across the city. That understanding came only on the ride back.

Riding back toward our house, I saw things I still find difficult to describe. Mobs of men running through the streets, carrying televisions, telephones, household goods, looted from shops that belonged to Sikh owners. It was broad daylight. Nobody was hiding what they were doing. Thinking back on it now, I realize how much risk we were taking, riding through those streets on a scooter and a bike, with my wife and son out in the open, passing groups of men in that state of frenzy. At the time, I just wanted to get home. Looking back, I understand how easily that ride could have ended very differently.

When I reached home, my landlady, whom I called Mataji, was waiting with a piece of advice that I followed without question. She told me not to park my scooter outside, where I normally kept it, but to bring it inside the courtyard, out of sight. It was such a small, practical instruction, but it told me everything about how serious the situation had become. She understood, before I fully did, that anything visible, any object, any vehicle, any sign of who lived where, could become a target or a clue for the mobs moving through the area.

Mataji had three sons. The eldest was married. The second one was unmarried, a well-built young man with a handlebar moustache, the kind of moustache you noticed immediately. We all called him Mooch.

Later that day, Mooch came to find me. He handed me a piece of paper with a telephone number written on it and told me, plainly, that if there was any trouble, I should call that number. I asked him what kind of trouble he meant, and what the number was for. He told me it was a control room number. I asked, control room of what? He explained that he was a member of the RSS, and that they had set up an emergency control room in someone's house in the area, specifically to help protect Sikh families from the mobs that were being organized against them.

Then he gave me a lathi.

I remember holding it, this simple wooden stick, and understanding that things had moved from "be careful" to "be ready."

That was Thursday, the 1st of November. Through the day, news kept filtering in, that Congress leaders, names like Sajjan Kumar and Tytler were being mentioned, were allegedly mobilizing gangs from the Bhangi colony to attack Sikh homes and shops. There was no police protection visible anywhere in our area. By evening, Mooch had organized something remarkable out of pure necessity: teams of young men from the neighboring houses, myself included, formed a rotating watch to guard our locality around the clock.

It wasn't long before we were tested. A truck full of men arrived in our lane. They stopped near a parked car, a car belonging to someone in the neighborhood, tipped it onto its side, punctured the petrol tank, and threw a lit matchstick at it. The car went up instantly, flames roaring into the evening air.

We didn't think. We ran toward them, armed with whatever we had, sticks, hockey sticks, the lathi Mooch had given me. The moment they saw a group of us coming at them, ready to fight, they turned and ran for their truck. They hadn't expected anyone to resist. Cowards, every one of them, brave enough to torch a car and loot a shop, but not brave enough to face people standing together.

The next day, the RSS organized a meeting in the central park of our area. They stood up in front of everyone and assured the Sikh families in the neighborhood that they would be protected, that the community would not let anything happen to them. We kept up our vigil for two more days, watching the lanes, watching the main road, watching for trucks. And then, finally, the police became active. Help arrived, late, but it arrived.

That week has stayed with me for over forty years now. It was the week I saw how quickly a city could turn, how neighbors could become looters overnight, and how other neighbors, ordinary men with moustaches and lathis and a telephone number scrawled on paper, could become the only line of defense between a family and a mob.

My father used to tell us stories from when he first arrived in Delhi after Partition, how riots were almost a regular affair in those years, and how the RSS had stepped in then too, to protect Hindu families caught in the violence. I understand that over the years, the organization has been painted very differently by Congress and by sections of the left, and I know that debate continues, with people on different sides holding strong views, some shaped by different parts of its long history.

But I can only speak to what I saw with my own eyes. In 1984, when the police were absent and the mobs were active, it was Mooch and the volunteers from our lane who stood between us and real danger. And in the years since, during various project postings across the country, I have seen the same kind of organization show up again, during floods, during earthquakes, organizing relief, distributing supplies, doing the unglamorous work that needs doing when everything else has broken down.

That is my memory, and that is my experience. Others will have theirs, and theirs may be very different. But this is mine, and I wanted to write it down before it fades any further.

Hey Ram

My Ram: No Sponsorship, No PR Agency, No Permission Required

Let me confess something right at the beginning. I have lived with Ram all my life. Not as a political slogan, not as a television serial, and certainly not as a subject for academic seminars where people use twenty difficult words to explain something a village grandmother already understands.

My Ram arrived much earlier.

It began at Raisina Bengali School, where abridged versions of the Ramayana and Mahabharata were part of our syllabus. Nobody felt the need to issue disclaimers. Nobody warned us that exposure to Ram might have side effects. We simply read the stories and moved on with life.

Then there was the annual Ramlila near our chummery in Delhi.

For ten glorious days, the entire locality would come alive.

My friend Subhash, who possessed an entrepreneurial spirit that would have made him a successful startup founder today, had perfected the art of manufacturing entry tickets. His philosophy was simple: culture should be accessible to all. We happily accepted his social reform programme and never wasted time discussing ethics. I am fairly certain Ram would have forgiven a few enthusiastic schoolboys.

The real attraction was Hanuman.

