The Magnet of Misery

The Magnet of Misery

In the quiet lane behind the old Hanuman temple in Dehradun lived Baba Samaranand, retired electrical engineer from Bharat Heavy Electricals, self-certified philosopher, and part-time therapist who charged nothing but asked for total surrender to his “methods”. People called him “Baba Magnet-wale” because he had a bowl full of fridge magnets shaped like laughing Buddhas, OM signs, and one suspiciously obscene dancing Shiva that he swore was “pure tantra”.

One monsoon afternoon, a man stormed in wearing a safari suit two sizes too tight, face redder than a Diwali lantern.

“Babaji!” he shouted, “I am Vinod Tandon, branch manager, Punjab National Bank, Sector 17. My life is finished! My BP is 180/110, my wife has stopped cooking paneer, my daughter wants to marry a boy who makes YouTube videos about cryptocurrency, and yesterday the ATM swallowed my own debit card! Tell me, Babaji, is mercury retrograde or have I offended Shani-dev in my previous birth?”

Baba Samaranand was drinking tea from a steel glass that had “Best Employee 1998” printed on it. He looked at Vinod over the rim, slow as a lizard.

“Arre Tandon-sahib, sit. First remove your shoes, they are leaking tension on my floor.”

Vinod sat, sweating.

Baba opened his wooden Godrej cupboard, took out a bright red horseshoe magnet, and placed it in Vinod’s palm.

“Hold this.”

Vinod stared. “That’s it? I came from Chandigarh for a magnet?”

“Shh. Close fist. Feel the pull.”

Vinod closed his fist. “Nothing is pulling.”

“Exactly,” Baba smiled. “That is the whole point. The world is pulling you from all sides, wife, daughter, ATM, cryptocurrency damad. But this magnet is pulling nothing. For ten minutes daily, you sit with it and tell it your problems. It will listen quietly. No advice, no judgement, no forward of good-morning messages. Just listening.”

Vinod looked doubtful. “But Babaji, this is just cognitive behavioural distraction, right?”

Baba’s eyes widened in admiration. “Arre wah! You also read WhatsApp University psychology groups? Good, then you already know it works. Now go, complain to the magnet, not to your liver.”

Vinod left, slightly confused but lighter.

Three weeks later he returned, looking ten kilos thinner and suspiciously cheerful.

“Babaji, miracle! BP is 130/85, wife made paneer twice, daughter’s boyfriend has only 40,000 subscribers so I have postponed my heart attack, and the bank gave me new card with extra cashback. Your magnet is dev-amaan!”

Baba waved his hand. “Magnet is duffer, yaar. You just stopped short-circuiting your own brain.”

Next came Mrs. Shukla, chemistry teacher from St. Joseph’s, famous for making class 10th boys cry with her mole-concept sarcasm.

“Baba, I can’t sleep. Every night I calculate how many children have ruined their future because they confuse valency with validity. I wake up at 3 a.m. shouting ‘Avogadro!’ in my dream.”

Baba listened patiently, then disappeared into his little courtyard and returned with a small tulsi plant in a broken coffee mug.

“This is Tulsi Devi version 2.0. Your new daughter.”

Mrs. Shukla frowned. “I already have one tulsi outside my house.”

“That one is on autopilot. This one is on manual mode. Your job: keep her alive. Not too much water, not too little. Morning sun till 11, then shade. Talk to her in Hindi, she hates English medium.”

Mrs. Shukla laughed despite herself. “You’re giving me a plant instead of sleeping pills?”

“Sleeping pills have short cut. Plant has no short cut. Every day you will wake up thinking ‘Did I kill Tulsi Devi today?’ By the time you finish checking her soil, your brain will be too tired to torture you with mole concept. Nature’s own CBT.”

Mrs. Shukla took the plant like it was made of glass.

Six months later she sent Baba a Rakhi made of tulsi leaves and a card: “Tulsi Devi now has 47 children (cuttings). I sleep like Kumbhakaran. Thank you for upgrading my motherboard.”

Then came the grand finale: young Arjun, software engineer, 27 years old, 27 tabs open in brain.

“Baba, I have decision paralysis. Startup or Google? Arrange marriage or Tinder? Keto or rice? I overthink so much I forgot my own Wi-Fi password.”

Baba looked at him sadly. “Beta, you are trying to take short cut to life. Life has no Ctrl+Z.”

He thought for a long time, then went inside and returned with… nothing.

Arjun panicked. “No magnet? No plant?”

Baba shook his head. “For you, I have a task that even Google cannot optimise.”

He pointed to a rusty iron trunk in the corner. “Every morning at 6 a.m. you will come here, open this trunk, take out one old photograph, look at it for five minutes, try to remember the story behind it, then put it back exactly the way it was. No phone, no music, no short cut.”

Arjun opened the trunk. Inside were hundreds of faded photographs: someone’s wedding, someone’s first bicycle, a group of engineers in bell-bottoms holding a “400 kV line energised” banner.

“Whose photos are these?” Arjun asked.

“Mine, my friends’, strangers’ who left them here over twenty years. Some dead, some forgotten. You will never know the full story. That is the point. You will sit with mystery that has no closure, no LinkedIn profile, no resolution. Your overthinking engine will sputter and die because it has nothing to optimise.”

Arjun came every morning for three months. One day he arrived with a big grin.

“Baba, I have stopped overthinking.”

“Good!”

“I joined my father’s hardware shop in Roorkee. Cash only, no UPI, no decisions, no keto.”

Baba looked shocked. “Arre! That is too much offline, beta!”

Arjun laughed. “No short cut, Baba. You said.”

Baba hugged him. “Accha, at least update the shop’s WhatsApp DP once a year.”

Years passed. Baba Samaranand’s veranda became famous. People came with anxiety, left with magnets, plants, old photographs, sometimes just a safety pin he asked them to count every day (“there are exactly 108 grooves, no more, no less”).

One evening, a foreign lady journalist arrived with a big camera. “Sir, BBC wants to do a story: ‘The Indian Guru Who Heals With Fridge Magnets’.”

Baba offered her tea in the Best Employee 1998 glass.

“Madam, I am not guru. I am only retired electrical engineer. I know one thing: current always takes path of least resistance. Human beings also want least resistance. Anxiety is high-resistance path. I give tiny low-resistance loops, magnet, plant, photograph, so current calms down.”

The journalist smiled. “So placebo?”

Baba grinned, showing paan-stained teeth. “Placebo, placebo-effect, placebo-wallah, whatever. As long as the fuse doesn’t blow, who cares about the brand name?”

She asked for a magnet to take home.

Baba gave her the obscene dancing Shiva one.

“Careful, madam. This one has extra tantric pull.”

She laughed all the way back to London.

And in the quiet lane behind the Hanuman temple, Baba Samaranand kept his bowl of magnets ready.

Because some problems need surgery, some need medicines, and some just need a small, ridiculous task so the mind stops short-circuiting itself.

After all, as he liked to say, “In the grand 440 kV transmission line of life, sometimes all you need is a little grounding.”

A leaaf from a diary

I came across this short story written in blank verse!

The doorbell hums, a single lazy bee.  

I open—there stands a man of thirty-five  

or so, tall, smiling like an old refrain  

I almost know. His face is half a ghost  

of someone’s son; the eyes, perhaps, the chin—  

they tug at memory, then slip the hook.  

“Uncle,” he says, and folds his hands in greeting,  

the word a warm coin pressed into my palm.  

I stare, ashamed. These sixty years of postings—  

Ambala, Tezpur, Wellington, Surat—  

have strewn my mind with faces like confetti  

after parades long over. North, South, East,  

West: I have shaken hands in every dust  

and every rain this country owns. Somewhere  

among those thousands, surely, is his father.  

I smile the helpless smile of the forgetful,  

usher in this polite familiar stranger.  

“Sit, sit,” I say, and wave him to the sofa  

whose springs still sigh for friends who never age.  

The maid is summoned; tea will come anon.  

He sets a box upon the table—mithai,  

bright as festival, wrapped in silver hope.  

“My mother sent,” he laughs, “she still believes  

you have the sweet tooth of a twenty-five  

year captain who could finish half a kilo  

and ask for more.”  

I shake my head, rueful. “Those days are gone, beta.  

Diabetes now polices every spoon.  

Your mother’s love is lethal in the best way—  

it tries to kill me with affection.”  

He laughs, and for an instant I almost catch  

the name that dances just behind his teeth.  

Almost. The moment slips, like railway platforms  

sliding past the window of an express  

I boarded long ago and can’t get off.  

We sip the tea. He tells me of his job,  

his wife, a child who calls the fan “helicopter.”  

I nod, I smile, I say the proper things,  

while in my skull a thousand ghostly uncles  

lean forward, straining to remember him  

for me. They fail.  

At last he rises. “I must go, Uncle-ji.  

Next time I’ll bring namkeen.”  

