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Building Bridges Beyond the Table: Lessons on Customer Relationship Management

Customer relationship is not just about contracts, negotiations, and project deadlines. It is about building trust, respect, and sometimes even friendships that last a lifetime. During my long career in Indian Oil Corporation, BHEL, and later in the private sector with Techno Electric Engineering, I experienced firsthand how cultivating deep personal bonds with customers and stakeholders can help overcome the most complex challenges.

In my view, customer relationships are not built in boardrooms or through formal agreements alone. They are forged on the ground, in moments of crisis, in the willingness to go beyond one’s defined role, and in the shared determination to complete a project despite all odds. When both sides align themselves to the common goal of project completion, they transcend the narrow boundaries of “client” and “contractor” and begin to act as true partners.

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Early Lessons – Panipat (Haryana Electricity Board)

My journey with customer relationship at project sites began at the Panipat Thermal Power Station, where Mr. G. P. Sood, the Chief, became like a mentor to me. He openly admitted that his expertise lay in hydropower, not in thermal plants. This honesty created an instant bond of trust. I acted as his technical advisor and took decisions—even flouting certain BHEL restrictions—to ensure the plant ran during Haryana’s acute power shortage. That experience taught me that customer trust grows when you prioritize their problems over rigid rules.

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Brotherhood at Singrauli (NTPC)

At Singrauli Superthermal Power Station, I worked with Mr. S. K. Dasgupta, an old colleague from Barauni Refinery. Our shared background as shift-charge engineers of captive power plants created a brotherly bond. Together, NTPC and BHEL worked as a single pool of experts, commissioning five 200 MW units in just two years—a record then. The lesson was clear: when both sides stop drawing boundaries, teamwork achieves extraordinary results.

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Empowerment at Wanakbori (GEB)

At Wanakbori Thermal Power Station, I worked under the late Mr. K k Dharangdharia, who valued my frankness in admitting weaknesses. He gave me freedom to plan erection and commissioning. GEB contractors even sought my advice directly. This empowerment led us to synchronize to full load within just 24 hours, a record that brought rewards from GEB. The takeaway: empowerment and mutual respect are the cornerstones of customer confidence.

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Friendship at Vizag Steel Plant

At Vizag Steel Plant, Mr. P. K. Chakraborty, Chief Engineer, became a family friend. We worked shoulder to shoulder during crises, and his support was always strengthened by Mr. B. N. Rath, CMD, who stood by us. Beyond the workplace, badminton became a bridge—Mr. Rath, a passionate player, would often come to my flat to pick me up, and we would proceed together to the CISF court. His closeness with me helped smoothen many inter-departmental issues. This reminded me that personal friendship often paves the way for professional harmony.

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Memories from Indian Oil Days

This bond through sport reminded me of my Indian Oil days, when Mr. G. S. Harnal, DGM at Gauhati, would pick me up for badminton while I was still a trainee. Later in Barauni, our sporting bond gave me visibility and acceptance in the refinery community. A small reminder that shared passions outside the workplace create lasting professional goodwill.

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Farakka Superthermal (NTPC) – Overcoming Trade Union Challenges

My last site posting was at Farakka Superthermal Power Station (1991–1994), where Mr. G. S. Sohal, GM NTPC, was already a close friend from our Singrauli days. Bengal was turbulent then—frequent bandhs and aggressive trade unionism tested progress. But our coordination and trust enabled us to commission 2×500 MW successfully. The experience reinforced that personal bonds act as shock absorbers in volatile environments.

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ER HQ and Kathalgudi (NEEPCO)

Later, at BHEL Eastern Region HQ, my association with Mr. P K Kataki, Chairman of NEEPCO, proved invaluable. He was an IIT Kharagpur alumnus, like me, which gave us an instant connection. With his assurance, we tackled the Kathalgudi combined cycle project despite the looming ULFA menace. His back-channel talks even convinced insurgents that the project would ease Assam’s power woes. This was an extraordinary example of how leaders use trust and credibility to create security for execution teams.

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Beyond Retirement – Suzlon Experience

After retirement, I applied the same principle while working with Techno Electric Engineering. With Mr. P. P. Gupta the owner and Chairman of TEECL, I forged bonds with late Mr. Tulsi Tanti of Suzlon and his chief marketing strategist Mr. I. C. Mangal initially Mr Gupta forged personal equation with Mr.Tanti. Their personal trust in me helped us overcome hurdles during the execution of our 211 MW wind power project. Once again, it proved that relationship capital is often more valuable than financial capital.

