The Ghost Who Wouldn't Leave JK alone

The Ghost Who Wouldn’t Leave JK Alone

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

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

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

MS laughed. “Possibilities or liabilities?”

JK ignored him and continued.

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

“Customs?” I asked. “Or chemistry?”

Everyone burst out laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

JK .continued with a grin.

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

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

“Exactly,” JK nodded solemnly.

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

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

“Probably her husband,” MS suggested helpfully.

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

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

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

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

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

Ignoring my comment, JK continued.

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

“Why open the drawer then?” MS asked.

“That is human curiosity,” JK said defensively.

So he pulled the drawer open.

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

We all leaned forward.

“I turned around quickly.”

“Was it the husband?” MS asked.

“No one.”

“Servant?”

“No one.”

“Then?”

JK paused for effect.

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

A small silence fell over the table.

I asked quietly, “What did you do?”

“I ran,” JK said simply.

Everyone laughed.

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

“Feeling of guilt?” I suggested.

“Not guilt,” JK said. “Presence.”

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

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

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

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

“The feeling was still there,” he said.

So he walked to the mirror.

“I looked carefully behind me.”

Nothing.

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

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

“But at that moment I was terrified.”

“What did you do then?” MS asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Our entire table burst into laughter.

“So finally what happened?” I asked.

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

MS shook his head.

“Jaggi, that was not a ghost.”

“Then what?”

“Your conscience,” MS said.

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

JK protested loudly.

“No, no, it was definitely a ghost!”

We finished our tea still laughing.

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

But one thing is certain.

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

When One Chair Falls Silent:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Immediate Void

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

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

But these practical problems are only the surface.

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

Morning tea shared together.

A remark about the news.

An argument about something trivial.

A reminder about an appointment.

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

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The Mind’s Refusal to Accept

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

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

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

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

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Adjustment: The Gradual Process

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

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

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

Grief does not disappear; it transforms.

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Two Different Responses to Loss

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

The first group rebuilds life actively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Was the Partner Holding Them Back?

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

But this interpretation may be too simplistic.

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

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

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The Philosophical Dimension

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

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

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

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

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The Importance of Social Circles

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

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

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

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

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Memory as a Form of Continuation

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

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

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

Human memory is a powerful form of continuity.

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Living With the Absence

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

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

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

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

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The Universal Journey

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

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

Some will rebuild their lives energetically.

Some will quietly carry memories like precious heirlooms.

Most will do a mixture of both.

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A Quiet Lesson

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

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

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

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

কেউ সাফল্য মাপে টাকায়, কেউ মাপে মানুষের হাসিতে।

কেউ সাফল্য মাপে টাকায়, কেউ মাপে মানুষের হাসিতে।

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

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

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

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

সেই দায়িত্ব তুলে নিয়েছে Joyoti।

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

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

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

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

সেই রবিবার দুপুরেই ফোনটা এল।

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

শুভেন্দু তাকে অভিনন্দন জানাল।
ফোন কেটে গেল।

তারপর কিছুক্ষণ সে চুপ করে বসে রইল।

মনের ভেতর যেন দুটো ছবি পাশাপাশি ভেসে উঠল।

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

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

দুটো ছবিই সত্যি।
দুটো পথই আলাদা।

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

হঠাৎই শুভেন্দুর মনে প্রশ্নটা এসে দাঁড়াল।

আজ তো আন্তর্জাতিক নারী দিবস।

তাহলে সত্যিকারের সফল নারী কে?

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

উত্তরটা সহজ নয়।

সম্ভবত জীবনের মতোই—
উত্তরটাও প্রত্যেকের নিজের ভিতরেই লুকিয়ে থাকে।

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

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

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

“Are you convinced?” he asked quietly.

I looked up. “Convinced of what?”

“That consciousness survives clinical death.”

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

I confess, I was intrigued.

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The Beginning: A Philosophy Student’s Unexpected Calling

Over coffee, he narrated how it all began.

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you say?” I asked.

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

He leaned forward slightly and recited:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old man began to smile faintly during these sessions.

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

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

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The Spread Across Delhi

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

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

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

“Peace,” he said.

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

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The Necessity in a Scientific Age

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

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

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

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

He pointed to my book.

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

He paused.

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

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

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An Invitation

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

He smiled mischievously.

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

He looked directly at me.

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

I laughed nervously. But his gaze remained steady.

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

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The Larger Reflection

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

The Rig Veda declares:

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the CMD exploded- and So did I

When the CMD Exploded — and So Did I

Kathalgudi, 1994 — Steam, Gas… and Temper

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

Kathalgudi corrected that assumption.

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

Mitsubishi was performing like a disciplined samurai.

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

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

The Review That Became a Trial

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

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

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

The meeting began smoothly.

Mr. Das was generous in his praise for Mitsubishi.

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

I relaxed slightly.

Then he looked up sharply.

> “Who is in-charge of BHEL here?”

I stood.

“Sir, I am S. N. Roy.”

That introduction acted like ignition in a combustion chamber.

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

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

I attempted politely:

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

But he did not allow a word.