I touch his shoulder—warm, substantial, real—  

and feel the small sharp sorrow of the old:  

to be a crowded album no one opens  

quite the right way anymore.  

He leaves. The box of sweets remains, unopened,  

a polite assassin on the table.  

I sit alone, tasting the bitter tea  

of being loved by people I’ve forgotten  

and forgetting those who still remember me.

Varanasi diary

The Queue That Whispers Everything Human

I was leaning against the warm stone wall near the Vishwanath Temple corridor, watching the queue snake like a living thing – slow, patient, unstoppable. It was late afternoon, the kind of heat that makes your shirt stick to your back, but nobody in the line seemed to mind. They had surrendered to the wait hours ago.

An old woman in a faded green sari was fanning herself with the edge of her pallu. I fell into step beside her.

“First time, beta?” she asked without looking at me.

“No, Aunty. I just… never stand in it. I usually touch the outer wall and run.”

She laughed, a dry crackle. “Arti-style. “Same disease. My knees won’t forgive me if I stand four hours. But this time my grandson wrote from America – ‘Dadi, one darshan for my Green Card interview.’ So here I am, trading knees for visa.”

A young man ahead of us turned. Early twenties, thin beard, nervous eyes, carrying a steel lota like it was made of glass.

“Green Card is easy, Auntyji,” he said. “Try asking Baba for a boy who earns thirty lakhs but still listens to his mother.”

The old woman cackled. “Thirty lakhs and listens to mother? You’ll need the special VIP queue for that miracle, son.”

The boy blushed. “Actually… I’m here for something else.” He lowered his voice. “My parents don’t know I’m… you know… I like boys. They keep sending biodatas of girls. I thought if I ask Baba to change me normal…”

The words hung in the hot air like incense smoke.

The old woman didn’t flinch. She just looked at him for a long second, then reached out and patted his arm, gently, like he was made of porcelain.

“Beta,” she said softly, “Baba has bigger things to fix than who you love. You ask him for courage instead. The rest will follow.”

The boy’s eyes filled. He couldn’t speak, just nodded, clutching his lota tighter.

A foreign couple – tall, sunburnt, backpacks the size of small elephants – squeezed past us toward Dashashwamedh Ghat for the evening Aarti. The girl had henna on her hands that was already flaking. Her boyfriend was filming everything on a GoPro like the city might vanish if he stopped recording.

I caught up with them near the steps.

“First Aarti?” I asked.

The girl – Freya from Sweden – grinned. “Third night in a row. We can’t stop coming. It’s like… church, but with fire and drums and zero guilt.”

Her boyfriend, Lukas, lowered the camera. “Back home, religion is quiet. Here it’s loud and sweaty and everyone is shouting at God like He’s hard of hearing. I love it.”

We found a spot on the upper steps. Below us, the river was black and gold, reflecting a thousand small oil lamps that people were already floating. The priests were warming up – testing microphones, adjusting the giant lamps like rock stars tuning guitars.

A sadhu with ash-smeared chest sat cross-legged near us, smoking a chillum. Freya, fearless, offered him a biscuit from her packet. He took it solemnly, broke it in half, gave her one piece back.

“Share with Ganga,” he rasped in English. “Everything shared becomes holy.”

Lukas laughed. “Do Indians really believe the river is their mother?”

The sadhu exhaled a blue cloud. “Do Swedes really believe IKEA is furniture?”

Freya burst out laughing so hard she almost fell into the lap of a Marwari family behind us.

Down on the platform, the Aarti began. Seven young priests in saffron robes, synchronized like dancers, swinging fire in perfect circles. The bells went mad. Conches moaned. The crowd – thousands strong – roared back with claps and cries of “Har Har Mahadev!”

I looked around. The boy from the queue was there, lota abandoned somewhere, eyes shining, clapping with everyone else. The old woman stood near the front, hands folded, lips moving silently – maybe for the grandson’s Green Card, maybe for the boy’s courage, maybe for her knees.

Freya had tears running down her cheeks, mascara making little rivers. Lukas had stopped filming. Even the sadhu was swaying, chillum forgotten.

And for those forty minutes, the city stopped pretending.

No one was asking for jobs or marriages or cures or to be “fixed.”

They were just standing in firelight, singing to a God who – if the old woman was right – already knew everything they were too afraid to say out loud.

When the last lamp was offered to the river and the priests bowed, the crowd didn’t rush away like they usually do in temples. They lingered. Someone started singing Bhajan. Others joined. Even Freya hummed along, murdering the tune gloriously.

I walked back through the lanes alone. A kachori seller on the corner recognized me from previous trips.

“Extra mirch wala?” he asked, already frying.

“Double,” I said.

He grinned. “Baba blessed you tonight?”

I thought of the boy finding courage, the old woman trading knees for love, the foreigners crying into the Ganga, the sadhu sharing his biscuit.

I took the paper plate, steam rising like incense.

“Yeah,” I said. “He always does. Just never the way we expect.”

“John lies under the African night sky, his transparent shield-tent turning the wild into a window to the stars.”

---

John’s Safari at the End of the Century

When John first announced he was going on safari, Juliet had laughed in disbelief.

“You? Out there? You can barely survive a weekend without Wi-Fi!”

But John, flushed with the excitement of the new Wild Reality Safari Program, refused to back down.

“This isn’t like the old days, Jules. I’ll have the best gear. A tent that turns invisible, cooling systems that make the desert air feel like spring, food tablets that taste like anything I want. It’s safe — safer than staying in the city.”

Juliet shook her head. “Safe doesn’t mean wise. You’ll see.”

---

Arrival in the Wild

On the first evening, John unpacked his sling bag, no bigger than a school satchel, and pressed a button. In seconds, an invisible shield-tent unfurled around him. From inside, it looked like a crystal dome — he could lie in bed and gaze at the brilliant constellations. When the sun rose, the shield automatically darkened, shading him while still letting him watch the savannah wake.

The heat of the day was tamed by his cooling device, which worked by evaporating moisture and stealing latent heat from the air. A pocket of perfect coolness surrounded his tent, even as outside temperatures soared.

For food, he popped compressed nutrition tablets that could taste like anything — pizza, mangoes, even Juliet’s lasagna. Still, he nibbled on fresh African vegetables when he craved fullness.

---

Meeting Amina

On the second day, while testing his jump-shoes across a stream, John landed almost in front of a girl. She was dressed in traditional attire, carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows.

“I am Amina,” she said warily. “And you? A hunter?”

John laughed, shaking his head. “Not even close. More like… a tourist with toys.”

Amina tried to string her bow but fumbled. “My grandmother could use this to bring down a gazelle. Me? I can barely keep the arrow straight.” She eyed his tiny sling bag suspiciously. “And you say you can survive with that?”

Moments later, when a curious giraffe poked its head nearby, John tapped his animal-communication device. To Amina’s amazement, the device emitted low rumbles that matched the giraffe’s own sounds. The animal blinked, swayed its head, and calmly walked away.

“Magic?” she whispered.

“Science,” John said, grinning.

---

The Night of the Hyenas

By the fourth night, John and Amina had settled into a rhythm — she showed him signs of the land, and he showed her what his gadgets could do. But when a pack of hyenas approached, reality bit hard.

At first, the shield-tent held them back, shimmering with invisible resistance. Then, with a sharp crack, the cooling device failed — the shield dimmed, no longer at full power. The hyenas pressed closer, their laughter-like howls echoing in the night.

John grabbed his scent-spray device, which could automatically choose the chemical that repelled any species. But the cartridge sputtered — clogged. The hyenas weren’t retreating.

Amina lifted her bow with trembling hands. “John… this is no game.”

Thinking fast, John pulled up the helmet’s sensor interface. It suggested an option he hadn’t tried yet: the lion-roar playback stored in the animal-communication device.

“Cover your ears,” he told Amina, and pressed the trigger.

A deafening roar thundered across the plain. The hyenas froze, then bolted into the tall grass, whining in terror.

For a long moment, silence. Then Amina let out a shaky laugh. “Your toys… they are stronger than my arrows.”

John exhaled, trembling. “They’re not toys. Not anymore.”

---

The Leap of Trust

The next day, while crossing another wide stream, John nearly slipped mid-jump. The helmet sensors instantly calculated the angle and boosted the jump-shoes at the last second, flinging him safely to the far bank. Amina clapped in awe, but John realized something deeper: without trusting the tech, and himself, he would have fallen.

---

Departure

When the safari program ended, John packed the tent, cooling device, sprays, shoes, and tablets back into his sling bag. The satellite tracker pinged green: mission complete.

Amina tied a leather string around his wrist. “This,” she said, “so you remember — the wild is not conquered by arrows, or by machines. It is shared, when you learn to listen.”

As John looked at the horizon one last time, he realized Juliet had been wrong: this wasn’t recklessness. It was discovery — of the wild, of friendship, and of himself.

