When Even Playing Tennis Looked “Revolutionary”

When Even Playing Tennis Looked “Revolutionary”

It must have been around 1971, when the Naxalite movement was at its peak and Bengal—and much of eastern India—was passing through one of its most turbulent phases. At that time, I was posted at the Barauni Refinery of Indian Oil Corporation.

The atmosphere was such that every educated Bengali male with spectacles, a jhola, and a serious face was automatically suspected to be a Naxalite. Bihar Police, it was rumoured, even had a “special interest” in Bengalis. Some people joked that if you quoted Tagore correctly, suspicion increased further.

One day, our CPI union leader, Rameshwar Prasad, came to me with a mysterious expression and said in a hushed tone,

“Roy saab, police sleuths are following you.”

I burst out laughing.

“Poor fellows,” I replied. “They must be terribly disappointed.”

He looked puzzled.

I explained, “Every evening after office I go to Officers’ Club, play tennis, then badminton, eat dinner at the guest house, and sleep. If they are expecting secret revolutionary meetings, they are wasting government resources.”

Frankly, I almost felt sorry for the intelligence department. Imagine tailing a suspect whose biggest conspiracy was whether to play singles or doubles badminton.

But the situation outside was no joke.

There was a dacoity in a zamindar’s house in Begusarai, and in the usual style of those times, some of our Bengali trade apprentices were promptly picked up and branded as Naxalites. In those days, if a Bengali youth carried a book instead of a lathi, police suspicion became even stronger.

I knew those boys. They were more frightened of workshop supervisors than of the Indian state.

So I took help from my friend K. K. Verma, whose uncle was a police officer, and somehow managed to get the boys released. In those days, personal credibility and contacts often worked faster than formal systems.

Around the same period, I had to visit Calcutta for finalising the starting relay CMM-4 with English Electric for our high-voltage coke-cutting motor. I was staying at the IOC guest house on Syed Amir Ali Avenue. Being a bachelor then, life was fairly uncomplicated—except that Bengal itself had become highly complicated.

My late brother-in-law, Ranjit Mukherjee, was a hardcore CPM supporter. Those were violent political days. Congress toughs and plainclothes policemen allegedly harassed many Left supporters. Ranjit had his own house in Dhakuria, but because of constant trouble he shifted quietly to Santragachi in a rented flat, almost like a political refugee within his own state.

One evening after work, I went to visit my sister there. Since we were meeting after a long gap, my brother-in-law became enthusiastic about arranging a “special dinner.” Bengalis can postpone revolution, but not elaborate dinners.

Naturally, dinner became late.

By then everyone in the house looked worried.

“You are not going back tonight,” they declared.

“Why?” I asked.

My brother-in-law replied dramatically,

“At this hour police may shoot first and identify later. You look exactly like an intellectual Bengali.”

I protested that I at least needed to inform the IOC guest house.

So he took me to the nearest thana.

But just before entering, he stopped.

“You go inside alone,” he whispered. “I won’t accompany you.”

“Why?”

“I am staying incognito.”

That sentence itself sounded sufficiently revolutionary.

So there I was—walking alone into a police station at night during the peak of the Naxalite era.

I showed my Indian Oil ID card and explained my predicament to the officer in charge. Fortunately, he turned out to be a practical and accommodating man. The moment he realised I was a PSU officer stranded between bureaucracy and Bengali family hospitality, his entire attitude softened.

He allowed me to use the phone and even advised me to stay back safely.

Thus ended my brief “underground political career.”

Next morning, I quietly returned to the IOC guest house—alive, well-fed, and still non-revolutionary.

Why am I writing this today?

Because I feel that period marked the beginning of Bengal’s long institutional decline. Many brilliant young students got swept into the Naxalite movement. Some were idealists, some romantic rebels, and some simply angry young men searching for meaning. Tragically, many were mercilessly killed in police action. Siddhartha Shankar Ray earned the harsh title of “Butcher of Bengal” from his critics because of the severity of the crackdown.

Later, he was sent by Indira Gandhi to deal with the Khalistani situation in Punjab. The template had already been created—politics, policing, fear, and force becoming intertwined.

Somewhere during those years, police gradually began getting perceived not as neutral protectors of law, but as extensions of ruling political power. Successive governments merely changed the colour of the flag; the system largely remained the same.

