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.

“Before judging Gujarat from newspaper headlines, I had already lived there — danced Garba, flown kites, shared mangoes and discovered that cooperation can also be a culture.”

When I first came to Bengal after the Godhra riots and the Gujarat violence, I noticed a strange thing. A section of so-called intellectuals had almost converted “Gujarati” into a suspicious word. Political mileage was being extracted by creating an image that Gujarat was some kind of frightening land where humanity had gone on permanent leave. Even singers joined the orchestra with dramatic lyrics — “We will not allow Bengal to become another Gujarat.”

At that time, if you praised Gujaratis in certain drawing rooms of Kolkata, people would look at you as though you had openly declared love for karela juice.

But history has its own sense of humour.

Two Gujaratis — Narendra Modi and Amit Shah — ultimately became catalysts for many educated Bengalis to start speaking openly against political intimidation and organised hooliganism. Suddenly people again started discussing Syama Prasad Mukherjee, the man who played a major role in ensuring Kolkata remained in India when Jinnah and Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy had different plans during Partition days.

Of course for decades his name was carefully kept under layers of textbook dust because he was considered too Hindu for the comfort of the fashionable secular crowd.

Anyway, politics apart, my main purpose is to narrate my personal experience with Gujaratis and Gujarat.

From 1985 to 1988 I was posted at Wanakbori Thermal Power Plant in Gujarat. My son Anish was studying in boarding school at Baroda in Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan. I was staying with my family in a Gujarat Electricity Board township quarter beside the power station. Around 30 to 40 of us from BHEL were living there, scattered across different flats among GEB employees.

We were on the fourth floor of an apartment block where seven out of eight residents worked for GEB. The odd man out was yours truly.

One day there was a knock on the door. I opened it and found a delegation standing outside with papers in hand. They politely informed me they were from the GEB Cooperative Society and had come to collect our yearly requirement of wheat, rice, peanut oil and Valsad mangoes.

I immediately clarified, “But I am not a GEB employee.”

They laughed as though I had cracked a poor joke.

One gentleman replied, “But you are staying with us. So you are part of our family.”

Frankly, I was touched.

They handed me a form and told me to fill the annual household requirement. While filling it I jokingly asked, “Will you deliver ripe mangoes also?”

Again collective laughter.

“No no,” they said, “green mangoes. You keep them inside wheat bags. They will ripen beautifully.”

I learnt something important that day.

First — Gujaratis have a remarkable cooperative culture. Once you are inside their ecosystem, your company, caste, language or native place becomes secondary.

Second — they understand economics far better than many MBA graduates. Bulk purchase during the harvest season meant cheaper rates for everyone.

Suddenly I understood why every Gujarat house had a big storage room next to the kitchen. Bengalis store emotions and old magazines. Gujaratis store annual food supply.

After that it became routine.

Before Diwali, cooperative members would arrive asking our requirement for decorative lights, crackers, sparklers and other festival items. Everything came home-delivered long before modern app-based delivery companies were born. Gujarat had already invented Amazon without computers.

During those three years I hardly missed Durga Puja emotionally, although physically I often did not return to Bengal because my son’s school had limited holidays. Instead, for nine nights I immersed myself in Garba celebrations.

And what evenings those were!

The giant ground would transform into a colourful sea of swirling dresses, clapping rhythms and dandia sticks. One day some GEB employees practically dragged me into participation. Their hidden motive was clever. They knew that if I joined, then Chief Engineer Dharangdharia might also come because he had developed a special affection for me due to my professional sincerity.

Now Mr. Dharangdharia was feared by almost everyone in the power station. But in Garba grounds hierarchy melted faster than ice cream in May.

So there I was — one Bengali engineer from Allahabad origin — moving in circles with hundreds of Gujaratis till midnight. Outer male circle clockwise, inner ladies’ circle anticlockwise, then sudden dandia exchanges. After a few rounds even my engineering brain lost track of rotational dynamics.

One incident from those Navaratri days still remains deeply etched in my mind.

We were returning late at night from Baroda to Wanakbori by road. It must have been around 1 am. As our vehicle crossed villages, I noticed groups of young girls in colourful ghagra-cholis walking cheerfully from one village to another to participate in Garba.

No fear.

No nervousness.

No protective convoy around them.

They were laughing, chatting and moving freely under the night sky as though it was early evening.

Coming from North India and having worked extensively in the Eastern belt, the sight appeared almost unreal to me. In many places there, even grown men hesitate before travelling alone late at night, forget about young girls walking fearlessly after midnight during festivals.

I remember telling my wife, “Either Gujaratis are exceptionally community-minded people or criminals here are on Navaratri vacation.”

That scene left a lasting impression on me.

The whole society appeared to become one extended family during those nine nights. Villages vibrated with music and celebration, yet underneath there was discipline, social trust and a sense of collective responsibility.

I must honestly admit: during those days I never felt I was an outsider in Gujarat.

We were allowed to watch movies screened on giant outdoor screens for township residents. Festivals were collective. Celebrations were collective. Even happiness appeared cooperative in nature.

No wonder the Anand milk movement became successful there. Gujaratis instinctively know how to organise community participation.

Then came Uttarayan — the famous kite festival.

Before Gujarat, my experience with kites was mostly theoretical. In Wanakbori it became practical training under battlefield conditions.

My dear colleague A.K. Anand organised rooftop kite-flying sessions. Chief Engineer Dharangdharia, my BHEL colleague Pathak and many others would gather on terraces from morning onwards. The January sky looked like Parliament after election season — colourful objects flying in all directions while people shouted aggressively.

Beer bottles, chicken, hot rotis prepared by Meenabehen — Anand’s wife — and endless kite warfare.

Since the kite strings were coated with powdered glass, we wore gloves like surgeons preparing for operation. Every successful cutting of opponent’s kite was celebrated as though India had won a cricket match against Pakistan.

After leaving Wanakbori, I never again experienced such joyous madness.

Ironically, whenever skeptical Bengalis questioned Gujaratis, their entire knowledge came from newspaper headlines and political narratives. My own lived experience was exactly the opposite.

In fact, GEB once selected a badminton team for an inter-department tournament and Chief Engineer Dharangdharia included me as one of the selectors — despite my not being a GEB employee. My friend P.C. Patel had probably informed him about my weakness for badminton.

When my transfer order to Vizag arrived, several GEB colleagues urged me to stay back. Some even offered to use political influence to cancel the transfer.

But throughout my career I never used political connections for personal benefit. So with a heavy heart we left Wanakbori.

Even after retirement I remained in touch with Dharangdharia through Anand. Sadly he is no more.

Yet even today, when people casually stereotype Gujaratis sitting in Kolkata drawing rooms with intellectual seriousness and fish fry in hand, my mind quietly travels back to Wanakbori.

To cooperative societies.

To mangoes ripening inside wheat bags.

To midnight Garba circles.

To fearless girls walking under village skies at 1 am.

To rooftop kite battles.

To a Bengali engineer who was treated not as an outsider but as one among them.

And then I smile to myself.

Sometimes real experience is a far better teacher than politically manufactured wisdom.

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.