My Day With Dominique Lapierre — The Friend Who Forgot My Name But Not My City

---

My Day With Dominique Lapierre — The Friend Who Forgot My Name But Not My City

It is not every day that life places you across the table from a man whose books have shaped the way an entire nation remembers its own tragedies. But on 9th September 2001, I had the rare privilege of spending a full day with Dominique Lapierre in Bhopal—an experience that still glows in memory like a warm lamp.

Dominique, known across India for Freedom at Midnight, Calcutta, The City of Joy and It Was Five Past Midnight in Bhopal, carried an unmistakable affection for our country. His writing had the honesty of a man who observed deeply and cared even more deeply.

He had come to Bhopal that week to release his book on the Union Carbide tragedy. Ironically, the book could not be released within the city because a section of local journalists insisted on cornering him over one issue—why the book did not mention anything about the then Chief Minister, Arjun Singh, during the night of the gas leak in 1984. Rumours had floated for years that he had left Bhopal on the crucial night between 2nd and 3rd December.

The tension grew, and the programme was abandoned.

As Executive Director of BHEL, Bhopal, I felt an obligation to let his research and voice be heard. So on that very day, 9th December 2001, I invited him to our Guest House to deliver the lecture he had prepared for the city.

The publisher from Manjul Publications whispered to me, “Sir, what he will speak now is the original lecture—the one no one got to hear.”

And so, in a quiet hall tucked inside the greenery of our campus, Dominique delivered his meticulously researched account. He had spoken to victims, doctors, factory technicians, and even senior officials who had first entered the plant after the leak. His analysis of how a pesticide experiment went horribly wrong was supported with facts, drawings, diagrams, and timelines he had collected over two years of work.

It was not a lecture—it was a moral document.

After the applause subsided, we moved to lunch at the Guest House. My wife had arranged a complete Western meal for him—soup, au gratin, grilled chicken, boiled vegetables, and a proper dessert.

Dominique settled into his chair with a sigh of relief.

“Ah,” he said, “after a long time I am eating a civilised lunch!”

I laughed. “But the newspapers say you love spicy Indian food!”

He leaned forward, eyes twinkling like a mischievous schoolboy.

“My friend from Calcutta,”—for he had started calling me that since morning—“I do love India, but tell me, why do you people insist on murdering perfectly innocent vegetables?”

I feigned indignation.

“Murder? Dominique, we give vegetables a second life! They enjoy their last moments in turmeric, cumin and mustard oil.”

He chuckled, pointing his fork at me.

“This boiled carrot tastes like carrot. In your system it would taste like… everything except carrot!”

To that, my wife calmly replied, “That is why Indians are rarely deficient in imagination.”

The table erupted in laughter.

A Brief Conversation About the Gas Leak

During lunch, I gently asked him, “Dominique, after hearing so many conflicting stories, what is the one thing that shocked you the most about that night?”

He paused, spoon halfway to his lips.

“That so many people died because the alarms were silenced,” he said quietly. “And because warnings were ignored for years. Technology failed, but human arrogance failed first.”

He had interviewed factory workers who told him of malfunctioning gauges, leaking valves, safety shortcuts, and the eerie silence that followed the first burst of gas.

“And the management?” I asked.

He shrugged, a heavy sadness in his eyes.

“Some saw it as an experiment gone wrong. They forgot that the experiment was happening over a city of a million sleeping souls.”

His voice carried the weight of a man who had spent months walking through the lanes of Old Bhopal, listening to coughing victims and widows who still searched for answers.

His Heart Was Always in India

It is common knowledge that Dominique and his wife adopted a village in Bengal, and the royalties from The City of Joy funded schools, clinics, and basic infrastructure there. That sense of giving—effortless, unadvertised—was what made India love him.

A Surprise Reunion at the Airport

Years later, in January 2003, I was travelling from Bhopal to Kolkata via Mumbai. At the airport, I spotted a familiar face surrounded by admirers. I smiled, thinking he would never recognise me.

Suddenly, he turned, his eyes lit up, and he came hurrying towards me.

“My friend from Kolkata!” he shouted.

Of course, he had forgotten my name—but not the warmth of that day.

And I felt strangely elated. Because sometimes relationships don’t need exact names; they only need the memory of shared kindness.

---

Note:Dominique Lapierre, a passionate storyteller and a true friend of India, lives on through the compassion and humanity woven into his books. Though he is no more, his words continue to illuminate the struggles and strengths of ordinary people with extraordinary grace.

Golf Story

---

A Reluctant Golfer’s Afternoon — 

A crisp winter afternoon at the course—the kind where the sun behaves like it’s working on contract—and there we were: Sikka, Jaggi, Put Kedar, and I, the permanent reluctant golfer, armed with hope, doubt, and a swing that even I don't trust.

---

Sikka (adjusting his cap and flashing his signature smile at passing lady golfers):

“SN, golf is actually the simplest game on earth. The ball is not running away. Stationary. Waiting for your blessings.”

Me:

“Simplest? With trees that appear out of nowhere? This course is like a haunted forest designed by a committee.”

Jaggi (grinning in his wicked but always warm style):

“Arrey Roybabu, these trees love you. They stand exactly where your ball wants to go.”

Then, with a soft sigh,

“Golf, jokes, and friends—that’s my life now. Rest all gone with time.”

We all fell silent just for a heartbeat, the kind that comes when humour brushes against truth.

---

I stepped up to my ball. Perfect stance—knees bent, eyes down, grip textbook-correct—looking like a golfer only in the brochure.

Me:

“Everything set… only the outcome uncertain.”

I swung. The ball shot off like it understood physics for the first three seconds, then—TOK!—straight onto the only tree in the entire fairway.

Put Kedar (shaking his head like a disappointed philosopher):

“Uncle… golf is like life. You plan the route, but destiny negotiates with the nearest tree.”

---

Next tee. More lady golfers walked by. As expected, Sikka’s spine straightened, swing became silk, voice deepened.

Sikka (after a perfect drive):

“SN, did you see that? Pure muscle memory.”

Jaggi:

“And pure motivation, Roybabu—please note the timing with the ladies passing.”

Kedar nearly swallowed his laughter.

---

Then we reached the sand bunker, that desert of despair.

Me:

“My ball visits this bunker more frequently than I visit my doctor.”

Put Kedar:

“Uncle, consider it an unplanned outage. Even the best power stations face it.”

Jaggi:

“Only difference is—power stations recover faster than Roybabu’s swing.”

---

At the green, the grass began its mischief—tilting and whispering directions only it understood.

Me:

“I hit straight, grass guides left. I hit left, it shifts right. This lawn is doing politics.”

Put Kedar:

“Uncle, pendulum stroke. Calm. Smooth. Like a temple bell on a quiet evening.”

Jaggi:

“Or like Roybabu when he’s planning how to explain to Madhuri bhabhi why he’s late again.”

I lined up the putt. Back-and-forth, gentle and precise.

The ball rolled… rolled… slowed… and stopped one inch before the hole.

Me:

“And this, gentlemen, is why I remain a reluctant golfer.”

Sikka:

“But SN, without you, our foursome loses half its charm.”

Jaggi:

“True, Roybabu. Your struggles give me hope.”

Put Kedar:

“And content. Every group needs one unpredictable factor. That is you, Uncle.”

We burst out laughing and moved toward the next tee—four men negotiating trees, grass, bunkers, memory, muscle memory, and each other.

Golf looks simple.

But for a reluctant golfer like me, it remains the most dignified comedy show in the world.

---

When technology forgets compassion , even the honest can turn rogue

---

The Ghost Accounts – When AI Replaced the Human Touch

When Sunil Verma lost his job at the bank, it wasn’t because he had done something wrong.
In fact, he had done everything right — for 27 years.

He was the kind of banker customers trusted blindly. He filled their forms, reminded them about KYC deadlines, fetched photocopies, and sometimes even attended their family functions. To hundreds of senior citizens, he wasn’t just Mr. Verma from the bank — he was “Beta Sunil.”

But then came AI automation.

The bank proudly declared itself “future-ready.” Machines would now handle customer interactions, assess loan eligibility, detect fraud, and even predict customer churn — all without human intervention.

Sunil’s name appeared in the list of employees to be retrenched.
He was handed a generous severance package, a polite handshake, and a line he would never forget:

“AI will take care of our customers now.”

---

A Quiet Grudge

For a while, Sunil tried to accept the change. But the silence of his small flat and the sight of younger bankers talking to screens instead of people ate away at him.

One evening, going through his old diaries, he found something unusual — pages filled with names of customers who had no nominees. He remembered many of them: widows, retired professors, old couples whose children lived abroad and rarely called.

He also knew that several of them had passed away.
Their money, sitting untouched, had become part of the bank’s ever-growing pool of unclaimed deposits.

He stared at those names for a long time and whispered to himself,

“AI took my job… let’s see if it can notice ghosts.”