Today, while speaking to an ADG-level officer, I raised this very question.

“Why didn’t IPS officers resist?” I asked.

He smiled helplessly and said,

“The system gives very little scope.”

Then after a pause he added honestly,

“Of course, maybe twenty percent are corrupt.”

I appreciated the candour.

My hope is that with political change in Bengal, policing may gradually return to its original purpose—that the common citizen should see a policeman as someone to approach for help, not someone to avoid out of fear.

A society progresses not merely through flyovers and malls, but when an ordinary citizen can enter a police station without anxiety.

Much like I did that night in Santragachi—armed only with an IOC identity card and the confidence of an innocent badminton player.

Bulldozers, Bureaucrats and Stray Dogs

Bulldozers, Bureaucrats and Stray Dogs

The recent bulldozer action against unauthorized constructions in Bengal brought back an old memory from my BHEL Bhopal days in 2002, when I was serving as Executive Director. In those days, BHEL township was not merely a colony—it was practically a parallel civilization.

Spread over hectares of land, it was originally built for around 22,000 employees. By the time I took charge, the employee strength had come down to nearly 10,000. As a result, many quarters stood vacant like retired soldiers waiting for fresh orders.

The township had everything imaginable—11 company-run schools, a 100-bed hospital, four shopping complexes, and religious establishments of almost every possible faith and denomination. There were Jain temples of two sects, a Kalibari maintained passionately by Bengalis, a mosque, a church, an Ayyappa temple, and even a Radhaswami congregation area.

In short, if a man was born, educated, married, spiritually uplifted, medically treated, and finally retired within BHEL township, nobody would find it unusual.

But like every Indian township, modernity arrived in its own peculiar form—slums.

Right opposite the foundry gate stood a large slum of more than 200 shanties. Now, this was not merely an aesthetic issue. Those were the days when terrorist activities were making headlines regularly, and the Defence Ministry had already flagged the settlement as a security concern because of its proximity to the factory.

The warning had been issued before I took over, but like many official warnings in India, it had achieved peaceful coexistence with dusty files.

When the matter came to my notice, I contacted the then Principal Secretary of Urban Development, Mr. Raghav Chandra, a dynamic IAS officer with the rare ability to move files faster than glaciers. He agreed to help immediately—but with one condition.

“Samar babu,” he said in his calm bureaucratic style, “give us a patch of vacant land at the outskirts of your township.”

Now this was what management books call a win-win solution. We had unused land. The government had rehabilitation funds. The slum dwellers needed homes. Everybody could emerge happy without television debates.

So the land was officially transferred to the Madhya Pradesh Government. Using available government funds, small houses were constructed for the displaced families. BHEL agreed to provide electricity and water connections on a metered basis.

Then came the human side of the operation.

I sought help from late Babulal Gaur, the veteran political leader known for his practical wisdom and earthy communication skills. He negotiated patiently with the residents. From BHEL side, our Town Administrator, A.K. Bhattacharya, coordinated the ground activities with military precision and Bengali patience—an uncommon but effective combination.

We even provided trucks to help families move to their new homes. There was no drama, no resistance, no stone throwing, no television microphones screaming “exclusive visuals.”

The entire relocation happened peacefully.

After the area was cleared, the vacated land was converted into a garden. A ceremonial tree plantation was organized, and I planted a sapling there with all the seriousness of a man inaugurating a new chapter in urban management.

But the real surprise came a few days later.

I suddenly noticed that stray dog population inside the factory had increased dramatically.

I asked one of the staff members, “What happened? Have the dogs also received transfer orders?”

The reply came instantly:

“Sir, these dogs belonged to that slum. The people shifted… the dogs did not.”

For a moment I imagined the dogs holding an emergency meeting: “Humans have betrayed us. Occupy the factory premises immediately.”

Looking back today, I feel the entire episode taught me something important. Removing unauthorized settlements by force alone may clear land, but it rarely clears resentment. The real solution lies in rehabilitation with dignity, coordination between government agencies, and treating people as stakeholders rather than obstacles.

Bulldozers can demolish structures quickly. Trust takes a little longer to build.

