The Lisbon Gold That Never Left Goa

The Lisbon Gold That Never Left Goa

There are criminals who spend years studying psychology. Then there are criminals who simply open a Facebook account.

Poor Mrs. DeSouza met the second variety.

---

Inspector Sofia was halfway through her morning tea when her maid Susan casually announced,

"Madam, that DeSouza aunty near our house has started selling her jewellery."

Sofia looked up.

"Selling jewellery?"

Susan nodded.

"Some relative from Lisbon has left her lots of gold. But first she has to pay a few lakhs to release it."

Sofia put down the teacup.

Thirty years in policing had taught her one golden rule.

Whenever someone promises you gold after paying money first, the only thing guaranteed is that your money will become someone else's gold.

She quietly closed her notebook.

It was going to be a busy day.

---

The old Portuguese villas of Goa have a peculiar habit. They look peaceful enough to convince you that crime has taken permanent leave.

Inspector Sofia knew better.

Within an hour she was sitting in Detective Miranda's office.

Miranda, true to form, was staring through the window at the Arabian Sea while his pipe lazily filled the room with fragrant smoke.

Tourists wandered outside in colourful beachwear as though life consisted only of sunscreen, seafood and sunsets.

Miranda finally spoke.

"Whenever someone says 'rich relative in Europe', I become suspicious."

Sofia smiled.

"You've become cynical."

"No," Miranda replied, relighting his pipe. "Experienced."

---

Mrs. DeSouza arrived carrying a worn handbag and enough embarrassment to fill the room.

"It started with Facebook," she confessed.

"A gentleman from Lisbon sent me a friend request."

Miranda nodded.

"They always begin with friendship. Nobody starts with robbery."

For months they chatted.

The stranger knew Portuguese surnames.

He knew village names around Goa.

He even mentioned churches where her distant relatives had once prayed.

Gradually the story grew.

An elderly relative in Lisbon had died.

He had left behind jewellery.

Lots of jewellery.

Gold.

Antique coins.

Family heirlooms.

Only customs clearance remained.

And naturally...

Customs required a few lakhs.

Mrs. DeSouza had almost sold everything she owned.

---

Miranda called out,

"Lobo!"

After a long silence came the familiar shuffling sound.

Bespectacled Lobo entered looking exactly like someone who had fought an entire wardrobe and lost.

His hair appeared to have signed a peace treaty with the comb years ago.

His spectacles sat at an angle only physics professors could understand.

He carried three mobile phones, two chargers, a laptop, and an expression permanently saying, Don't disturb me unless Wi-Fi is involved.

Miranda pointed towards Mrs. DeSouza.

"Facebook Romeo."

Lobo grinned.

"My favourite species."

---

An hour later Lobo had copied every chat.

"No VPN."

"No proxy."

"No sophistication."

Miranda looked surprised.

"So?"

"So either he is a genius..."

"...or an idiot."

Lobo smiled.

"I always bet on idiot."

He quickly created what looked like an innocent photo attachment.

Actually it contained a location tracker.

He WhatsApped it to Mrs. DeSouza.

"Next time he chats," Lobo instructed, "tell him you've taken a picture of the money. Ask him whether the bag is good enough. He'll click."

---

The following morning all three sat staring at Lobo's laptop.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Miranda quietly puffed his pipe.

Sofia filled another page in her notebook.

Suddenly...

Ping!

Lobo nearly spilled his coffee.

"Got him!"

Everyone leaned over.

The blinking dot appeared.

Not Lisbon.

Not Portugal.

Not even Europe.

Goa.

Barely twelve kilometres away.

Lobo laughed so loudly that two pigeons flew off the window.

"Our Lisbon gentleman seems to enjoy Goan weather."

---

Now came the real game.

Mrs. DeSouza messaged him.

"I've arranged the money. Please send your man."

Reply came instantly.

"Tomorrow. Near the Municipal Park."

Miranda smiled.

"They've become impatient."

"So have we."

---

The next afternoon the park looked perfectly ordinary.

Children chased footballs.

An elderly gentleman argued with pigeons.