---

The Hackers’ Pact

Through his neighbour’s son, Raghav — a tech-savvy youngster known for his ‘creative coding’ — Sunil got introduced to Aryan, a wiry 22-year-old hacker with dark circles and fast fingers.

They met at a café near Connaught Place.

Raghav laughed when Sunil explained his plan.

“Uncle, you’re seriously asking us to hack a bank?”

Sunil replied evenly, “Not hack. Just… reclaim money that nobody owns. The system doesn’t care, why should we?”

Aryan raised an eyebrow.

“Unclaimed accounts? That’s clever. But dangerous.”

Sunil smiled. “I’ve worked in that bank for decades. I know where the data sleeps.”

And that’s how the operation began — quietly, meticulously.

---

The Ghost Accounts

Using Sunil’s insider knowledge and the hackers’ technical skill, they created a sophisticated network of small transfers — a few hundred rupees at a time from dozens of dormant accounts. The money flowed into digital wallets and then into shell investment accounts.

Sunil rationalized every move.

“These people are gone. Their children don’t care. The bank will never even notice.”

For six months, the trio worked undetected. AI bots processed millions of transactions daily — theirs blended right in.

---

The Unexpected Living Ghost

Then one morning, Aryan burst into Sunil’s flat, alarmed.

“Uncle, we’ve got a problem. One of your ghost accounts — Ramesh Khatri — is active again.”

Sunil frowned. “That’s impossible. He died three years ago.”

Raghav checked the system logs.

“Someone’s making withdrawals, using valid two-factor authentication. It’s legit activity.”

A chill ran through Sunil. “Maybe his nephew…”

Aryan looked up sharply. “Yes. His nephew’s name is Rohan Khatri. And guess what — he works in your old bank. In the cybersecurity division.”

Sunil froze. For the first time, the thrill of revenge turned to fear.

---

The Fall

Two weeks later, Sunil’s doorbell rang at dawn.
Policemen entered, followed by a young man with sharp, observant eyes — Rohan Khatri.

“Mr. Verma,” Rohan said quietly, “you were my uncle’s banker. He trusted you.”

Sunil’s voice trembled. “I didn’t touch his money knowingly…”

Rohan interrupted gently.

“You made one mistake, sir. You trained the AI system years ago — its anomaly detection algorithm learned from your own working patterns. When those same keystroke rhythms appeared again, from outside the bank network, it flagged them.”

Sunil stared blankly. “You mean… it recognized me?”

Rohan nodded. “The system you helped design remembered you better than the people you served.”

As the officers led him away, Sunil muttered under his breath,

“I built relationships humans forgot — and machines remembered.”

---

Epilogue

Months later, a short news item appeared:

“Ex-bank employee held for siphoning funds from dormant accounts. AI-driven anomaly detection and ethical reporting by cybersecurity staff led to his arrest.”

In his prison cell, Sunil sometimes read that headline on an old newspaper clipping.
He smiled faintly and whispered,

“At least the AI finally remembered my name.”

---

Note:

This story explores how automation, while improving efficiency, can quietly erode the emotional bond between people and institutions. When technology replaces empathy, even honest men can lose their moral compass. Yet, as Sunil discovered too late, machines may lack emotion — but they never forget.

Echoes in the Stones:The Story of the Bamiyan Budha

The dust of Rajgir swirled around us, carrying with it the scent of ancient earth and blooming jasmine. I sat across from the venerable monk, his eyes, though clouded by age, held a sharp, distant gaze that hinted at centuries of wisdom. He was a man of Afghan origin, a descendant of the Rahmat line, though his ancestors, embracing the teachings of the Buddha, had taken a new name – Dharmapala, Protector of the Dharma.

Our conversation drifted, as it often did, to the grand epochs of Buddhist history, and soon, he began to speak of Bamiyan. Not of its tragic end, but of its glorious dawn. His voice, a low rumble, seemed to transport me back to the 5th century CE, to a time when Afghanistan, or what was then known as parts of ancient Gandhara and Bactria, was a crossroads of cultures and creeds.

"Imagine, if you will," Dharmapala began, his gaze fixed on a distant, unseen horizon, "the Bamiyan valley in those days. A rugged, majestic landscape, nestled within the Hindu Kush mountains. The air was thin, crisp, and the wind carried tales of nomadic tribes, of empires rising and falling, and always, the whisper of conflict between the various clans and petty kingdoms vying for control."

He described a time of paradox – a land often tumultuous, yet one that embraced the serene message of the Buddha with profound devotion. It was in this crucible that the vision for the colossal Buddhas of Bamiyan was born. "The people," he continued, "desired a symbol of peace and enlightenment so grand, so enduring, that it would stand as a beacon against the ever-present tides of strife."

Indian artisans and sculptors, masters of their craft, were summoned to this distant land. Dharmapala painted a vivid picture of their arduous journey, traversing mountain passes and vast plains, carrying with them not just tools, but the very essence of Indian architectural and artistic genius.

"Their struggle was immense," he recounted, a hint of empathy in his voice. "The climate, so different from the fertile plains of Hindustan. The biting cold, the fierce winds. And the food…" He paused, a faint smile touching his lips. "Ah, the food! No lush fields of rice, no abundance of fresh vegetables they were accustomed to. Here, it was dates, dried fruits, tough mountain grains, and the rich, pungent milk of goats."

I could almost taste the unfamiliar meals, see the Indian artisans huddling around small fires, trying to find comfort in the stark, magnificent landscape.

​"The carving itself," Dharmapala said, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper, "was a monumental feat of human endurance and devotion. Imagine chiseling away at the hard rock face of the cliff, day after day, year after year. For the higher reaches, they built elaborate scaffolding, precarious structures of wood and rope, clinging to the mountain like spiders on a web. Others, bolder still, worked from jhulas – swings suspended from above, swaying gently in the wind as they shaped the divine form."

​The local people, accustomed to the harsh terrain, played a crucial role. They were the helpers, the carriers, the strong backs that hauled materials and provided invaluable knowledge of the mountains. "It was a collaboration," Dharmapala emphasized, "between the vision of the patrons, the skill of the Indian masters, and the strength of the local populace." The chief architects, Indian experts in sthapati and shilpashastra, meticulously designed every curve, every fold of the Buddha's robes, ensuring that the colossal figures radiated serenity and power.

​As he spoke, I felt a deep sense of awe. His description was so vivid, so imbued with the spirit of that age, that I could practically see the dust motes dancing in the sunlight reflecting off the freshly carved stone, hear the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of chisels, and feel the sheer scale of the undertaking.

​Then, his voice faltered. The light in his eyes dimmed, and a profound sorrow settled upon his features. "And then," he said, his voice barely audible, "it was gone. Destroyed. By those who saw not art, not devotion, but merely idols." He spoke of the Taliban's act of destruction, not with anger, but with the deep, aching grief of one who mourned a lost piece of his soul, a heritage shattered. His heart, I could tell, was truly broken.

​The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the echoes of ancient chisels and the ghosts of magnificent statues. Dharmapala had not just told a story; he had opened a window into a forgotten world, reminding me of humanity's boundless capacity for creation, and its heartbreaking potential for destruction.

The Man Who Heard Too Much

A few years ago, I embarked on a short getaway to Ooty, the queen of hill stations in Tamil Nadu. We had rented an SUV from Coimbatore for a two-day trip, eager to escape the sweltering plains and immerse ourselves in the cool, misty highlands. As we wound our way up the ghat roads, the landscape transformed dramatically. Lush tea gardens stretched out like emerald carpets on the rolling hills, their neatly manicured rows dotted with women in colorful saris plucking leaves under the soft morning sun. Tall pine trees stood sentinel along the roadside, their needles whispering in the breeze, while distant meadows bloomed with wildflowers in shades of purple and yellow. The Nilgiri hill range loomed majestically ahead, shrouded in a light fog that promised adventure and serenity.

Our driver, Shrinu, was a character straight out of a comedy sketch—jovial, quick-witted, and always ready with a grin that crinkled his eyes. He navigated the hairpin bends with effortless skill, honking cheerfully at passing trucks while regaling us with local tales. About halfway up, as we paused at a viewpoint overlooking a valley of undulating green, I struck up a conversation to pass the time. "Shrinu, tell me about your family," I said, settling back in my seat.

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his mustache twitching with amusement. "Ah, sir, simple life for me. One wife, two children—a boy and a girl. They're my world."

I couldn't help but chuckle at the way he emphasized "one wife," as if it were a rare commodity. "Just one? Sounds like you're missing out on the fun!"

Shrinu let out a hearty laugh, winking slyly. "Oh, sir, you laugh now, but in Tamil Nadu, it's not so unusual for the big shots! Look at Karunanidhi—how many wives did he have? And his son Stalin, following in the footsteps. Then there's the film star Kamal Haasan, with his glamorous life and multiple marriages. Once they get rich or famous, they spot a smarter, more educated woman, and boom—the journey begins! Me? I'm happy with my one. Keeps the drama low and the idlis hot."