गाय आई, फरी घबराया… और हमारा फार्महाउस कुछ दिनों के लिए सचमुच गाँव बन गया!

यह घटना मेरे भोपाल के दिनों की है, शायद 2002 के आसपास, जब मैं Bharat Heavy Electricals Limited में था। Executive Director का बंगला किसी छोटे-मोटे फार्महाउस से कम नहीं था। पूरा परिसर कई एकड़ में फैला हुआ। साल भर का चावल और गेहूँ उसी के खेत में उग जाता था। किचन गार्डन इतना बड़ा कि उसमें घूमते-घूमते आदमी रास्ता भूल जाए।

सुना था कि मेरे पूर्ववर्ती साहब तो सब्जियाँ बाजार में बेच भी देते थे। मैंने यह बात सुनकर माधुरी से कहा था—

“देखो, अगर नौकरी न रही तो कम-से-कम आलू-टमाटर बेचकर गुजर-बसर हो जाएगी!”

आँगन में आम, अमरूद, कटहल, लीची के पेड़ों की भरमार थी। मेरे पिता जी उन दिनों अधिकतर हमारे साथ ही रहते थे। सुबह-सुबह वे लॉन में टहलते और उनके पीछे-पीछे हमारा पालतू स्पिट्ज कुत्ता “फरी” ऐसे चलता जैसे कोई सिक्योरिटी गार्ड ड्यूटी पर हो।

उसी दौरान मैंने एक बूढ़े विशाल चील को कई बार लॉन के पास टहलते देखा। वह इतना बूढ़ा था कि उड़ भी नहीं पाता था। मैंने मजाक में माधुरी से कहा—

“असल मालिक तो यही चील है। हम तो बस रिटायरमेंट तक के शरणार्थी हैं!”

एक दिन मैं लंच के लिए घर आया। माधुरी बड़े रहस्यमय अंदाज़ में बोली—

“चलो, तुम्हें कुछ दिखाती हूँ।”

मैं पीछे गया तो देखता क्या हूँ—एक गर्भवती गाय खड़ी है!

मैं चौंक गया—

“अरे! यह कहाँ से आयी? क्या BHEL ने अब डेयरी प्रोजेक्ट भी शुरू कर दिया?”

माधुरी बोली—

“बेचारी गेट के पास खड़ी होकर रंभा रही थी। दया आ गई। मैंने मालियों से कहा अंदर ले आओ।”

गाय को ताजी सब्जियाँ, पानी, पूरा VIP ट्रीटमेंट मिलने लगा। लेकिन घर में एक सदस्य इस व्यवस्था से बिल्कुल खुश नहीं था—हमारा फरी।

फरी का चेहरा ऐसा रहता जैसे किसी विभाग में उसका ट्रांसफर कर दिया गया हो।

वह गाय को देखकर लगातार भौंकता—

“यह मेरा इलाका है! तुरंत खाली करो!”

गाय शांत भाव से जुगाली करती रहती। उसे फरी की राजनीति से कोई फर्क नहीं पड़ता था।

एक हफ्ता बीत गया। कोई मालिक नहीं आया। फिर एक रात गाय ने बछड़े को जन्म दिया। पूरा ऑपरेशन माधुरी की देखरेख में हुआ और मेरे प्रिय सहकर्मी बुनियाद ने ऐसे जिम्मेदारी संभाली जैसे वह किसी सरकारी प्रोजेक्ट का commissioning in-charge हो।

मैंने बुनियाद से कहा—

“तुम्हारी capability देखकर लगता है BHEL के बाद veterinary department भी संभाल लोगे।”

बुनियाद हँस पड़ा।

माधुरी तो उस गाय और बछड़े से भावनात्मक रूप से जुड़ गई थी। लेकिन फरी की हालत खराब थी। अब तो attention का पूरा बजट ही कट गया था। वह मुझे देखकर शिकायत भरी आँखों से मानो कहता—

“साहब, पहले मैं घर का इकलौता बच्चा था!”