Then came the statement that changed everything.

Turning to NEEPCO’s GM, he said:

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

That was not just criticism — that was operational suffocation.

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

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

Then I replied — calmly, but firmly:

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

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

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

His face tightened. Papers were gathered abruptly.

> “This is insubordination!”

And he walked out of the conference hall.

After the Storm

For a few seconds, nobody moved.

Then senior NEEPCO officers quietly approached me.

> “Mr. Roy, well said.”

“Someone had to point out the practical side.”

“We were surprised at his hostility.”

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

But the day’s drama was not over.

Dinner — The Second Act

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

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

He looked through me as if I were invisible.

I smiled. Engineers develop insulation early in life.

After a few pegs, however, insulation failed.

He began searching for me in the gathering.

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

His voice was loud, animated.

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

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

That whisper probably prevented a second explosion.

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

Once his car left, the mood changed instantly.

NEEPCO officers surrounded me — laughing.

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

“Today you were the unfortunate co-actor.”

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

Fortunately, within two months he retired.

A Different Leadership

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

Measured. Professional. Solution-oriented.

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

The project regained momentum and steadily moved toward scheduled completion.

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

I once expressed my apprehension to Mr. Katoki.

He smiled reassuringly.

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

That quiet confidence carried weight.

Management Reflections — From a Controlled Explosion

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

Kathalgudi taught me:

1. Let anger exhaust itself before responding.

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

3. Authority without listening weakens institutions.

4. Temperament is as critical as technical competence.

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

In engineering terms, that day was a pressure test.

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

But ultimately, stability was restored.

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

Sometimes leadership is not about avoiding confrontation.

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

Farakka when I had to live with my wits alone

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Farakka: When I Had to Live by My Wits Alone

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

My posting to Farakka fell in the third category.

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

Then came the order from Corporate Office, Delhi.

Overnight transfer.

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

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

I was being sent to control the damage.

---

Prelude in Kolkata: The First Skirmish

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

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

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

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

Still, procedural silence.

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

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

Not dramatically. Just quietly.

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

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

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

Suddenly, files started moving.

My joining was “accepted”.

Later I realised something important.

This was not confusion.

It was orchestration.

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

And now, an outsider was coming.

---

The Art of Not Giving Charge

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

I assumed I would take charge within a week.

SKG had other ideas.

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

Charge was not handed over.

I contacted RNB again.

He expressed “inability.”

That was when I realised something fundamental:

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

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

I gave SKG two days.

Calmly.

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

No shouting. No drama. Just a timeline.

He vacated.

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

---

The Minefield

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

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

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

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

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

But life had prepared me.

---

Lessons from Barauni Refinery

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

Those days taught me:

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

Farakka needed exactly that approach.

---

Strategy 1: Stabilize Before Speed

The temptation was to prove myself quickly.

But I first stabilised the ecosystem.

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

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

---

Strategy 2: Don’t Fight All Battles

Trade unions were aggressive.

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

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

Lesson:

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

He became that bridge.

---

Strategy 3: Remove Informal Privileges Gradually

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

Direct removal would have triggered rebellion.

So instead:

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

When systems become objective, personal grievances lose oxygen.

---

Strategy 4: Visible Commitment

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

So I made it visible:

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

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

---

The Numbers That Matter

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

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

Two 500 MW units were commissioned.

That was not merely engineering success.

That was organizational turnaround.

---

What Farakka Taught Me

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

Not because of engineering complexity.

But because:

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

I survived and delivered because of a few principles:

1. Authority Must Be Asserted Early

Delay invites resistance.

2. Calmness Is a Weapon

When others expect anger, offer silence.

3. Escalation Is a Tool — Use It Sparingly

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

4. Performance Silences Politics

Once turbines begin rotating, opposition weakens.

5. Tough Postings Build Character

Comfortable postings build resumes.

---

A Touch of Humour

Many years later, someone asked me:

“Roy saab, were you not afraid?”

I said,

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

Both require pressure control.

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Final Reflection

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

There, I was not protected by systems.

There, I had to rely on:

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

Leadership is tested not when everything supports you.

It is tested when:

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

Farakka was that crucible.

And I remain grateful for it.

Because it proved something to me:

When institutions hesitate, individuals must act !

The Terminal of Eternity

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The Terminal of Eternity

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

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

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

No room.

No bed.

Not even a body.

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

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

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

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

Panic erupted.

“Terminal? Kaun sa flight?”

“I have an early meeting!”

“My EMI is due!”

“Return ticket??”

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

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

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

Saxena felt oddly peaceful.

No deadlines.

No term sheets.

No KPIs breathing down his neck.

Just awareness.

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

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

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

Death takes them back.

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

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

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

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

Saxena dissolved gently into the glow—

not as an IT honcho,

not as a founder chasing investors,

but as a small spark rejoining a limitless light.

The Terminal of Eternity faded behind him.

The real journey had begun.

--

"Asato ma sat gamaya,

Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya,

Mrityor ma amritam gamaya."

Meaning:

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

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

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

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