We both burst into laughter, the SUV echoing with our banter as we continued climbing. Shrinu shared more anecdotes about celebrity scandals, his naughty twinkle making the drive fly by. By the time we crested the hills and entered Ooty proper, the air had turned crisp and invigorating, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and fresh earth. The town unfolded before us: colonial-era bungalows nestled among pine groves, expansive meadows where horses grazed lazily, and tea estates that seemed to cascade down the slopes like green waterfalls. We checked into our cozy cottage, spent the afternoon wandering the botanical gardens, and as evening fell, the hills glowed in hues of orange and pink under the setting sun.

That night, we decided on a quiet dinner at a local restaurant overlooking the lake—a quaint spot with wooden beams and a menu heavy on steaming soups and masala dosas to ward off the chill. As I navigated the dimly lit room to our table, I accidentally bumped into an elderly man leaning on a cane. "Sorry about that," I muttered, then froze. The face looking up at me was familiar, though weathered by time.

"Ram? Is that you?" he said, his voice steady despite his stooped posture.

It hit me—Reddy, from my old days at the Vizag Steel Plant. We hadn't crossed paths in over 30 years. He looked aged, his back bent like a question mark, silver hair thinning, but his eyes were sharp as ever, piercing through the years. I, on the other hand, prided myself on staying upright—my daily walks and yoga sessions had kept the stoop at bay, though gray had crept into my temples too. "Reddy! What a surprise. You recognized me instantly."

He smiled faintly, gripping his stick. "Some faces stick, even after decades. Join me for a bit?"

We sat at his table, catching up on lost time. He was retired now, living quietly in Ooty. As we talked, something peculiar happened. I'd open my mouth to ask about his health, and before the words formed, he'd reply: "The arthritis is manageable with the cool weather here." Or I'd think of inquiring about old colleagues, and he'd preempt: "Most are scattered now—some in Chennai, others abroad." It wasn't constant, just sporadic, like flashes of insight.

I stared at him, puzzled. "Reddy, how are you doing that? It's like you're—"

"Reading your mind?" He finished my sentence with a sad smile. "Yes, I can. But not always. Only sometimes, and mostly with people I know well. I don't know why or how it works, but it does."

I was flabbergasted, my spoon hovering midway to my mouth. The restaurant's hum faded into the background—the clink of plates, the murmur of diners—as I processed this. "That's... incredible. Or terrifying?"

"More the latter," he admitted, his voice dropping. "It's caused nothing but trouble. My wife left me years ago; the kids barely call. You see, when I read their thoughts—especially the unkind ones, the frustrations they hid—I couldn't help but blurt it out. I'd get blunt, confrontational. 'Why are you thinking that about me?' I'd say. It created rifts that never healed. Same with friends—they'd drift away, calling me eerie or untrustworthy."

A wave of sympathy washed over me. How isolating that must be. I started pondering ways to help—maybe connect him with a specialist, or introduce him to support groups.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You can't help me, Ram. I can see it in your mind right now—you're wondering how to fix this."

I nodded, speechless. He leaned back, gazing out at the darkened lake reflecting the hill silhouettes. "I've rented a small flat here in Ooty. The isolation suits me—no new friends, limited contact with relatives. Keeps the noise down."

"But how did this start?" I finally asked, my curiosity overriding the awkwardness.

Reddy sighed, his eyes distant. "It was back at the plant. An accident in the blast furnace—I got too close during a malfunction and inhaled that poisonous gas. Knocked me unconscious for days. They airlifted me to Hyderabad for emergency treatment. When I woke up, everything was... different. Subtle at first—a hunch here, a premonition there. Then it sharpened into actual thoughts from people around me. Doctors called it a neurological quirk from the toxin exposure, but they couldn't explain it. Neither can I."

We parted ways that night with a promise to stay in touch, though I sensed he preferred his solitude amid Ooty's tranquil beauty—the whispering pines, the fragrant tea gardens, the misty meadows that offered a refuge from the world's unspoken chaos. As I walked back through the fog-shrouded streets, the hill range standing silent guard, I couldn't shake the eerie feeling. What a gift, what a curse—to glimpse the hidden minds of those you love, only to lose them in the process. Ooty's serenity had unveiled a story stranger than any mountain mist.

We often envy those who possess extraordinary powers — to see, to know, to hear more than the rest of us. But sometimes, what looks like a gift is, in truth, a quiet tragedy. Reddy’s story was a reminder that perhaps life is kinder when thoughts remain private, and the heart knows only what the lips choose to speak.

The Valley's Shadow

---

The Valley’s Shadow

Mussoorie in December—Mossauri, as the old-timers call it—is a town of two moods. By day, the Mall Road is alive with colour and chatter: tourists bundled in bright woollens, children clutching balloons, women bargaining for shawls, the air heavy with the smell of roasted corn, barbecued meat, and spicy golgappas that make one’s eyes water. By night, however, the mist swallows the lamps one by one, and the valley turns into a dark, endless gulf, watching silently from below.

It was here, in this curious town of shifting faces, that I met Mr. Bisht. He wasn’t a local—just another tourist like me. We happened to be staying in the same hotel, and one December evening, when the cold pressed harder than usual, we both found ourselves in the lounge.

The drawing room was warm, lined with shelves of books, the fireplace alive with logs hissing and snapping. I sat with a cup of tea in my hand, grateful for the fire’s glow. Bisht, a tall, thin man with snow-white hair and restless eyes, settled opposite me.

At first, our talk was small and harmless—the cruelty of the mountain cold, how his wife’s arthritis had kept her confined to their room, the cheerfulness of the tourists who seemed to thrive on the chill. But soon, his voice grew quiet, and he stared into the flames.

“There is something about this place,” he murmured, “that refuses to rest.”

---

He told me what had happened to him only the previous evening.

The hotel car had dropped him at the Mall Road, where the crowd moved like a festival procession. Families clustered around golgappa stalls, laughing through the sting of spice. Vendors rubbed lime across hot corn cobs, their smoke curling into the frosty air. At a corner, skewers of kebabs sizzled, the firelight flickering on hungry faces.

“I didn’t go for those things,” Bisht said with a faint smile. “Too old, too delicate a stomach. I went searching for one thing only—kachoris.”

He found the tea stall soon enough, tucked beside a wool shop, its bubbling oil perfuming the entire stretch of road. The vendor greeted him warmly, served him his paper packet, and exchanged a few words about the biting cold and the chance of snow. With his treasure in hand, Bisht walked to one of the canopies overlooking the valley.

---

Evening had descended quickly. The valley was already black, a sea of mist and shadow. He sat on the wooden bench, opened his kachoris, and let the warmth battle the cold.

That was when he saw them.

A young man, pacing nervously, checking his watch again and again. Moments later, a second figure appeared—older, broader, with a face set in stone.

“They spoke, argued, perhaps even shouted,” Bisht said softly. “But the mist muffled everything. And then… they struggled. A shove, a clutch, and in an instant both men tumbled into the valley. Gone. No cry, no echo—just silence.”

Before the shock could settle, a girl ran into view. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders as she grabbed a letter from the bench, read it, and without pause leapt into the same abyss.

Bisht’s hands shook as he spoke. “All in a matter of minutes. And I—mute, frozen—watched it happen.”

---

He had staggered back, found a policeman, and poured out the tale. The man only patted his shoulder and told him to return to the hotel. At another tea stall, Bisht tried again. This time, the locals only nodded gravely.

“You have seen it too,” they told him. “The old love story. A tragedy of a boy and girl from different castes. They died here long ago. Sometimes, tourists see it as if it were happening again. No bodies, no proof. Only the valley remembering.”

---

At this point, Bisht leaned closer to me, the firelight flickering in his glasses.

“But why me?” he whispered. “Why should I be chosen to watch their end? I’m not local—I had never even heard of such a story. Unless…” His voice trailed, but his eyes burned with unease.

“Unless I am bound to them. By blood, by fate. Perhaps the girl was of my family, and seeing me stirred the valley’s memory. Perhaps their secret lives in my veins. Should I trace their families? Get my DNA mapped? Find the truth that my ancestors buried?”

The fire cracked loudly, making me startle. Shadows loomed larger in the corners of the room. Outside, the wind moaned across the valley, carrying with it what might have been nothing more than air—or might have been the faint echo of three souls, falling still.

For the first time that night, the fire’s warmth felt useless.

---

The Borrowed Blazer and the Bombay Cabaret :A Students Night Out in 1964

 The Great Blazer Caper of 1964

It was during this year's Durga Puja in Delhi that Amu — my second brother and self-proclaimed "memory excavator" — and I sat reminiscing about our youth. The tea was hot, the samosas were crisp, and the stories, as always, got more colourful as the evening wore on.

Amu suddenly said, "Do you remember, I once borrowed Kutu's Delhi College blazer? The one with the crest? Oh, the swagger I had wearing that!"