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Rokhia Plant – Tripura

Another example was the Rokhia Plant in Tripura, where circumstances were especially difficult due to logistical challenges and local sensitivities. The cooperation between the state authorities, project leadership, and our team was not just contractual—it was built on trust and shared commitment. The Chief Engineer on the customer side worked with me almost like a partner, not as a counterpart across the table. Our alignment to the common goal of completing the project for Tripura’s power needs helped us overcome supply delays, terrain issues, and resource constraints. The experience showed once more that relationships built on mutual trust make even remote and complex projects achievable.

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The Core Principle

Across all these experiences, one dictum consistently stood out:

In each case, the ultimate goal of both sides was the same — successful completion of the project. Once this shared goal was recognized, both sides naturally aligned themselves to it, transcending the narrow confines of contractual terms.

Two persons may sit on opposite sides of the table, but a common bridge can always be built. That bridge—be it technical trust, personal integrity, or even a shared love for badminton—transforms a transactional relationship into a partnership. When that happens, obstacles turn into opportunities, and projects turn into milestones.

Title: ScamBuster Jogenbabu: The Pensioner Who Played the Game

Title: ScamBuster Jogenbabu: The Pensioner Who Played the Game

In a faded Kolkata flat that smelled faintly of pickle jars and old books, lived Jogenbabu, a retired engineer in his late sixties, whose daily thrills included arguing with the ceiling fan and squinting at TV serials he couldn’t really see anymore. His son, now a software honcho in Silicon Valley, sent him a regular monthly allowance—which reliably vanished around the 18th of every month. His wife had passed years ago, and the silence in the house had grown louder since.

But there was one antidote to his creeping loneliness: Samaranand, a neighbor three floors down and a self-styled “retired-but-rewired idea man.” Over endless cups of chai brewed so strong it could stand on its own legs, Jogenbabu would sigh, “Life’s become a slow buffering video, Samaranand.”

Samaranand’s response? “Then let’s reboot you, dada. Not physically—digitally. We’ll make you an online rockstar!”

“Rockstar? I can barely operate my Nokia!”

“No worries. We’ve got tech support.”

Enter the entertainment duo:

• Babulal – street-smart, always in flip-flops, and spoke three languages fluently—Hindi, Bengali, and Gibberish (especially when bluffing).
• Soumya – a soft-spoken hacker who could unlock your iPhone with just your shadow.

“Dada,” Samaranand declared dramatically, “we are going to launch Operation Grandpa Glam.”

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Act I: Instagramming a Tycoon

Soumya got to work. With some Photoshop, Jogenbabu was transformed: silver hair slicked back, draped in tuxedos he never wore, with luxury yachts he’d never boarded behind him.

On Instagram:
🧓 Jogen Roy – Retired industrialist. Collector of vintage wines. Seeker of fine company and finer biryani.

Facebook posts showed him “playing golf in Phuket” (he’d never held a golf club) and sipping champagne in Monaco (it was actually thumbs-up soda on the rooftop of Hotel Minerva, Park Street).

Within 48 hours—Bingo. His DMs were buzzing like a mosquito in a blackout.

“Hello sir… business proposal…”
“Hey handsome, I like mature men 😘”
“You interested in investing in diamond mines?”

Jogenbabu: “Samaranand, what is happening? These people are MAD!”
Samaranand: “No, dada. They’re just greedy. You’re their golden goose. Only… you lay rubber eggs!”

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Act II: The Hookah Honeypot

Enter Rhea—Telegram’s top temptress. Sari-clad profile pic, smoky eyes, and an emoji game sharper than a politician’s promises.

“Let’s meet at The Misty Lounge,” she messaged.
Jogenbabu, trying to sound suave, replied, “My Bentley or yours?”
She sent back a wink emoji. He sent back a confused one by mistake.

That evening, Jogenbabu wore a borrowed blazer and practiced his “millionaire chuckle” in front of the mirror. It came out as a wheeze.

Babulal, in a cheap leather jacket and Ray-Bans (bought from a Gariahat footpath), shadowed him on a battered Yamaha that coughed more than it roared.

At the lounge, Rhea was all sparkle and sass.

Rhea: “You seem… loaded.”
Jogenbabu: “Emotionally or financially?”
Rhea: “Hehe, both I hope.”
Jogenbabu (with fake depth): “My wealth lies in memories... and offshore accounts.”

