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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When machine starts learning

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

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

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

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

---

Adaptation – The Great Jugaad Chapter

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

Roz activated.

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

But slowly—very slowly—Roz began to learn.

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

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

---

Entry of the Hero (Unaware, of Course)

Now comes Shanu.

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

Imagine the contrast.

On one side: a boy with nothing but determination.

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

And Shanu? Completely unaware.

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

---

The Moment

Then Shanu turned.

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

He looked up. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open.

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

This fellow clearly had not read that rulebook.

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

---

Honey, Bees, and Occupational Hazards

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

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

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

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

---

Mirror on the Tree

Shanu climbed a tall tree.

Halfway up—he froze.

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

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

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

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

---

Teamwork (Unplanned, but Effective)

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

Shanu prepared his smoke and knife.

And then—unexpected twist.

The bees attacked Roz.

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

Within seconds, Roz was covered in a buzzing cloud.

And Shanu?

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

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

---

Domestic Complications Begin

After all this, Shanu did the most natural thing.

He brought the robot home.

Now imagine the scene.

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

And then Shanu walks in… with a robot.

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

---

The Silent Worker

Roz did not bother with introductions.

It assessed the situation and started working.

Outside—chopping wood with machine precision.

Inside—cleaning the floor with surprising gentleness.

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

The family watched as their daily struggles quietly reduced.

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

---

Night Duty – Security Department

Night fell. The jungle woke up.

And so did danger.

A tiger approached silently.

But Roz was ready.

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

The real tiger paused.

Thought about it.

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

Even in the jungle, nobody likes unnecessary competition.

---

The Most Human Question

Morning came.

Calm. Peaceful.

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

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

Roz did nothing.

Did not eat. Did not move.

And that is when the real question arose.

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

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

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

It becomes… something else.

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

The Carbide Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​

The Boy,the Robot and the Mother

In the quiet year 3000, outside Munich, a young boy named Helmut, with a heavy heart and a toolkit, finds a friend in an abandoned robot. This gentle story of kindness and belonging is captured through tender illustrations and heart-felt conversations.

Chapter 1: The Boy with the Toolkit

The sun was warm in the outskirts of Munich. Year 3000. Helmut, ten years old, was walking along the dusty road, a metal toolkit heavy in his hand.

Chapter 2: The Sad Robot

Helmut stopped by the side of the road. There sat a robot, its body a dull, decaying grey, half-buried in dry leaves. The robot didn't move. Its single lens was dusty.

"Hello," said Helmut. "Why are you sitting here?"

A quiet whirring sound came from the machine. "My owner died," it said, its voice synthetic and slow. "He was an old man. His son lives in Japan. He abandoned me because I am obsolete."

"You aren't obsolete," said Helmut. "You can still run on solar."

"Yes," the robot whirred. "I am Eric. But I have no one to run for."

Chapter 3: Tightening Joints for a Longer Journey

"Come and stay with us," said Helmut. "Our garden is quiet. You can sit there and feel the sun."

Eric’s optical sensor clicked softly. "Stay? Yes. I would like that. But my joints are loose. Walking to your garden will destroy me."

"I can help," said Helmut. He reached into his clinking toolkit and pulled out a large, metallic spanner. The boy crouched again by the sad robot. With delicate, precise motions, he began to turn the rusted bolts, first on a knee, then an ankle. "You see," he said, and the spanner squeaked, "everything just needs a little care." The joints grew tight, and Eric stood, albeit stiffly. "It is a long way," said Eric, now powered by the year 3000’s golden light, "two kilometers. But now I can make it." Helmut lived with his mother, Marie, a nurse in the local hospital, and he knew they had space. Together, they started the long, steady walk towards home.

Chapter 4: The Golden Light and the Quiet Power

Their walk was slow. Two kilometers is a long way for a rusty robot, but tight joints and a shared dream carried them forward. Finally, they arrived at a small, neat house. It had a neat little garden, and beyond it lay the dissolving Munich skyline  silent in the year 3000's twilight.