That one comment sent me tumbling down memory lane straight to 1964 — the year of our epic study tour across Bombay, BHEL Bhopal, and Bhilai Steel Plant. Bombay, in particular, had left quite an imprint. Not because of the Gateway of India or Marine Drive — but because of *a blazer and a cabaret*.

 The Marine Engineering Connection

I was staying at the hostel of my late friend Adarsh Saxena, then a proud Marine Engineering student at Dufferin. Poor Adarsh — years later, duty would claim him in a tragic ship fire at some foreign dockyard. But in 1964, he was alive with mischief and stories.

That evening, over endless tea and stale samosas, we began recalling our childhood in Delhi's Chummeries — our old flats at 14 and 26 in Block 95, the endless cricket matches, and the mischief shared with Kutu,Saily, Subhash, Binder, Tej Bahadur, Sarupa, and Khokon.

"Remember how Kutu used to bowl those impossible spinners?" Adarsh chuckled.

"And you'd still manage to hit them for a six!" I replied. "My badminton skills were no match for your cricket wizardry."

Then Adarsh, his eyes twinkling with mischief, asked, "Ever been to a night club?"

I nearly choked on my tea. "Night club? Like... the ones in movies?"

He grinned. "Exactly. Like Howrah Bridge. Cabaret, music, dancing!"

"But don't they have dress codes? Suits and all that?"

"College blazers work perfectly," Adarsh said, producing a gleaming blazer like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "Tonight, you're a college gentleman."

The Taxi Ride of Nerves

Our mutual friend Vikram — another Marine Engineering student — joined us as we hailed a taxi. The moment we settled into the black-and-yellow cab, my anxiety kicked in.

"Adarsh, what if they ask us questions? What if they know I'm not from Bombay?" I whispered.

The taxi driver, overhearing, turned around with a grin. "First time, sahib?"

Vikram burst out laughing. "Uncle, how did you know?"

"Arre, thirty years driving in Bombay. I can spot a nervous first-timer from Marine Lines to Colaba!"

Adarsh patted my shoulder. "Relax, yaar. Just sit back, sip your drink, and enjoy the show. Don't stare too much, don't talk too loud, and whatever you do, don't look shocked when the dancer comes near our table."

"What if she talks to me?"

"She won't," Vikram chimed in. "One look at our student faces and empty pockets, she'll know we're here for the 'cultural experience' only."

The taxi driver chuckled. "Sahib, which club are you going to?"

"The one near Churchgate," Adarsh replied casually.

"Ah, very good place. Music, dance, cold drinks. But sahib," he looked at me in the rearview mirror, "don't look like you're attending a wedding. Smile a little!"

I tried to smile but felt like I was grimacing.

"Beta," the driver continued, "I dropped many boys like you. First time is always nervous. But remember — you're paying customer, not criminal!"

As we neared the club, Adarsh turned serious. "Listen, the entry fee is steep. After that, we'll have just enough for cold drinks and maybe some snacks. No fancy dinner tonight."

"That's fine," I said, adjusting the borrowed blazer. "I'm too nervous to eat anyway."

 The Great Cabaret Experience

The doorman glanced at our blazers and waved us in, perhaps thinking we were future captains of industry. We found a table at the back, clutched our cold drinks like lifelines, and tried to act casually sophisticated.

The lights dimmed. Music swelled. And *she* appeared — the cabaret dancer in shimmering attire, swirling and spinning like a human kaleidoscope. I nearly dropped my glass.

"Close your mouth," Vikram hissed. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I've never seen anything like this," I whispered back.

Adarsh was thoroughly enjoying my bewilderment. "This is nothing. Wait until she starts the table rounds."

And sure enough, she began moving from table to table, smiling, tossing her hair, collecting tips as gracefully as Helen herself. When she approached the businessmen near us, they stuffed notes into her sequined belt with practiced ease.

"She's coming our way," I panicked.

"Smile and nod," Adarsh instructed. "Act like you belong here."

She glided past our table, gave us a professional smile, realized we were broke students, and moved on without missing a beat.

"Did she just... ignore us?" I asked, not sure whether to be relieved or insulted.

Vikram snorted. "Welcome to Bombay economics, my friend. No tips, no special attention."

 The Morning After - Return to Reality

The next morning, I made my way back to Victoria Terminus where my IIT Kharagpur friends were staying in a railway bogey on a siding — our budget accommodation for the study tour. The contrast couldn't have been starker: from the glittering cabaret to a railway siding that smelled of coal smoke and morning tea.

My friend Rajesh was brushing his teeth with a mug of water when I climbed into the bogey.

"Where were you last night? We waited for dinner!"

"I was... exploring Bombay culture," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Kumar looked up from his engineering textbooks. "Culture? In that borrowed blazer?"

"Wait, wait," said Prasad, sensing a story. "Sit down and tell us everything. And don't skip details."

So I sat on the wooden bench of our railway bogey and began my tale. "Well, you see, Adarsh suggested we visit a night club..."

"Night club!" Rajesh nearly choked on his toothpaste. "Our innocent badminton champion went to a night club?"

"There was a cabaret dancer," I continued, "and she was spinning around like in the movies..."

"Like Helen in Howrah Bridge?" Kumar asked, eyes wide.

"Exactly! But here's the thing — she completely ignored us because we looked like broke students."

Prasad was laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. "So you paid all that money to be ignored by a dancer?"

"But the experience, yaar! The lights, the music, the... the glamour!"

"And here we were eating dal-chawal in a railway bogey while our friend was living it up in Bombay nightlife," Rajesh shook his head in mock disappointment.

 The Retelling at IIT Kharagpur

Weeks later, back at IIT Kharagpur, the story had gained legendary status in our hostel. During one of our evening adda sessions, someone inevitably brought it up.

"Tell them about the cabaret, yaar," Prasad would say, and I'd have to repeat the tale.

"The best part," I'd always conclude, "was the taxi driver. He said, 'First time is always nervous, but remember — you're paying customer, not criminal!' I think that was the wisest thing anyone said that entire evening."

My hostel mates would roar with laughter, especially when I described how the dancer gave us one look and decided we weren't worth her time.

"From cabaret in Bombay to coal smoke in railway bogey," Rajesh would summarize. "That's the true engineering student experience!"

Years later, standing in Paris at the famous Lido — all glitter and sophistication — I couldn't help but chuckle. "Ah," I thought, "this is grand, but my first cabaret in Bombay — with a borrowed blazer, a pounding heart, and friends who laughed at my expense — now *that* was an education."

The borrowed blazer had opened doors I never knew existed, and closed them just as quickly. But the memory? That was mine to keep forever.

The Song Before the Gunfire

A Song Before the Gunfire  

*A Cherished Unfinished Memory*  

Whenever I meet someone new, I prefer to watch from a distance before approaching. If the person seems easygoing—smiling, perhaps with a book in hand—I take it as a sign from fate that a good conversation awaits. For a storyteller, life is an infinite anthology, and strangers are just unwritten pages.  

I still remember my early days at the Gauhati Refinery of Indian Oil Corporation. Back then, there was no direct broad-gauge line to Gauhati. The route took you from Delhi to Barauni by broad gauge, and then onward by meter gauge to Gauhati. Today’s seamless rail connections are faster, but they lack the gentle rhythm of those journeys, the leisurely stations, and—most of all—the companionship of shared travel.  

In those first-class compartments, often two of the four berths were taken by army officers. It was 1965, and Assam, bordering East Pakistan, had a strong military presence. The Assam Mail seemed half train, half khaki-clad convoy—officers on transfer, soldiers returning from leave, and young recruits with duffel bags full of hope and apprehension.  

One journey stands out vividly. I was placed in a two-berth coupé alongside a young army officer, Lieutenant Anand. He was barely past twenty-three, bright-eyed, and brimming with mischief. Within minutes of settling in, he pulled from his wallet a well-handled photograph—a young woman smiling with both shyness and affection.  

“Her name’s Meera,” he said warmly. “She still calls me ‘Anu.’ Military enough for the kitchen, but not for the parade ground.”  

I smiled. “Nicknames are medals of the heart. Far more precious than the ones issued officially.”  

Over dinner—chicken, chapatis, and a pudding of uncertain color—Anand produced a bottle of Old Tavern rum. “Officer’s ration,” he announced with mock ceremony. “For high morale in low spirits.”  

He then spoke of Meera—how they met at Delhi University, how she loved romantic songs, especially the haunting melody Kishore Kumar had sung in *Mr. X in Bombay* the year before: *“Mere Mehboob Qayamat Hogi…”* He said it was “their” song, playful yet tinged with longing.  

As he spoke, a memory flitted across my mind—a story from the Delhi newspapers in 1964. An army officer had shot his girlfriend in a café after a breakup. The café’s jukebox had been playing *“Mere Mehboob Qayamat Hogi”* when it happened. That detail had haunted me ever since—the cruel dissonance between a song’s tender yearning and the violence that followed it.  