कुछ दिनों बाद एक गाँव वाला आया और बोला कि गाय उसकी है। बुनियाद ने पूरी तहकीकात की, गाँव में खबर भिजवाई, तब जाकर पुष्टि हुई कि आदमी सच बोल रहा है।

माधुरी गाय को जाने देना नहीं चाहती थी। उसकी आँखें नम थीं।

मैंने कहा—

“देखो, असली मालिक के पास लौटना ही ठीक है। वरना कल को गाय भी बोलेगी कि मेरा transfer order cancel कर दो।”

गाय चली गई। बछड़ा भी साथ गया।

हम सब थोड़े उदास थे।

लेकिन फरी…

वह उस दिन इतने गर्व से लॉन में घूम रहा था जैसे उसने कोई लंबी कानूनी लड़ाई जीत ली हो।

इस तरह कुछ दिनों के लिए ही सही, हमारे “अपनी गाय” रखने का सपना पूरा हुआ—और फरी ने राहत की साँस ली।

From Jute Mills to Digital Cables — Bengal Searches for Its Second Industrial Sunrise.

For nearly a century, Bengal stood as the industrial heartbeat of India. The foundations were strong—coal from Raniganj and Jharia, iron ore from Bihar and Odisha, the great port of Kolkata, an extensive railway network, navigable rivers, and a skilled English-educated workforce. Around this ecosystem grew engineering giants, jute mills, foundries, wagon factories, leather units, and consumer industries.

 But history does not remain static. The same Bengal that once symbolized industrial energy gradually entered a phase of decline. The first major blow came from technology itself. Jute, once called the “golden fibre,” suffered globally after the arrival of synthetic packaging materials and polythene bags. Cheap plastic replaced traditional gunny sacks in agriculture, cement, fertilizer, and packaging industries. Bengal’s jute mills, many built during British times, failed to modernize adequately. Productivity remained low while global competition increased. At the same time, India’s industrial geography began shifting. New industrial centres emerged in Faridabad, Pune, Coimbatore, and Okhla. These regions offered newer plants, better industrial relations, modern layouts, and more adaptable ecosystems. While other states embraced modernization, many industries in Bengal remained trapped in aging infrastructure and labour rigidity. 

 The long Left Front era further altered the industrial climate. Though the government emphasized labour rights and land reforms, the perception among many industrialists was that militant trade unionism and political interference made industrial operations difficult. Capital slowly began moving away from Bengal. The much-discussed episode involving the alleged manhandling of members of the Birla industrial group became symbolic of deteriorating industry-government relations. Whether fully factual or partly amplified by perception, such stories deeply affected investor confidence.

 Later, under the All India Trinamool Congress era, another challenge emerged in the form of the so-called “syndicate raj,” allegations of cut-money culture, and politically connected local networks influencing construction and business activity. Daily newspapers increasingly carried reports of crime, extortion, and political violence. Even when some of these perceptions were exaggerated, perception itself became an economic factor. Investors generally seek stability, predictability, and ease of operation.

 Bengal gradually lost its image as an industrially dependable destination. Yet history also shows that regions can reinvent themselves. Today, the age of giant smoke-belching heavy industries is fading globally. 

The future belongs to automation, digital infrastructure, clean energy, logistics, artificial intelligence, robotics, semiconductor ecosystems, fintech, design engineering, and data-driven services. Bengal still possesses many advantages that can support such a transition. Its greatest strength remains geography. Bengal is India’s gateway to the Northeast and Southeast Asia. It has a coastline and access to the Bay of Bengal. Kolkata remains a major cultural and intellectual centre.

 The state produces a large number of technically educated youth. Cost of living is still lower than Bengaluru or Mumbai. The proposed deep-sea port projects can transform maritime logistics. The landing of submarine marine communication cables near Digha connecting toward Singapore is strategically significant in the digital age. That marine cable landing could become a turning point. In the modern economy, data is as important as coal once was. 

Regions with strong digital connectivity attract: Data centres Cloud computing infrastructure AI processing hubs Financial back offices Global capability centres Cybersecurity firms Animation and gaming studios Semiconductor design units 6 A deep-sea port, if efficiently executed, can further transform Bengal into: A logistics hub for eastern India A gateway for BIMSTEC and ASEAN trade A ship repair and maritime services centre A cold-chain export hub for agriculture and fisheries A warehousing and containerization ecosystem Instead of competing with Gujarat or Maharashtra in old-style heavy industry, Bengal may need to build a hybrid future: Digital economy Green manufacturing Electronics assembly Renewable energy equipment Robotics and automation Port-led logistics Knowledge industries Tourism and cultural economy Deep-tech startups linked to universities The old industrial Bengal was built on coal, steel, railways, and jute. The new Bengal, if it emerges, may rise on data, connectivity, ports, technology, and skilled human capital. History rarely repeats itself in the same form. It evolves.