She ordered exotic hookahs, cocktails, imported olives, and what felt like the entire menu. The bill arrived: ₹18,000.

Jogenbabu’s soul briefly left his body.

Bar owner (hulking, gold-chain-wearing): “Payment, now.”
Jogenbabu: “Let me call my... um... wealth manager.”

Babulal stormed in, flashing a fake police badge like a Bollywood villain-turned-hero.

Babulal: “WHO is threatening my client? I smell a scam here!”
Owner: “What?! No sir! No scam! Just a misunderstanding.”
Babulal (whispering): “Release him, or tomorrow this lounge becomes a paan shop.”

Jogenbabu sauntered out like a Bond uncle, grinning. “Hookah toh bahana tha, Rhea toh drama tha!”

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Act III: Enter the Big Fish

One rainy night, a slick guy named Vikram slid into his Insta DMs.

“Sir, want to double your money in a year? Invest in Paradise Retreats—Goa’s finest villa project!”

Jogenbabu: “Will there be wine cellars?”
Vikram: “Of course, sir. Personalized butlers too!”

Samaranand sniffed danger. “Dada, this one’s not like the others. He’s corporate-level crooked. Soumya, do your magic.”

Within hours, Soumya cracked it: Vikram was part of a real estate mafia, had political protection, and a record of muscle tactics.

Babulal: “We’re not just dealing with a scammer, dada. We’ve got a villain from season two of a web series!”

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Act IV: The Great Goa Villa Sting

Samaranand drew up the plan like a military strategist. Jogenbabu would act the gullible investor, carrying a briefcase full of very realistic fake notes. Babulal’s market boys would play backup muscle. Soumya would leak the entire scam to a hungry news agency.

At the shady office in a dingy complex, Vikram greeted Jogenbabu with fake warmth and too much cologne.

Vikram: “Sign here, sir. You’ll be a 50% partner.”
Jogenbabu (leaning in, dramatic): “Only if I can name the villas after my dogs—Snuffy and Tiger.”
Vikram (confused): “Uh... sure?”

Just then, the door burst open.

Babulal (in full cop mode): “This is a raid! Vikram Malhotra, you’re under investigation!”
Goons tried to react. Market boys pounced. One goon screamed, “Is this Zee TV?”

In the chaos, Jogenbabu stood up, tore the fake contract, and thundered, “You picked the wrong pensioner!”

Outside, news vans rolled in.

Next morning, headlines screamed:
"Octogenarian Outsmarts Scam Syndicate!"
"Grandpa Goes Gangsta!"

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Epilogue: The Rise of InstaBabu

Back at their HQ (a.k.a Samaranand’s flat), the gang sipped tea and munched samosas.

Soumya: “Dada, you’re trending. Real millionaires are messaging. One even offered you a private jet to Bali.”
Babulal: “Shall I book it? I’ll come as your bodyguard-slash-chaiwala.”

Samaranand: “So, Jogenbabu, what now? Scam the rich... or retire as a legend?”

Jogenbabu reclined, holding his cup high, eyes twinkling like streetlamps in monsoon mist.

“Why choose, my friend?” he chuckled. “Let’s continue the game. I still have a few personas left—next week, I’m a retired Maharaja.”

They all burst out laughing, as somewhere online, yet another scammer clicked follow—completely unaware he was the one walking into a trap.

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To be continued...
(Because legends don’t retire. They trend.)

The Night The Waters Rose

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THE NIGHT THE WATERS ROSE
Memoir from Barauni, 1976
By S. N. Roy

When floodwaters crept into the heart of a refinery — and my home — duty, fear, and silent courage collided. But what I remember most is not the chaos of machines shutting down, but the quiet strength of my wife carrying our infant son to safety, alone.

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A Duty-bound Dilemma

It was the monsoon of 1976, and the rains showed no signs of relenting. As the shift charge engineer of the captive power plant at Barauni Refinery, I was used to high-pressure situations — but that evening brought something different. Something far more unsettling.

Rainwater, unable to escape to the Ganges due to closed outflow gates, began to accumulate across the township and refinery complex. The Ganges itself was flooded, and opening the gates risked backflow — a technical and geographical Catch-22.

While others may have seen just puddles forming, I stood in the power house, watching the rising waterline inch towards the condensate pump which was in minus level. I had to act. With measured urgency, I initiated the shutdown of the power plant — the beating heart of the refinery — to protect equipment from catastrophic failure.