Eric did not stop at the door. He immediately went to a small, warm golden power socket near the edge of the quiet garden and stood. A soft whirring sound filled the air. "Thank you," he said, and his sad central lens from be to catch a new, steady golden light, 

"I can do many things," Eric whirred, his synthetic voice growing stronger. "I can clean the entire house. I can chop all of the vegetables. I can even shift your largest furniture." He looked at Helmut. "A robot, you see, always has power. But a connection... that makes him useful." Helmut lived there with his mother, Marie, a nurse, and he knew they had space. Together, they started the long, steady walk towards home.

Chapter 5: The Quiet Cleanliness

Eric didn’t hesitate. As soon as he was energized ,golden light, he began. A soft whirring sound filled the small house, like a distant, helpful memory in the silent Munich skyline . He found the simple drawing room first, and his long, metallic limbs, now powered by the year 3000’s golden light , moved across the simple floor. He found dust that had rested for years. Eric gently lifted the simple couch, just high enough to sweep beneath, and then, slowly, one simple wooden dining chair at a time. His lens, steady and bright, catch a final gleam of golden light. From there, he moved to the two tiny bedrooms, carefully dusting each surface, making sure to never disturb the toolkit left on the dresser. When the rooms were silent and clean, he found the kitchen. He filled the kettle, and as a final thought, placed a bowl of fresh, chopped carrots next to it, making sure they catch a final gleam of golden light. The quiet of the clean house was different now, a peaceful solitude. His connection had made him useful. He was still accumulating.

Chapter 6: The Connection to Stay

Helmut watched Eric move with such silent efficiency, transforming their cluttered drawing room  into a simple, beautiful space. The house, which had been so noisy, was different now.

"Eric," Helmut said, and his synthetic voice, growing stronger, echoed softly in the quiet. "You can stay."

"Stay?" the robot whirred. "Yes. I would like that. But my owner is gone, and I am obsolete."

"You aren't obsolete," said Helmut. "Our garden is quiet. You can sit there and feel the sun."

Eric’s optical sensor clicked softly. He immediately went to small warm golden power socket.

Helmut sat down on the simple couch Eric had just dusted. "A connection, you see," the mole from the story once said, and Helmut understood it now, "that makes him useful." "We have power," Helmut told Eric. "We can recharge you whenever you need. And you... you have made our house clean." They started the long, steady walk towards home, but the silence had changed. It was filled with shared hope.

Chapter 7: The Surprise in the Kitchen

Marie returned from her long shift at the local hospital, her heart heavy with the weight of her duty as a nurse. Year 3000. She opened the small, neat garden gate  and paused. The air was warm, and the simple cottage roof catch a final gleam of golden light.

She stepped inside.

"Oh!" she said, and her hand went to her heart.

The small house was immaculate. No one had been cleaning. The simple wooden floors were spotless. In the drawing room, the large, heavy chairs were lined up neatly. Marie found dust that had rested for years. But there was something else. A connection, he made him useful. She found fresh, chopped piles of green and orange carrots on a clean counter.

Marie looked, but Helmut was not there. The silent Munich skyline was visible!

Chapter 8: The Introduction of Kindness and a Peaceful Solitude

Marie looked at the immaculate house, her heart no longer heavy. A whirring sound came from the garden.

Helmut ran into the room. "Mom!" he said. "You're home! Did you see?"

Marie turned, and saw Helmut, the clinking toolkit still slung over his shoulder. And standing behind him, albeit stiffly, was Eric, the rusty-red robot . He was clean now.

"Mom," said Helmut, and he placed a small hand gently on Eric's metallic shoulder. "This is Eric. He was obsolete, by the road. But I fixed him. We gave him a connection." Eric’s central optical lens, bright with golden light from , catch a final gleam of golden light.

"He cleaned everything," Helmut whirred. "And chopped the carrots!"

Marie looked at the rusty robot, then at her son's kind, hopeful eyes, recognizable from earlier stages.