Listening to Anand, I found myself silently praying that his tale would not echo that tragedy. His laughter was bright, but that memory reminded me how easily love can turn fragile under the weight of absence and fear.  

“You’re thinking like a writer again, aren’t you?” he asked, noticing my quietness.  

“Perhaps,” I admitted. “Writers can’t help seeing storms in calm waters.”  

He lifted his glass with a grin. “Then let’s drink before the rain begins.”  

By morning, Gauhati appeared through mist and drizzle. On the platform, Anand adjusted his cap, shook my hand, and said, “If you ever write about me, make me sound brave—but human.”  

“That’s the only kind I know how to write,” I replied.  

We parted as travelers often do—with an unspoken promise and a friendship destined to live only between stations.  

When the War Came  

Later that year, war arrived.  

One evening at the refinery officers’ club, we were mid-game in badminton when the siren wailed. The shuttlecock froze midair as someone shouted, “Enemy aircraft!” The generators went off instantly, plunging the compound into darkness. Then the two anti-aircraft guns stationed on the hills beside the refinery roared to life.  

Tracer shells streaked upward, weaving fiery paths across the night sky. The air shuddered with sound and courage. We dropped flat on the court as our guns kept firing. Moments later, Indian fighter jets thundered overhead, streaking through the clouds in pursuit of the intruders.  

When silence finally returned, no one moved. The officers’ club lights stayed off, and the dark seemed to hum with memory. I lay staring at the stars, my mind turning to Lieutenant Anand—somewhere beyond those hills, perhaps crouched behind his own gun, maybe thinking of Meera and that photograph he carried.  

And faintly, from the corners of remembrance, I could almost hear Kishore Kumar’s voice echoing: *“Mere Mehboob Qayamat Hogi…”*  

War, I realized, doesn’t just destroy—it interrupts. It cuts short songs, conversations, dreams unfinished.  

That night, as tracer smoke faded into silence, I sent a quiet wish into the sky for him—that his story would not end in gunfire, but continue softly, like a song still playing long after the jukebox has stopped.  

And that is how I remember him—not just a soldier I once met on a train, but a note suspended between love and duty, somewhere in the melody of an unfinished memory.  

---  

Madame Mirza and the spirits of Muscat

Madame Mirza and the Spirits of Muscat  

It was the last thing I expected at a Durga Puja pandal in Pashchim Vihar,Delhi—a lady in one corner, draped in velvet, doing tarot readings between stalls selling bhog and jalebis. The sight jolted a memory loose, carrying me back to a faraway place: Muscat, Oman.  

Years ago, while working on a project at Hubara, my colleague Sethu—who had a mischievous streak wider than the Gulf itself—had insisted on showing me “a secret of Muscat.” We left the polished highways and malls and wandered into a narrow sunlit lane that smelled of cardamom, diesel, and old paper. Eventually, we arrived at a dimly lit room tucked behind a half-closed wooden door.  

Inside was a world far removed from Muscat’s shining exteriors. The chamber was lit by lanterns and candles, their shadows crawling on shelves stacked with strange objects: strings of beads, old maps, brass bowls, dried herbs. At the center sat a woman with sharp eyes and silver bangles that seemed to jingle in tune with her thoughts.  

The moment I stepped in, she tilted her head and said, “Bengali, right?”  

I froze. “Yes… how did—”  

Before I finished, Sethu gave me a villainous grin. “She knows everything. Next she will predict what you had for breakfast.”  

The woman smirked. “Banana skipped. Aloo paratha too oily.”  

My jaw nearly hit the floor. “WHAT?!”  

Sethu slapped his thigh and burst out laughing. “I told you, my friend—she is *dangerously accurate*.”  

I was trembling between awe and suspicion when Sethu whispered in my ear, “Don’t worry. She’s not actually a psychic. She’s a historian from Dhaka, married to a sheikh. Tarot is her… side hobby.”  

The woman leaned back, amused at my expression. “History, tarot, spirit world—what is the difference? Everything is about interpreting traces of the past.”  

She picked up a crystal ball, squinted into it with mock solemnity, and announced, “Sometimes I help people find lost things—keys, passports, goats…”  

“Goats?” I asked.  

“Yes,” she replied with grave seriousness. “Goats wander, souls wander—it’s the same business.”  

Sethu was shaking with laughter. “Last month she helped old Karim find his missing water pump!”  

The woman held up one finger. “Correction: an old spirit with bad knees told me the pump was behind the chicken coop.”  

I chuckled nervously. “That doesn’t sound like a ghost. That sounds like a nosy neighbor.”  

Her eyes glimmered. “Maybe there’s no difference between the two. Both gossip, both refuse to leave you in peace.”  

That line sent Sethu into such hysterics that tears rolled down his cheeks.  

Trying to compose myself, I leaned forward. “But tell me honestly, Madame Mirza. Do you actually believe in this… spirit communication?”  

She shrugged with the calm of someone ordering tea. “Belief is for priests and politicians. I only provide stories and comfort. Most people don’t want ‘truth.’ Truth is boring. They want mystery—and a little fun.”  

Sethu patted my shoulder, whispering theatrically, “See? She’s not a fortune-teller. She’s a philosopher disguised as a card-dealer.”  

The woman began shuffling her deck, casually flicking cards onto the table. “You, mister. You are a traveler. Not careful enough. You will one day leave your socks in a hotel bathroom. Spirits of lost laundry are vindictive—you will never find their pair.”  

Sethu nearly toppled from his chair clutching his stomach in laughter. I sat stunned, trying not to imagine vengeful poltergeists made of mismatched socks.  

The evening passed in riddles, jokes, half-truths, and laughter. When we finally stepped back into Muscat’s neon-lit streets, I couldn’t decide whether I’d met a scholar, a trickster, or a genuine mystic.  

Years later, watching the tarot reader at the pandal shuffle her glittering cards under Durga’s gaze, I had to smile. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw Madame Mirza’s twinkling eyes again—half-mocking, half-wise—whispering that history, mystery, and humor are often all the same story.  

---  

Echoes of Kanishka

The Agra Conspiracy  

A Budha statue of Kushan Era

I had gone  to Delhi from Kolkata for the Pujas when I ran into **Sam Singh**, just back from Agra. He looked restless, full of a story he couldn’t wait to share. Over cups of chai in my flat, he leaned forward and said, almost in a whisper,  

*“You won’t believe what I just saw down there. It started at Meena Bazaar…”*  

Sam Singh’s Account  

Agra’s Meena Bazaar is something else—you feel like every stall is a doorway into another century. Brass lamps polished to perfection, antique wooden toys, Mughal-style miniatures. I’m not really an art man, but I was staring at one shop when I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt, the German couple staying in my hotel.  

They looked excited. Turned out they were chasing something rare: a *Magadh style* painting influenced by the **Kushan dynasty**. I knew a little about it. The Kushans were a Central Asian people who swept into India around the 1st century CE. At their peak, they ruled from Afghanistan into northern India, even brushing shoulders with the Roman and Chinese worlds. What made them special wasn’t just war—it was what they built. Their empire was a bridge across civilizations, thanks to the Silk Road.  

And their art… ah, that was extraordinary. In Mathura, under their patronage, the Buddha came alive for the first time in human form: broad-shouldered, smiling, robes flowing. Their paintings had clean lines, rich pigments, influenced by both Greek naturalism and Indian spirituality. Later, when the Mughals came, painters in Mathura revived that Kushan-inspired aesthetic, blending it with Persian touches. That was the famous *Magadh school of painting*—and that’s what the Schmidts were after.  

That same day they found one. Bought it for two lakhs from a dealer. But when I saw them that evening at the hotel lounge, they were pale. The painting was gone—stolen from their room.  

We rushed to reception, checked the CCTV. And there he was—the very dealer, walking out of the hotel, painting under his arm. But here’s the twist: how had he gotten inside their locked room? Swipe-card access only.  

That night, I stayed in the lobby. Around midnight, I spotted the hotel IT boy—thin, nervous—picking up a fresh swipe card. I followed. On the phone, I heard him mutter, *“I’m going to the Frenchman’s room… he bought the ashtadhatu Krishna, 14th century. Card’s ready.”*  

And boom—it all fit together. Duplicate cards, inside job. The Schmidts weren’t the only targets.  

I tailed him out into the alleys of Agra. He went straight to a broken-down warehouse by the Yamuna ghat. Inside, waiting for him, was **Salim**, the art dealer. And in Salim’s hands? The stolen Magadh painting.  

I tried to stay hidden, but one wrong step on gravel gave me away. Salim’s scarred face swung toward me. Knife in hand, he lunged. What followed was chaos—I sprinted through alleys full of rickshaws, startled dogs, sacks of turmeric spilling gold dust into the air, with Salim hot on my heels like a hawk.  