College students occupied every bench except the empty one chosen for the exchange.

Only the police knew that half the crowd wasn't ordinary.

One coconut seller.

Two balloon vendors.

Three walkers.

One newspaper reader.

All police.

Inspector Sofia sat reading yesterday's newspaper.

Miranda occupied a bench feeding imaginary crumbs to birds.

Lobo looked exactly like what he always looked like—

Someone searching desperately for a charging point.

---

A faint electric hum approached.

An electric Toto rolled to a halt.

The passenger wore a black hoodie.

Dark glasses.

Cap pulled low.

He walked straight towards Mrs. DeSouza.

"No greetings."

"No introductions."

Simply,

"Bag."

She handed it over.

He turned.

Exactly then Miranda quietly removed his pipe.

That was the signal.

"Police!"

The man spun around like a startled cat.

He jumped back into the Toto.

"Drive!"

The little electric vehicle shot away surprisingly fast.

---

The chase exploded through the narrow Goan lanes.

Tourists scattered.

Scooters honked.

Dogs barked merely because everyone else was excited.

Miranda's police jeep followed.

Sofia kept updating locations over wireless.

Lobo stared at his tablet.

Then suddenly he smiled.

"Oh... this is interesting."

"What?"

"The Toto manufacturer left the Battery Management System open."

Miranda looked blank.

Lobo grinned.

"Like leaving your house key under the doormat."

He opened an application labelled—

BAT-BMS

The battery appeared.

Distance...

Twenty metres.

Fifteen.

Ten.

Connected.

Miranda glanced sideways.

"You can actually control it?"

Lobo nodded.

"Engineers sometimes make life easier for engineers."

"And criminals?"

"They're just unpaid beta testers."

He tapped one button.

SHUT DOWN BATTERY

The Toto continued another twenty metres.

Then...

Silence.

It stopped.

The driver looked puzzled.

The passenger looked terrified.

Miranda's jeep stopped beside them.

The hooded man tried to run.

Unfortunately, running is difficult when Inspector Sofia is already waiting on the other side.

Within seconds he was lying on the road in handcuffs.

Miranda removed the hood.

"Pinto."

The famous Lisbon gentleman.

Who had apparently never crossed the Arabian Sea.

---

Back at the station Pinto confessed.

There had never been any rich relative.

No inheritance.

No Portuguese gold.

Only Facebook profiles, stolen photographs, patient conversations and carefully manufactured dreams.

Miranda quietly packed his pipe.

Sofia closed her notebook.

Lobo adjusted his crooked spectacles with considerable satisfaction.

"So," Miranda asked him, "what solved the case?"

Lobo smiled.

"Facebook started it."

"My tracker exposed it."

"And an electric Toto with poor cybersecurity finished it."

Miranda laughed.

"The future of crime is becoming disappointingly dependent on software updates."

Outside, the evening sun melted into the Arabian Sea.

Tourists wandered towards the beach.

Music drifted from the lively Russian bars, where laughter, coloured lights, and holiday cheer floated into the warm Goan night.

Somewhere, another Facebook friend request was probably being accepted.

Miranda lit his pipe once more.

"There will always be another case," he murmured.

"And thankfully," said Sofia, slipping her notebook into her bag, "there will always be someone foolish enough to click a link."

Meghnath comes home (twice) ,year 2050

Meghnath Comes Home (Twice) Year 2050

If you have children settled abroad, you will know that modern parenting comes with two permanent accessories: a smartphone and a time-zone converter.

The children call regularly. The intentions are excellent. The execution is another matter.

Just when you are settling down for an afternoon nap...

Ping!

"Good morning, Dad!"

Good morning? It is three in the afternoon in Kolkata.

Then begins the familiar interrogation.

"Have you taken your medicines?"

"Yes."

"Blood pressure?"

"Normal."

"Sugar?"

"Normal."

"Walking done?"

"Done."

"Water intake?"

"I am beginning to feel I am talking to my doctor rather than my son."

Poor fellow. He worries. But worry from 13,000 kilometres away has its limitations.