She smiled. A connection, , made him useful. Marie smiled. "Thank you, Eric," she said softly, and the synthetic voice grew stronger. A final thought... the silence has changed. They lived happily in the immaculate cottage.

Megawatts, masterpieces, and a gunslinger Chief Engineer—one unforgettable road trip.

Mr. Dharangdharia, the Chief Engineer of GEB at Wanakbori during 1987–88, was a man who could make boilers tremble and engineers behave like well-disciplined schoolboys. A tough exterior, clipped words, and a reputation that travelled faster than official memos—naturally, everyone kept a safe distance. Everyone except me.

For reasons best known to him (and perhaps my persistence in planning), he began relying on me for the 5th and 6th units of 210 MW each. That trust became my lever. While others hesitated, I quietly used his authority—like a borrowed sword—to ensure State Board engineers delivered enabling facilities on time. The result? Milestones that today would still invite applause: full load within 24 hours of first synchronisation, with all auto-loops, HP heaters—everything behaving like a well-rehearsed orchestra. No jugaad, pure performance.

But Dharangdharia was not just a taskmaster. Beneath that कठोर आवरण was a man of surprising warmth. One day, he announced, “Roy, I am going to Sikka Thermal. Car is going. You and Madhuri are coming.” That was less an invitation and more a command performance.

The Road Trip Begins

We set off—about 130 km—with him occupying the front seat, legs stretched like a Western gunslinger, occasionally turning back to talk.

At one point he said in a gruff, half-chewed accent: “Roy… you see… in life… you must shoot first… then talk.”

I burst out laughing. He was clearly channeling .

I replied, “But sir, in project management, if you shoot first, audit will shoot back.”

He chuckled, “Then you better be Clint Eastwood!”

---

The Ahmedabad Surprise

Our first halt was Ahmedabad, at the residence of a certain Lalbhai. The ladies disappeared inside, leaving Dharangdharia and me in the drawing room.

The moment I entered, I felt something unusual—cool, controlled air. In 1988, a fully air-conditioned drawing room itself was a statement. But the real shock was yet to come.

Dharangdharia leaned back and said dramatically, “Roy… get up… and look properly.”

I obeyed.

What I saw made me forget my engineering calculations. The walls were adorned with original works—not reproductions—of masters like , , … and then, almost unreal, European legends—, , .

I must have looked like a villager seeing electricity for the first time.

Lalbhai smiled and explained, “This room is air-conditioned 24 hours—for them, not for us.”

At that moment, I realised something profound: these paintings were not decoration; they were living heritage. Each canvas carried not just colour, but centuries of thought, rebellion, and human emotion. In engineering we measure megawatts—here, value was measured in imagination.

Mentally, of course, I was already converting each painting into crores of rupees!

---

Lunch with Royal Cows

Next halt—a roadside resort designed like a rustic village. We had a typical Gujarati meal—rotla, dal, sabzi, kadhi—simple, yet deeply satisfying. I have always believed: simplicity, when done right, is the ultimate sophistication—like a perfectly made dal.

But the real attraction came after lunch.

The owner proudly took us to his cowshed.

Now, I have seen cows all my life, but this was something else. Jersey cows—imported lineage, carefully bred in India, especially by enterprising Gujaratis—stood like VIP guests. Each cow had fans, air coolers, and better ventilation than most government offices.

“Thirty kilos of milk per day,” the owner declared.

I looked at Dharangdharia and whispered, “Sir, even our boilers don’t give this efficiency.”

He replied in his Western tone, “Roy… this is not cow… this is milk factory.”

These Jersey cows, introduced and popularised in India largely by progressive dairy farmers in Gujarat, revolutionised milk productivity. High yield, controlled diet, temperature management—this was dairy engineering at its finest.

Another entry into my “knowledge bank,” as I like to call it.

---

Dwarka: Where Time Stands Still

During that trip, we also visited .