From hearing Syama Prasad Mukherjee as a child to witnessing a new chapter in Bengal today — history felt personal. For me, this moment symbolised cultural confidence, free expression, and hope for better governance while preserving Bengal’s spirit of harmony.

Yesterday, I witnessed what many in Bengal would describe as a historic political moment—the oath-taking ceremony of Suvendu Adhikari as Chief Minister of West Bengal. For me, the occasion carried emotions far deeper than a routine change of government. It reflected, in the minds of many Bengalis, an awakening of Hindu identity and cultural confidence after years of political tension, allegations of appeasement politics, and growing unease over law and order in parts of the state.

The backdrop to this sentiment cannot be ignored. News and stories emerging from Bangladesh regarding attacks on Hindu minorities have disturbed many families in Bengal who still carry memories and emotional links across the border. Simultaneously, incidents involving strongmen and local syndicates in parts of Bengal—figures like Shahjahan Sheikh becoming symbols of alleged lawlessness—created a perception among many ordinary citizens that political patronage had weakened governance and emboldened criminal elements. Whether entirely true or politically amplified, this perception spread widely across urban and rural Bengal alike.

During my long walk toward the venue, I noticed large portraits of Syama Prasad Mukherjee. Seeing his image stirred old memories within me. In post-Independence Bengal, Mukherjee was often portrayed by his critics merely as a Hindu nationalist figure, while many of his contributions remained underemphasized in mainstream political discourse. Yet history records that he played a major role during Partition negotiations in ensuring that Kolkata, Malda, and parts of Murshidabad remained within India. To countless Bengali Hindus displaced during Partition, his role carried enormous emotional significance.

My late father, R. N. Roy, quietly admired M. S. Golwalkar during the turbulent years after 1947. I still remember him taking me, as a small boy of perhaps seven, to the Kali Bari in New Delhi to hear Syama Prasad Mukherjee speak. I understood little of the speech then, but I remember clapping enthusiastically with the crowd. Those childhood impressions remained somewhere deep within me, and yesterday they resurfaced with unexpected force.

At the same time, Bengal’s political reality is more complex than simple binaries of Hindu versus Muslim. I have personally never believed in discrimination based on religion, caste, or language. Throughout my professional life, while promoting officers, helping workers, or assisting the poor, I never asked whether someone was Hindu or Muslim. Those who worked with me know this well.

I have prayed in temples, visited the great mosque of Bhopal after taking charge there, and attended churches during Christmas. During my tenure in BHEL Bhopal, I renovated the Hanuman temple inside the factory premises and often visited it during difficult phases of plant operations along with my officers. Even today, many Muslim workers around me—barbers, attendants, club staff like Razzab and Iliyas—receive affection and generosity from me not because of their religion, but because they are fellow human beings with whom I share warmth and familiarity.

That is why my support for this political transition does not arise from hatred toward another community. Rather, it comes from a feeling shared by many Bengalis that Hindu cultural expressions had increasingly become hesitant or defensive under competitive vote-bank politics. Stories circulated—some verified, some perhaps exaggerated—about restrictions on blowing the conch shell during evening prayers, or objections to building temples in housing complexes. Such incidents created among many Hindus a perception that their traditions were being treated as negotiable while political parties remained excessively cautious in confronting communal sensitivities.

Similarly, debates over language and terminology—such as replacing Sanskrit-origin Bengali words with more Persianised alternatives in official usage—were interpreted by many as symbolic appeasement, even when ordinary Muslims themselves may not have demanded such changes. In politics, perception often becomes more powerful than policy itself.

The rise of the BJP in Bengal therefore represents, for many supporters, not merely electoral change but a psychological shift—the feeling that one can openly express civilizational and cultural identity without fear of ridicule, intimidation, or political harassment. Many believe that under previous conditions, criticism of ruling-party excesses could invite pressure from local political networks or administrative machinery.