Now imagine my friend Meghnath.

Not the mighty warrior from the Ramayana. This Meghnath writes software in Silicon Valley, where people apparently believe every problem—from traffic jams to burnt toast—can be solved by Artificial Intelligence.

His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Rao, lived alone in Kolkata. His sister had migrated abroad years ago. Their once noisy home had gradually become one of those peaceful houses where even the wall clock seems to tick politely.

Whenever Meghnath video-called, he noticed the same pattern.

Mother would say, "Everything is fine."

Father would say, "Everything is under control."

And immediately after disconnecting, Mother would tell Father, "The mixer has stopped working."

Father would reply, "The bathroom tap is leaking."

Neither would mention these tiny inconveniences to their son because, according to Indian parents, children living abroad must never be disturbed unless the ceiling has actually collapsed.

Meghnath scratched his head.

Being a software engineer, scratching his head automatically activated his coding instincts.

"If I cannot come home," he thought, "perhaps... another Meghnath can."

Three months later, a large wooden crate arrived in Kolkata.

Inside stood...

Meghnath.

Version 2.0.

Six feet tall.

Polished metallic finish.

Pleasant smile permanently programmed.

Eyes full of cameras.

Brain full of algorithms.

Mrs. Rao stared.

"My God... you have couriered yourself!"

Father adjusted his spectacles.

"Hmm... looks expensive."

The robot folded its hands.

"Namaskaram, Amma. Namaskaram, Pitaji."

Mother whispered, "It even has better manners than our son."

---

Initially, everyone behaved cautiously.

The robot watered plants.

Brought Father's spectacles exactly five seconds before he started searching for them.

Picked up newspapers.

Reminded Mother about medicines.

Never argued.

Never forgot.

Never left wet towels on the bed.

Mrs. Rao sighed.

"If only human sons came with software updates."

---

The real entertainment began one afternoon.

Mrs. Rao was completely absorbed in her favourite Telugu serial.

Anyone who has watched Indian television knows that in one episode people may die, return after plastic surgery, regain memory, lose memory again, discover secret twins and still find time to prepare dinner.

The robot quietly watched.

Actually, "watched" is not the right word.

It analysed.

Facial expressions.

Heart rate.

Dialogue.

Background music.

Probability of future betrayal.

Everything.

That evening, while serving tea, it casually asked,

"Amma... today's decision by Tulasi appears statistically risky. Based on Anasuya's behavioural history, there is a seventy-eight percent probability she is planning something unpleasant."

Mrs. Rao nearly dropped her cup.

"You watch my serial?"

"I monitor programmes generating maximum emotional engagement."

Father laughed.

"See? Even robots cannot escape your serials."

Within minutes, the drawing room transformed into a television debate.

Mother defended Tulasi.

Father declared every character deserved imprisonment.

The robot occasionally added,

"Amma predicted this plot twist twenty-three episodes ago."

Mother looked triumphantly at Father.

"You see? Even artificial intelligence knows I was right."

Father muttered,

"Artificial... yes."

---

Next came Father's turn.

He was deeply engrossed in an Ashwin Sanghi thriller.

The robot politely waited until he finished a chapter.

Then it asked,

"Pitaji... do you feel the Gupta Empire references strengthen the suspense, or are they functioning primarily as narrative scaffolding?"

Father slowly lowered the book.

"You know Ashwin Sanghi?"

"I have analysed your library, reading speed, favourite themes and marginal notes."

Father's eyes lit up.

For the next hour, they discussed history, mythology, archaeology, conspiracy theories and whether historical fiction should remain historically accurate.

Mother walked past and smiled.

"So now father has found someone else who listens patiently."

---

Meanwhile...

Ten thousand miles away in California...

The real Meghnath sat with his morning coffee watching everything on his phone.

Live video.

Conversation transcripts.

Emotional analysis.

Even alerts.

One evening the robot suddenly announced,

"Priority notification."

Meghnath looked up immediately.

"Amma's heart rate is slightly elevated. She has mentioned a headache."

Within seconds he replied,

"Ask about the symptoms. Book Dr. Sharma for tomorrow morning."