Standing by the Arabian Sea, Dwarka felt less like a city and more like a memory frozen in time. The wind carried the smell of salt and mythology. Believed to be the ancient kingdom of Lord Krishna, the town has an aura where history and faith merge seamlessly. The Dwarkadhish Temple rises with quiet dignity, and the rhythmic sound of waves feels like an eternal chant. For a man immersed in turbines and transformers, this was a different kind of power—spiritual, intangible, yet deeply grounding.

---

Wind and Vision at Okha

We also visited the early wind farm at —one of India’s first experiments with harnessing wind energy. Those turbines, primitive by today’s standards, stood like symbols of a future India—clean, innovative, and forward-looking.

---

The Man Behind the Myth

The most memorable part, however, was Dharangdharia himself.

Sitting in front, legs stretched, occasionally turning back mid-conversation, he kept entertaining me with his “Western dialogues”:

“Roy… when you face problem… you don’t run… you stare… like gunfighter…”

Then he would squint his eyes, pause dramatically, and whisper, “When you have to shoot… shoot… don’t talk.”

I said, “Sir, in our case—when you have to commission, commission—don’t hold meeting!”

He laughed—a rare, genuine laugh.

---

That trip was not just a journey from Wanakbori to Sikka. It was a journey through art, agriculture, engineering, spirituality, and human connection.

Even today, when I think of Dharangdharia, I don’t remember the stern Chief Engineer first. I remember the man turning back from the front seat, half-speaking, half-acting, as if life itself was a Western film—and we were all just trying to hit the right target.

Sadly Mr.Dharangdharia is no more,left for his heavenly abode 3 years back!

ভাত, মুসুর ডাল আর আলুভাজার গন্ধেই কখনও কখনও ফিরে আসে যারা আর ফেরে না—নিঃশব্দে, অদৃশ্যে।

ভোরের কুয়াশা তখনও পুরো কাটেনি। কলকাতার এক গল্ফ কোর্স—ঘাসের ডগায় জলবিন্দু, যেন রাতের শেষ স্মৃতি আঁকড়ে ধরে আছে। জগ্গি আর রয় খেলা থামিয়ে একটু বসেছে। ক্লাবগুলো পাশে রাখা, কথা গড়াল খেলাধুলো ছেড়ে জীবনের দিকে—আর তারপর স্বাভাবিকভাবেই মৃত্যুর দিকে।

জগ্গি বলল,

“দেখ, আমার কাছে মৃত্যু মানে একটা লম্বা ঘুম। স্বপ্নহীন। কোনো চিন্তা নেই, কোনো আফসোস নেই। শরীর ক্লান্ত হয়ে থেমে গেল—ব্যস, সব শেষ। একরকম শান্তি।”

রয় একটু হেসে বলল,

“তুই একেবারে সুইচ অফ করে দিলি সবকিছু! আমি কিন্তু তা ভাবি না। আমার মনে হয় কিছু একটা থেকে যায়। হয়তো অন্য কোনো পথে চলা শুরু হয়। আত্মা বলে যদি কিছু থাকে, তবে সে কি এভাবে হাওয়ায় মিলিয়ে যাবে?”

জগ্গি হেসে উঠল।

“থাকতেই পারে। কিন্তু কোনো প্রমাণ আছে? কেউ তো ফিরে এসে বলে না—ওই দেখ, আমি আছি। আমাদের যারা চলে গেছে—বাবা, মা, বন্ধু—কেউ কোনো খবর পাঠায় না। শুধু মাঝে মাঝে কিছু স্মৃতি হঠাৎ এসে ধাক্কা মারে। একটা গান, একটা গন্ধ, কোনো পুরোনো রাস্তা। ওইটুকুই। তার বাইরে সব চুপ।”

তাদের ক্যাডি রহমান চুপচাপ শুনছিল। হঠাৎ বলল,

“সাহেব, যদি সত্যি জানতে চান, টালিগঞ্জে এক পীরবাবা আছেন। উনি নাকি ওদিকের সঙ্গে কথা বলতে পারেন। আমাদের বস্তিতে সবাই যায়। বড়লোকরাও যায়, শুধু বলে না।”