Yet Bengal’s greatest strength has always been its pluralism. The Bengal of Rabindranath Tagore, Kazi Nazrul Islam, and Syama Prasad Mukherjee cannot flourish through hatred or revenge. If this new political awakening is to have lasting meaning, it must combine cultural confidence with fairness, strong governance with compassion, and majority self-respect with equal protection for minorities.

Only then can Bengal truly rediscover both its spine and its soul.

When machine starts learning

You know, I have always maintained that the sea is a bit of a dramatist. It doesn’t just send waves—it sends messages. Sometimes in bottles, sometimes in broken boats… and occasionally, when it is in a particularly imaginative mood, it sends a full-fledged robot.

This particular episode began just after one of those Bay of Bengal tantrums. The sky was still sulking like a child denied ice cream, the sea hadn’t finished grumbling, and along a muddy stretch near the Sundarbans lay something that clearly did not belong there.

Half-buried in slush was a machine. Sleek once—no doubt—now scratched, dented, and looking like it had been through a Bengali wedding buffet and lost. This was Rozzum 7134, built for polished floors, polite humans, and predictable environments. Instead, it had landed among mangrove roots, crabs with attitude, and mud that behaves like it has a personal agenda.

Frankly, it looked like someone had parked a Mercedes in a paddy field and said, “Best of luck.”

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Adaptation – The Great Jugaad Chapter

Now, any self-respecting machine might have said, “System failure. Goodbye.” But not this fellow.

Roz activated.

At first, it stood there like a confused tourist in Howrah Station without a guide. Its programming expected straight lines. Here, even the ground had opinions. Mud slipped. Roots twisted. Vines hung like they were waiting to trip someone.

But slowly—very slowly—Roz began to learn.

At one point, it picked up a sharp stone and started scraping mud off its own joints. Self-repair! Pure desi engineering. Proper jugaad. Had I been there, I would have clapped and said, “Ah! BHEL training is clearly universal.”

Soon its shiny body disappeared under a respectable coating of mud and leaves. From a distance, it looked less like a robot and more like a newly discovered species—Metallicus Mangrovii.

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Entry of the Hero (Unaware, of Course)

Now comes Shanu.

A barefoot village boy, carrying an empty basket, walking along a muddy path, mind busy with the usual calculations of life—food, work, survival. Behind him, quietly emerging from the forest, was Roz.

Imagine the contrast.

On one side: a boy with nothing but determination.

On the other: a towering metallic giant, silently observing like an examiner who has already set a very difficult question paper.

And Shanu? Completely unaware.

Sometimes ignorance is not just bliss—it is excellent risk management.

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The Moment

Then Shanu turned.

What followed was not just fear—it was confusion of the highest order. The kind you feel when your ceiling fan suddenly starts giving you advice in Sanskrit.

He looked up. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open.

In his world, things were either alive… or not.

This fellow clearly had not read that rulebook.

And there, in that moment, two worlds met—one blinking, the other not—and both seemed to be thinking, “Now what?”

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Honey, Bees, and Occupational Hazards

Life, however, does not pause for philosophy in the Sundarbans.

Shanu had work—collecting honey. A job that involves climbing trees, handling angry bees, and occasionally negotiating with tigers. In short, a career with excellent growth opportunities and very limited retirement benefits.

He wrapped his face, wore oversized gloves, and prepared himself.

Roz? Still watching. Like a silent auditor from headquarters.

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Mirror on the Tree

Shanu climbed a tall tree.

Halfway up—he froze.

On the other side of the trunk… Roz was climbing too.

Same movement. Same rhythm. No hesitation. No fear.

Imagine climbing a tree and discovering your reflection climbing alongside you—except your reflection weighs half a ton and does not blink.

At that point, Shanu must have thought, “Either I am dreaming… or today is going to be very educational.”

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Teamwork (Unplanned, but Effective)

At the top hung a large beehive. Thousands of bees. All in a very bad mood.

Shanu prepared his smoke and knife.

And then—unexpected twist.

The bees attacked Roz.

Why? Simple logic. Big, shiny, warm object. Premium target.

Within seconds, Roz was covered in a buzzing cloud.

And Shanu?

Finished his work peacefully. Collected the honey like a seasoned professional.