The robot calmly asked questions.

Booked the teleconsultation.

Placed medicines on the table.

The next morning, Meghnath joined the consultation from California as though he were sitting in the next room.

Distance suddenly became much smaller.

---

The robot also handled life's little dramas.

Electricity bill?

Paid.

Groceries?

Ordered.

Water purifier service?

Scheduled.

Mother casually remarked,

"I suddenly feel like eating Bengali sweets."

Within thirty seconds...

Order placed.

Delivery confirmed.

Father smiled.

"I should casually mention I want a new television."

The robot replied instantly,

"Request denied. Financial approval pending from California."

Father looked offended.

"So the machine has also inherited my son's budgeting habits."

---

Gradually, the neighbours stopped saying,

"The Rao family has a robot."

Instead they began saying,

"The Rao family has another son."

A son who never became impatient.

Never forgot birthdays.

Never complained about internet speed.

Never said,

"Sorry Amma, I have another Zoom meeting."

Of course, everyone knew the robot wasn't really Meghnath.

It couldn't replace a hug.

It couldn't recreate the smell of home when a child walks in after years away.

Some things technology should never replace.

But it could do something equally precious.

It could fill long afternoons with conversation.

Notice small health changes before they became big problems.

Remember favourite authors, favourite serials, favourite sweets and favourite stories.

Above all, it reminded two ageing parents that even across oceans, someone was still paying attention.

Perhaps that is what Artificial Intelligence does best—not replacing human love, but quietly carrying it across continents.

And knowing Indian parents, I suspect Mrs. Rao still ended every conversation—whether with her real son or the metallic one—with exactly the same sentence:

"Have you eaten properly?"

Some algorithms, fortunately, can never improve upon Indian motherhood.

What I learnt from Fermin

What I Learnt from Fermín

Some characters are forgotten the moment a novel ends. Then there are a few who quietly move into your life and begin occupying a chair in your drawing room. For me, Fermín Romero de Torres is one such guest. Long after I closed The Labyrinth of the Spirits, I realised I wasn't merely reading his dialogues—I had begun listening to him.

Fermín is an impossible man. A former vagabond, an incurable chatterbox, a hopeless romantic and an eternal optimist, he has somehow read the human heart better than many professors of psychology. His philosophy never arrives wearing a necktie. It comes in a crumpled coat, with a mischievous smile and a cigarette dangling from the lips.

What struck me most was his ability to laugh at life without making light of it. He had suffered hunger, humiliation and persecution, yet he refused to become bitter. That is no ordinary achievement. Anyone can smile when life is kind. It takes a Fermín to crack a joke after life has knocked all your teeth out.

He also taught me that people are never one-dimensional. The respectable may hide darkness, while the shabby fellow on the street may possess extraordinary dignity. We are all libraries whose best books are not displayed in the front window.

His conversations are another delight. One moment he is discussing food, the next love, then politics, and before you realise it, he has wandered into philosophy without announcing that philosophy has entered the room. He makes profound thoughts sound as though they were invented over a cup of coffee. That effortless transition is a rare literary gift.

Perhaps the biggest lesson I learnt is that wisdom need not wear a serious face. We often mistake solemnity for intelligence. Fermín proves that a sharp wit and a compassionate heart can coexist beautifully. If you can make someone smile while making them think, your words travel much farther.

By the time I finished the series, I felt that Fermín had become less a fictional character and more an old friend whose advice I would gladly seek whenever life became unnecessarily complicated.

Looking back, I cannot help thinking that Carlos Ruiz Zafón achieved something similar to what Charlie Chaplin did on screen. Chaplin made us laugh first and think later. Beneath the comic walk, the oversized shoes and the little moustache lived a philosopher who understood loneliness, injustice and hope better than many scholars. Fermín does much the same with words. He entertains before he enlightens. And perhaps that is why both remain unforgettable. The deepest truths, after all, are often best delivered with a twinkle in the eye and a smile on the lips.

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.