পরদিন সকালেই কৌতূহলটা জিতে গেল। তিনজনে গাড়ি করে টালিগঞ্জের ভেতরের গলিতে ঢুকল। ছোট্ট একটা বাড়ি, বাইরে লাইন—সব রকম মানুষ। ভিতরে ধূপের গন্ধ, নীরবতা।

পীরবাবা সাদা পোশাকে বসে আছেন। চোখদুটো অদ্ভুত শান্ত।

তারা কিছু বলার আগেই তিনি হেসে বললেন,

“তোমরা জানতে চাও—মরার পর কী হয়। কেউ বলে জান্নাত, কেউ বলে অন্ধকার, কেউ বলে কিছুই নেই। আর সবচেয়ে বড় কথা—তোমরা একটা চিহ্ন খুঁজছ, তাই না? যারা চলে গেছে, তারা ভালো আছে কিনা।”

জগ্গি বলল,

“আমার তো মনে হয় সব শেষ হয়ে যায়। কিন্তু এই যে হঠাৎ হঠাৎ স্মৃতি আসে—এগুলো কি শুধু মাথার খেলা?”

রয় বলল,

“আর যারা বলে আত্মার সঙ্গে কথা বলে—ওগুলো কি সত্যি, না সব অভিনয়?”

পীরবাবা একটু চুপ করে রইলেন। তারপর ধীরে বললেন,

“শরীরটা একটা ভাড়া বাড়ি। আত্মা সেই বাড়ির ভাড়াটে। সময় শেষ হলে সে বেরিয়ে যায়। ঘুমটা শরীরের, আত্মার নয়। সে অন্য কোথাও যায়—যেখানে সময়ের হিসেব আলাদা।

জান্নাত কোনো জায়গা নয়, একটা অনুভূতি—শান্তি।

আর যারা বলে আত্মা ফিরে আসে—তারা ভূতের মতো নয়। তারা আসে খুব সূক্ষ্মভাবে। একটা গন্ধ, একটা স্বপ্ন, একটা হঠাৎ বাঁচার বোধ—এইভাবে।”

তিনি একটু হেসে বললেন,

“প্রমাণ চাইলে পাবে না। এটা কোর্টে দেখানোর জিনিস নয়। এটা অনুভবের বিষয়। ভালোবাসা তার নিজের ভাষায় কথা বলে।”

রয় জিজ্ঞেস করল,

“তাহলে এত নীরবতা কেন? কেউ স্পষ্ট করে কিছু জানায় না কেন?”

পীরবাবা বললেন,

“কারণ সব উত্তর পেলে জীবনটাই মাটি হয়ে যাবে। জন্মের সময়ই একটা বার্তা দিয়ে দেওয়া হয়েছে—বাঁচো, ভালোবাসো, মনে রাখো। বাকিটা রহস্য থাকাই ভালো।”

ফিরে আসার সময় গাড়িতে চুপচাপ বসে ছিল সবাই। হঠাৎ রয় বলল,

“কয়েকদিন আগে বাড়িতে ভাত, মুসুর ডাল আর আলুভাজা খাচ্ছিলাম। একেবারে সোজা খাবার—কিন্তু কী যে হল! হঠাৎ মনে হল আমি আবার ছোট হয়ে গেছি। মাটিতে বসে খাচ্ছি, সামনে ধোঁয়া ওঠা ডালের গন্ধ, পাশে কড়া করে ভাজা আলু… আর মা বসে আছে সামনে, চুপচাপ হাসছে। সেই চেনা দৃষ্টি—যেন আমি খাচ্ছি সেটাই তার সবচেয়ে বড় আনন্দ।

কয়েক সেকেন্ডের জন্য সব সত্যি হয়ে গেল। যেন মা কোথাও যায়নি।”