A man dressed as Hanuman would be tied to a rope fixed to the top of a tall tree. At the right moment he would come sliding down dramatically with a blazing torch in his hand. Lanka would catch fire, the crowd would erupt, and we would clap until our palms hurt.

Nobody in that audience had a PhD in Sanskrit. Nobody had read comparative mythology. Yet everyone understood exactly what was happening.

That is the magic of Ram.

Years later, at Singrauli Super Thermal Power Station, I saw another version of India. During Dussehra, one half of the stage hosted Durga Puja while the other half staged Ramlila.

Durga on one side.

Ram on the other.

Both perfectly comfortable sharing the same stage.

If somebody wants a practical demonstration of Indian secularism, I would recommend that arrangement.

Then came Bhopal.

As Executive Director of BHEL, I was invited to inaugurate the Dussehra celebrations. Someone handed me a flaming arrow and pointed toward Ravan's effigy.

I aimed.

I fired.

Ravan exploded into flames.

I must admit that at that moment I experienced absolutely no philosophical confusion. There was no internal debate about symbolism, structural oppression, post-modern interpretations or narrative complexity.

Ravan burned.

The audience cheered.

The system worked exactly as designed.

My understanding of Ram took a different turn when I came under the influence of Swami Rajeshwaranand.

He was one of the most remarkable people I have ever met. Born a Muslim, he became a Hindu ascetic, but more importantly, he remained a deeply humane person.

His discourses were extraordinary.

In a single session he could quote Valmiki, the Quran and the Guru Granth Sahib and somehow make them sound like members of the same family. My wife Madhuri and I would eagerly wait for his annual visits.

When I retired, he chose Vanvas—Ram's exile—as the theme of his farewell discourse for me.

Only later did I understand the message.

Retirement is not the end of the story.

Sometimes the forest begins where the office ends.

After retirement came my reading years.

I enjoyed Devdutt Pattanaik and his interpretation of Sita.

Then I read the Ram series by Amish Tripathi, where Ram appears as a statesman, reformer and administrator struggling with duty and responsibility.

Both were fascinating.

Both made me think.

But eventually I stopped outsourcing my understanding of Ram.

As Tulsidas wrote:

> Siya Ram maya sab jag jani, karaun pranaam jori jug paani.

Knowing that Sita and Ram pervade the entire universe, I fold my hands and bow.

That, for me, is the essence.

Ram is not a political position.

Ram is not a debating point.

Ram is not a membership card.

Ram is an aspiration.

The ideal human being.

The complete man.

The Raymond advertisement before Raymond advertisements were invented.

And the interesting thing is that I have understood Ram not through my virtues but through my shortcomings.

Every time I lose patience, I understand his patience.

Every time I make a selfish choice, I understand his selflessness.

The distance between me and Ram is precisely what helps me understand Ram.

That gap itself is Ram.

One Sanskrit verse has always stayed with me:

> न त्वहं कामये राज्यं न स्वर्गं नापुनर्भवम्।

कामये दुःखतप्तानां प्राणिनामार्तिनाशनम्॥

"I desire neither kingdom, nor heaven, nor liberation. I desire only the removal of suffering from those who are afflicted."

That is the Ram who inspires me.

Not the shouting Ram of television debates.

Not the weaponised Ram of election speeches.

Simply a moral ideal that asks us to become slightly better than we were yesterday.

Which brings me—with considerable amusement—to a certain distinguished Bengali Sanskrit scholar who discovered in recent years that the "angry warrior Ram" was apparently invented by modern politics.

Now, I have nothing against scholarship. I respect learning immensely.

But using Ram to attack people for using Ram politically is rather like protesting traffic congestion by driving another car into the jam.

This gentleman received awards, enjoyed publication opportunities and flourished magnificently during a particular political era. I happened to share a stage with him at a book fair recently.

Had I known his views beforehand, I might have requested the organisers to keep a ceremonial fire arrow ready.

Metaphorically, of course.

At my age, one must be careful with both fire and controversy.

I am an engineer by training.

I am a nationalist by conviction.

Whether Ram existed as a historical figure is, frankly, not the question that keeps me awake at night.

After all, gravity existed long before Newton explained it.

Similarly, the idea of Ram has existed for centuries before modern historians began arguing about it.

That idea has shaped societies, inspired literature, comforted grieving families, guided rulers and ordinary citizens alike, and travelled across generations without needing marketing support.

To me, that makes Ram profoundly real.

Today, when I want to quiet my mind, I listen to Hey Ram sung by Jagjit Singh.

And suddenly everything returns.

The dusty Ramlila ground.

Subhash and his miraculous tickets.

Hanuman sliding down the rope.

The burning Lanka.

The shared stage of Durga and Ram at Singrauli.

The flaming arrow in Bhopal.

The gentle wisdom of Swami Rajeshwar Anand.

The books.

The memories.

The lessons.

And all my own imperfections that helped me appreciate the ideal.

Ram does not need my defence.

He does not need anyone's criticism.

He certainly does not need a government grant.

Ram has survived empires, invasions, ideologies, academics, politicians and television anchors.

He will survive us too.

You do not have to prove Ram.

You only have to feel him.