If this were a project review, I would say: excellent teamwork, though coordination needs improvement.

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Domestic Complications Begin

After all this, Shanu did the most natural thing.

He brought the robot home.

Now imagine the scene.

A small hut. A worried mother. A young sister, Kamala. A life already touched by hardship—the father taken by a tiger.

And then Shanu walks in… with a robot.

The expressions must have been priceless. Fear, disbelief, and somewhere quietly hiding—hope.

---

The Silent Worker

Roz did not bother with introductions.

It assessed the situation and started working.

Outside—chopping wood with machine precision.

Inside—cleaning the floor with surprising gentleness.

No complaints. No tea break. No “network issue.” No union meeting.

The family watched as their daily struggles quietly reduced.

Frankly, if such machines become common, half of our management textbooks will become historical fiction.

---

Night Duty – Security Department

Night fell. The jungle woke up.

And so did danger.

A tiger approached silently.

But Roz was ready.

It stepped forward and did something quite remarkable—it roared. A perfect imitation of a tiger. At the same time, it flashed a harmless laser into the darkness.

The real tiger paused.

Thought about it.

And decided, quite sensibly, that this was not worth the trouble.

Even in the jungle, nobody likes unnecessary competition.

---

The Most Human Question

Morning came.

Calm. Peaceful.

Inside the hut, the family sat looking at Roz. No longer afraid. In fact… grateful.

The mother, in a simple gesture of kindness, placed a bowl of rice and a mug of water before it.

Roz did nothing.

Did not eat. Did not move.

And that is when the real question arose.

“He works so hard… protects us… but why doesn’t he eat anything?”

Now that, I feel, is where the story truly begins.

Because the moment we start worrying about whether a machine has eaten or not… it quietly stops being just a machine.

It becomes… something else.

And from there on—believe me—life is bound to get complicated.

The Carbide Man

The year was 1868. Delhi, a city steeped in history and tradition, was slowly stirring with the whispers of modernity. Madanlal, a young man of keen intellect and even keener ambition, found himself in the humble profession of a water carrier, ferrying earthen pots from the Yamuna to the parched homes of Delhi's residents. It was during one such journey, the rhythmic slosh of water against clay a familiar lullaby, that he overheard a conversation that would forever alter the course of his life.

​Two British officers, resplendent in their uniforms, were discussing the feasibility of lighting Delhi's streets with gas lamps. "Imagine, Lieutenant," one exclaimed, "no more stumbling in the dark! A city bathed in a gentle glow, even after sunset."

​Madanlal's heart quickened. Gas lamps! He knew, from snippets of conversation gleaned from the bazaar and the occasional English newspaper he'd managed to get his hands on, that these marvels of engineering required "carbide" to produce the gas. Delhi, in the late 19th century, offered precious few opportunities for a bright, unprivileged mind like his. This, he realized, was his moment.

​That very evening, after his last delivery, Madanlal sought out his British contact, Mr. Davies, a kindly, if somewhat aloof, administrator whom Madanlal regularly supplied with fresh Yamuna water.

​"Good evening, Mr. Davies," Madanlal began, his voice a careful blend of deference and earnestness. "I heard a most intriguing discussion today about lighting our Delhi streets with gas."

​Davies, adjusting his spectacles, looked up from his ledger. "Indeed, Madanlal. A grand undertaking, if the finances permit. Why do you ask?"

​"Sir, I have been thinking," Madanlal continued, choosing his words carefully, "these gas lamps, they require a substance called carbide, do they not?"

​Davies raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "They do. Calcium carbide, to be precise. A rather complex chemical compound, not easily produced, and certainly not found in abundance here."

​"Perhaps," Madanlal ventured, "I could be of assistance in its procurement?"

​Davies chuckled. "My dear Madanlal, a water carrier dabbling in chemical supply? A rather ambitious leap, wouldn't you say?"

​"Ambition, sir, is often the mother of invention," Madanlal replied, a slight smile touching his lips. "I have a mind for such things, and I am willing to learn."

​Davies, intrigued by the young man's audacity, decided to humor him. "Very well, Madanlal. Show me what you can do. The authorities are indeed exploring options, but local supply for such a specialized material seems a distant dream."