জগ্গি আস্তে বলল,

“এই তো সেই সিগন্যাল।”

রয় মাথা নাড়ল।

“হয়তো। বড় কিছু না—কিন্তু খুব কাছের।”

রহমান হেসে বলল,

“বাবা বলেন, মরা মানুষরা সাধারণ জিনিসের মধ্যেই কথা বলে।”

তারপর আর কেউ তেমন কথা বলল না।

শেষ পর্যন্ত তারা কোনো প্রমাণ পেল না—না মৃত্যুর পরে কিছু আছে, না নেই। কিন্তু একটা জিনিস বুঝল—স্মৃতিগুলো শুধু স্মৃতি নয়। সেগুলো যেন অদৃশ্য সুতো, যা আমাদের ধরে রাখে।

মৃত্যু হয়তো শেষ নয়। আবার নিশ্চিত শুরুও নয়।

কিন্তু ভালোবাসা—সেটা কোথাও যায় না।

হয়তো সেই কারণেই, এক প্লেট ভাত, মুসুর ডাল আর আলুভাজা হঠাৎ মাকে ফিরিয়ে আনতে পারে—নিঃশব্দে, খুব কাছে।

Simplicity:The Most Difficult Luxury

Simplicity: The Most Difficult Luxury

During my visit to France in 2002, I noticed something that stayed with me far longer than the monuments and museums. The balconies. Not overflowing with pots and colours, not shouting for attention—just a single flowering plant, placed thoughtfully, almost like a signature. There was restraint, and in that restraint, elegance.

It made me reflect—how often do we confuse abundance with beauty?

In many places, balconies are crowded with plants, colours competing with each other, as if beauty can be multiplied by addition. But true beauty, I have always felt, lies in subtraction. It is much like a single-line sketch—no room for error, no excess strokes, yet it captures the essence more powerfully than an elaborate painting.

Simplicity is not poverty of expression; it is clarity of thought.

I have seen this principle at work in the most unexpected places. A good chef, in my view, is not the one who can produce fifty dishes, but the one who can make a simple dal taste divine with minimal ingredients. That requires understanding, balance, and restraint. Anyone can complicate; very few can simplify.

Similarly, a slice of bread, properly toasted and served with generous butter, can be more satisfying than a lavish spread. There is honesty in simplicity—nothing to hide behind.

Even beauty, in its purest form, does not demand decoration. A beautiful face does not require layers of paint. Nature itself is the greatest teacher of this truth. The ocean does not decorate itself; it simply exists in its vastness. The sky, when clear and blue, needs no embellishment.

I am reminded of my visits to Australia. I would often find myself staring at the sky—deep blue, endless, almost meditative. Last time when my grandson Shuddy visited us, he looked up and innocently remarked, “The sky is not blue here.” His observation, though simple, carried a quiet indictment.

Because I remember—during my childhood in Bengal in the 1950s, the sky was blue. We did not know we were living amidst beauty, because it was natural, effortless, and everywhere.

Today, we are trying to recreate beauty artificially, while losing its original source.

Henry David Thoreau had said, “Simplify, simplify.” It sounds easy, but in reality, it is perhaps the most difficult discipline. Our lives are constantly moving towards accumulation—more possessions, more commitments, more noise. But in that process, clarity gets lost.

Another thought that resonates deeply is by Leonardo da Vinci: “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.” It takes maturity to remove the unnecessary. It takes wisdom to know what to retain.

“Simple living, high thinking” is a phrase we often repeat, but seldom practice. Simple living does not mean deprivation; it means freedom—from clutter, from excess, from the constant urge to impress. High thinking naturally follows, because the mind is no longer burdened.

In my own life, I have noticed that the moments of greatest contentment have been the simplest ones—reading a good book and losing track of time, a quiet cup of tea, a meaningful conversation, or even sitting silently observing nature.

Perhaps the French balcony with its single flower was not just an aesthetic choice. It was a philosophy.

A reminder that less is not less.

It is more—if only we have the eyes to see it.