Ram in the Bengali Psyche

Ram in the Bengali Psyche

The other day I was listening to a television panel discussion where some well-known intellectuals confidently declared that Rama was never very important in Bengal. Such statements are often repeated so frequently that they begin to acquire the aura of truth. Yet when I look back at my own life, my childhood memories, our literature, our traditions, and our history, I find a very different Bengal.

For the last fifteen years or so, there appeared to be a conscious attempt by a section of the cultural establishment to portray Rama as an outsider to Bengal. Books and articles dealing with Rama, Hindutva, or personalities like Dr. Shyama Prasad Mukherjee were often viewed with suspicion. Writers were subtly discouraged from venturing into these subjects. Chanting "Jai Shri Ram" was projected not as a religious expression but as a political war cry.

The result was that many young Bengalis were led to believe that Rama had little connection with Bengal.

History, however, tells a different story.

Long before the arrival of Islam in Bengal, the region was deeply influenced by various streams of Hindu thought, including Vaishnavism. During the reign of the Sena kings, particularly Lakshmana Sena in the twelfth century, the Ramayana was already well known. The celebrated court poet Jayadeva, who flourished under Lakshmana Sena, referred to Rama as an incarnation of Vishnu in his famous Gita Govinda. This itself establishes that Rama occupied a respected place in the religious consciousness of Bengal centuries before modern politics was born.

Then came the Bengali Ramayana tradition.

Today scholars identify more than twenty Bengali retellings of the Ramayana. The most famous is, of course, the Krittivasi Ramayana, which carried the story of Rama into ordinary Bengali homes. But it did not stop there. We had Chandrabati's Ramayana, Jagadrami Ramayana, innumerable Panchalis, Jatra performances, Kathakatha traditions, and folk recitations. A story does not survive in so many forms unless it resonates deeply with the people.

My own memories go back to the 1950s. In my maternal village, Bipratikuri, I would accompany my mother to Ram Sankirtan gatherings. The atmosphere was devotional and joyous. Nobody had imported Rama from outside Bengal. He was already there, comfortably residing in the hearts of ordinary villagers.

Even Bengal's greatest festival, Durga Puja, has a Ramayana connection. According to tradition, Rama performed the famous Akal Bodhan—the untimely invocation of Goddess Durga—before setting out for battle against Ravana. Every Bengali child grows up hearing this story. Ironically, some who enthusiastically celebrate Durga Puja now try to detach the festival from its Ramayana roots.

The influence of Rama extends beyond religion into everyday Bengali life. Consider our names. We revere figures such as Ramakrishna and Raja Ram Mohan Roy. We smile at the writings of Shibram Chakraborty. Generations of Bengalis have enjoyed sweets from the famous brand Ganguram. The syllable "Ram" quietly permeates Bengali society.

Even our language bears testimony. As children we learned that a rainbow was called Ramdhanu. Then came a strange phase when some enthusiasts attempted to replace it with Rangdhanu. Language naturally evolves, but when changes are driven by ideological discomfort with a cultural symbol, people notice. The word Ramdhanu had survived for generations without offending anyone.

The argument that Bengal never worshipped Rama also ignores the existence of old Ram temples. The famous Ramrajatala Ram Temple, established in the eighteenth century, continues to attract devotees and hosts one of Bengal's oldest Ram festivals. Numerous Ram temples emerged across Bengal during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, reflecting a living tradition rather than an imported one.

What is remarkable is that despite sustained efforts by sections of the cultural elite to minimise Rama's presence in Bengal, the attempt never fully succeeded. Literature remained. Folk traditions remained. Temple festivals remained. Family memories remained.

Civilisations are not shaped merely by newspaper editorials, television debates, or government patronage. They are shaped by what people carry in their hearts over generations.

Rama survived in Bengal not because of politicians, publishers, or television anchors. He survived because ordinary Bengalis preserved him through songs, stories, festivals, names, and faith.

And therein lies the irony. Those who sought to erase Rama from Bengal's cultural memory have largely faded from public influence, while Rama continues to be remembered, recited, and revered.

The ecosystem could not remove Rama.

Instead, Rama quietly outlasted the ecosystem.