At the riverside, I thought I was cornered—but that’s when the police, tipped off earlier by me, swooped in sirens blazing. Officers tackled Salim mid-run, his knife skittering across the stones. The IT boy froze, then broke down crying.  

When the police unrolled the painting, there it was—the calm face of a Bodhisattva, rendered in that ancient Kushan style: simple, powerful lines, meditative eyes, pigments still alive after centuries.  

The racket tumbled quickly. The IT boy confessed to forging cards. The receptionist had been feeding guest details. Salim had been stealing back items he “sold” and passing them off to smugglers. The Frenchman was saved from losing his Krishna idol, and the Schmidts got their painting back.  

Henrietta touched it gently, whispering, *“It feels like time itself survived just to reach us.”*  

And in that moment, my mind went back to the Kushans. To Kanishka, the emperor who built massive stupas, hosted the Buddhist council, and made sure Mathura’s art reached far beyond India. Without them, Buddhism’s imagery might never have traveled across Asia, inspiring caves in Afghanistan, China, even Japan. They were nomads once—but they became patrons of eternal art.  

Funny, isn’t it? Centuries later, I’m there in Agra, chasing thieves through lanes, still trying to protect the same art they once saved. History doesn’t die—it just changes its thieves.  

**

The Skyline of Ujjain

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🌑 The Skyfire of Ujjain

Chapter One: When Rahu Devoured the Sun

It was the early 6th century CE, in the ancient city of Ujjain, when whispers of the heavens stirred the people. Word had spread through the bazaars that Rahu, the headless demon, would rise that day to devour the sun. Priests in saffron robes sprinkled holy water on the temple steps, urging the people to gather with drums and conch shells.

Among the crowd stood four young companions — Durya, Vihan, Arav, and Saanvi. They had slipped away from their homes, eager not only for the spectacle but also for the whispered promise of something greater: the prediction of Aryananda, the young astronomer of Nalanda.

“Look at them,” Vihan chuckled, nodding toward a group of elders already chanting hymns. “They truly believe Rahu stretches his jaws to swallow the sun.”

Durya frowned. “Our parents believe it too. My mother would not let me eat this morning — she says food becomes poisoned when the demon is out.”

Arav smirked. “If Rahu can eat the sun, why does he spit it out again? Why not swallow it whole and be done?”

Saanvi, her eyes bright, whispered, “Aryananda says it is not Rahu at all, only the moon passing before the sun. He even wrote the time on his palm for me yesterday — he said the darkening will begin just after the temple bell of midday.”

The air grew heavy. Priests raised their voices, urging devotion.

“People of Ujjain! Do not fear the darkness. Strike your drums, beat your vessels! Drive away Rahu with the thunder of your faith.”

The temple bell rang. A hush fell. The first bite of shadow crept across the blazing sun.

“It is happening!” Saanvi gasped. “At the very moment he said!”

The crowd broke into cries, the priests into louder chants. Drums thundered, cymbals clashed. Yet the four friends stood still, watching in awe as day turned to twilight, birds flew confused, and a ring of fire crowned the darkened sun.

Vihan whispered, “This is no demon’s bite. It is a shadow.”

Durya’s voice trembled. “If Aryananda is right, then our parents are wrong. What will they say?”

Saanvi’s gaze never left the sky. “They will say what they wish. But we saw the truth today.”

The eclipse passed. The sun blazed again, and the priests proclaimed triumph:

“Your devotion has defeated Rahu!”

The crowd cheered, but the four exchanged knowing glances. A seed of doubt had been planted.

---

Some Years Later

Another eclipse was foretold. Aryananda once again gave his calculation, and once again the heavens obeyed his numbers.

Durya murmured, “It cannot be chance.”

Arav grinned. “Faith alone cannot time the heavens.”

Saanvi whispered, “Truth shines, even when eclipsed.”

And Vihan said softly, “Perhaps one day the people will listen.”

The priests scowled, but the youth of Ujjain were beginning to turn their eyes to the stars with new wonder and quiet courage.

-

---

Footnote:

This story is set in the 5th century CE, during the time of Aryabhata (476–550 CE), one of India’s greatest mathematician-astronomers. While the characters are fictional, it is likely Aryabhata faced both reverence and resistance for his rational postulations, which often contradicted prevailing mythological beliefs. His key contributions include:

Heliocentric hints: Proposed that the Earth rotates on its axis, causing day and night.

Eclipses explained: Stated that lunar and solar eclipses occur due to the shadows of Earth and Moon, not mythological demons like Rahu and Ketu.

Pi (π): Calculated π ≈ 3.1416 with remarkable accuracy.

Algebra & trigonometry: Introduced concepts of sine (jya) and cosine (kojya), used in astronomy.

Zero & place value: Advanced the Indian number system that became the foundation of modern mathematics.

Planetary models: Gave methods to predict planetary positions with surprising precision for his time.

---

Sidhu, the Bengali Robot

---

Sidhu, the Bengali Jules

The chicken cutlet at DKS was hot, crisp, and so mustardy that my nose felt like Netaji had just marched through it. That’s when Samaranand dragged in a young man whose hair looked like it had permanently taken part in a College Street rally.

“Meet Dr. Bhaumik,” he announced proudly, “professor of Robotics at Jadavpur.”

“Robotics? In Jadavpur?” I almost choked. “I thought you people only produced poets and protest marches. Now robots too?”

Bhaumik smiled, his hair still rioting.

“Sir, we’ve made a robot that can blink, smile, and nod when you talk.”

“Wah!” I clapped. “So, basically, you’ve invented the perfect Bengali husband.”

---

The Bengali Frankenstein Lab

Between watery coffee and Samaranand’s smug face, I learned the truth. They had stitched together man-sized robots:

Plastic skin from a doll-maker in Howrah,

Amazon-ordered motors (free delivery, mind you),

Coimbatore micro-engineering,

Korean lithium-ion cells (because Indian batteries faint after two torchlight sessions).

“They even look human,” Bhaumik said proudly. “We wrapped the machinery inside mannequins.”

“Next you’ll tell me they complain about fish prices in Gariahat,” I muttered.

---

Enter Talukdar and Sidhu

Their prototype was gifted to lonely Talukdar, a widower with a son in America who believed that one WhatsApp call a month was enough to prove devotion.

At first, Talukdar treated Sidhu—that’s what he named the robot—like a toy car, driving it around with a remote. But slowly, Sidhu became a companion.

Mornings, Talukdar would dress him in shorts and T-shirt.

“Exercise korte hobe, Sidhu. Health is wealth,” he declared, patting his metal shoulder.

By evening, Sidhu wore a kurta.

“Adda without kurta is like macher jhol without mustard.”

At night, Talukdar lovingly put him in a sleeping dress and placed him beside the bed. If he woke up at 2 a.m., he would whisper:

“Sidhu, ekhono ache to?”

Sidhu’s eyelids blinked twice. Comforted, Talukdar drifted back to sleep.

The bond grew. Sidhu didn’t just listen, he looked present—a silent, smiling shadow in Talukdar’s house. One day, Talukdar even offered him luchi at the dining table. By some mechanical twitch, Sidhu raised a guava to his mouth.

“Dekho, he’s eating!” Talukdar shouted proudly.

---

Banerjee Joins the Club

Banerjee, Talukdar’s friend, had a wife whose daily quarrels could defeat Arnab Goswami in a shouting match. When he discovered Sidhu, his jaw dropped.

“Sidhu, bol to, am I wrong, or is my wife a hurricane in a sari?”

Sidhu blinked. Nodded.

Banerjee gasped. “You understand me better than anyone!”

From then on, he visited morning and evening, pouring his heart out. Sidhu blinked, Sidhu nodded—marriage counseling without fees.

The housing society buzzed.

“Talukdar aar Banerjee ekdom alokito hoye gache! Is it yoga? Baba from Burdwan? Or foreign multivitamin?”

Nobody guessed it was a plastic-faced robot in a lungi.

---

Samaranand’s Triumph

Meanwhile, Samaranand strutted like a Bengali Edison.

“See? Loneliness cured! Jules had an alien, Bengal has Sidhu.”

Dr. Bhaumik nodded, hair still defying gravity. “Robotics with Rabindrasangeet touch.”

Then they turned to me.

“Royda, apni-o ekta nebey?”

I laughed so hard my tea spilled.

“Are you mad? I already have Sikka, Jaggi, Paul to talk nonsense with. If I bring Sidhu home, my wife will say—‘Good, now sell your friends and buy another robot.’ Then what will happen to our adda? Robots can nod, but can they argue Mohun Bagan vs East Bengal?”

---

The Afterthought

That night, though, I couldn’t help thinking. If Sidhu had existed when my father was alive, he would’ve loved it—someone to listen for hours, nodding, blinking, smiling, never contradicting.

Maybe loneliness doesn’t always need aliens like in Ben Kingsley’s Jules. Sometimes all it takes is a plastic-faced listener in a kurta who blinks on time.

And in Bengal, that’s rarer than hilsa in December.

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