​Madanlal, emboldened, immediately set off for Meerut. He knew a chemistry professor there, an eccentric but brilliant man named Professor Shankar, whom he'd met years ago during a brief stint working for a spice merchant.

​"Professor Shankar!" Madanlal exclaimed, bursting into the professor's cluttered laboratory, a place filled with bubbling flasks and arcane diagrams. "I need your help with calcium carbide!"

​Professor Shankar, a wisp of grey hair perpetually escaping his turban, peered at Madanlal over his spectacles. "Calcium carbide, you say? A fascinating compound. Used for acetylene gas, yes. What brings this sudden interest, my young friend?"

​Madanlal quickly explained his ambitious plan. Professor Shankar, initially skeptical, became increasingly animated as Madanlal spoke. The idea of contributing to Delhi's modernization, even in a small way, appealed to his scientific patriotism.

​"The production process, Madanlal," Professor Shankar explained, gesticulating wildly, "involves heating lime and coke in a furnace. A high-temperature reaction, mind you. Not something one can whip up in a backyard shed."

​Madanlal's face fell slightly. "So, it is impossible for me to produce it here?"

​"Locally, with our current resources, yes, practically impossible for large-scale production," Professor Shankar conceded. "However," he added, a glint in his eye, "I do know of a small, experimental setup in a village near Agra, run by a retired British chemist. He was attempting to synthesize various compounds. He might have the rudimentary equipment, or at least the knowledge, for smaller batches."

​Armed with this new lead, Madanlal raced back to Delhi and then onwards to Agra. He found the retired chemist, Mr. Thompson, a cantankerous but ultimately helpful individual, who, after much persuasion and a promise of a share in the profits, agreed to show Madanlal the basics of carbide production.

​"It's dangerous work, lad," Thompson grumbled, demonstrating the makeshift furnace. "The heat, the fumes... and acetylene gas itself is highly flammable. Not for the faint of heart."

​Madanlal, however, was undeterred. He spent weeks learning the intricacies, the precise ratios of lime and coke, the delicate balance of temperature. He started with small, experimental batches, the pungent smell of acetylene a constant companion. He meticulously documented every step, every success, and every minor explosion.

​Back in Delhi, Mr. Davies, though initially amused by Madanlal's persistence, had almost forgotten about him. Then, one crisp morning, Madanlal arrived at Davies' office, not with a pot of water, but with a small, heavy, greyish lump.

​"Mr. Davies," Madanlal announced, his chest swelling with pride, "I present to you... calcium carbide."

​Davies picked up the lump, his expression a mixture of disbelief and genuine awe. "You... you actually produced it?"

​"With the invaluable guidance of Professor Shankar and Mr. Thompson, sir," Madanlal clarified. "And I believe I can establish a regular, albeit modest, supply."

​"Modest or not, Madanlal, this is quite remarkable!" Davies exclaimed. He immediately arranged a demonstration. In the flickering light of a gas lamp fueled by Madanlal's carbide, the British authorities were impressed.

​The initial supply chain was rudimentary. Madanlal would travel to Agra, oversee the production of small batches of carbide, and then personally transport it back to Delhi. He employed a few trusted porters, teaching them the importance of careful handling due to the carbide's volatile nature when exposed to moisture. The first few gas lamps that flickered to life on the streets of Delhi were a testament to his tenacity.

​The conversations around Delhi changed. Instead of just discussing the cost of oil for traditional lamps, people marveled at the steady, bright glow of the gaslights. Madanlal, once a humble water carrier, was now "Madanlal, the Carbide Man," a crucial cog in Delhi's burgeoning modernity.

​He learned to negotiate, to manage logistics, and to expand his network. He faced challenges – securing consistent raw materials, dealing with occasional accidents, and navigating the bureaucratic labyrinth of the British administration. But with each challenge overcome, his resolve strengthened.

​The gas lamps, initially few and far between, slowly began to proliferate, casting their inviting glow on Chandni Chowk, illuminating the intricate carvings of Jama Masjid, and transforming the nocturnal landscape of Delhi. Madanlal, watching the city awaken to a new kind of light, knew that his journey had just begun. He was no longer just a supplier; he was an enabler, a quiet revolutionary in the grand story of Delhi's progress.

​