Even as I went through the motions of industrial protocol, my thoughts were elsewhere.

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Home in Peril

In our modest township bungalow, my wife was alone with our one-year-old son. News came in fast — the township was going under. Water had entered the residential quarters. My mind raced, but duty had shackled me to the control panel. I had to wait for my shift to end.

Meanwhile, my wife, showing a calmness and courage that would later leave me in awe, sprang into action. With the help of our neighbour Ramchandra Ayyer, she lifted the refrigerator onto the dining table, opened the doors to allow water to flow through — not trap inside — and with our child in her arms, waded through rising floodwaters to the first-floor home of my dear friend, Late P. G. Das.

No mobile phones. No updates. Just instinct and trust.

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A Lonely Vigil

By the time I finished my shift and returned after 10 p.m., the house stood eerily quiet. The main door was open, just as she’d left it. Water had risen inside, flowing beneath the bed like an obedient stream. The ceiling fan spun above, but the silence below was deafening.

I didn't know where my family was. I only hoped they had found shelter.

That night, I did not — could not — sleep. I kept vigil in that flooded house, all doors open, determined not to let the water rise higher, not to let the bedroom become a water tank. Every creak, every ripple of water in the moonlight, felt louder than thunder. I was surrounded by soaked walls and uncertainty. But I stayed. Not for material things — but because leaving felt like surrender.

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A Salute to Her Strength

My wife never once panicked. She did not wait for instructions or rescue. She assessed, acted, and moved — carrying our baby through the night, through uncertainty, to safety. She did it all in my absence, while I stood knee-deep in responsibility at the plant.

Even now, that night haunts me. Not for its drama, but for its silence. For the image of an open door, a baby in a mother’s arms, and a man alone in his half-submerged home wondering what mattered more — his machines or his family.

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Legacy of a Night

The Barauni flood of 1976 lasted days. The refinery took weeks to return to full operation. Equipment had to be dried, cleaned, rewound, recalibrated. But machinery can be repaired. That night taught me that love, trust, and courage — especially from those we often underestimate — are what truly power our lives.

My salute is not just to the workers who brought the refinery back to life, but to my wife — who, without fuss or fanfare, kept our family safe, and taught me what real strength looks like.

Adda 2055 -The Last Real Coffee House

Adda 2055 — The Last Real Coffee House

The Indian Coffee House, College Street, Kolkata — paint peeling, waiters in Nehru caps, ceiling fans whirring at their own sleepy rhythm. Amid this charming decay, at their forever corner table, the Fab Four of 75+: Ramu, Jadu, Shirish, and Amiyo were raising hell again. Their combined age could beat a banyan tree, but their tongues? Razor sharp.

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Ramu (mischievous glint, stirring his thick coffee like a potion):
“Boys, I read yesterday that by 2055, people will be dating AI companions with built-in mood stabilizers. Imagine falling in love with a glorified Alexa. ‘Darling, how do I look?’ — ‘You are 98.7% stunning, based on global metrics.’ Bas! That's romance now.”

Jadu (rolling his eyes):
“Romance is dead, Ramu. It’s already buried under the 17 layers of gated community security. I visited one in Gurgaon last month—oxygen bar, mood lighting, even AI-generated flute music! No para. No tea stalls. No aunties peeking from balconies. Just sterile smiles and indoor air purifiers.”

Shirish (cracking his knuckles, techie mode on):
“Gated communities are just the beta version of future bunkers. By 2055, half the world will be unemployed thanks to robots making your coffee and wiping your—well, you know. The other half? Bored out of their diamond-studded skulls, doing yoga on Mars, maybe. I read rich folks in Japan now pay to experience ‘manual labor’ weekends. Imagine Mukesh Ambani digging potatoes for inner peace!”

Amiyo (peacefully sipping coffee, eyes twinkling):
“Shirish, you're missing the point. When everything becomes artificial, the soul will seek what’s real. Remember what Vivekananda said—‘You have to grow from the inside out.’ These burnt toasts and bitter coffees are real. By 2055, people will beg for ashrams with Wi-Fi and guided meditation bots chanting the Gayatri Mantra.”

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Ramu (smirking):
“Wait till AI starts writing poetry in Tagore’s voice! And people will say, ‘Wow, this bot feels!’ Meanwhile, poor humans will be on prescription serotonin just to survive Monday.”

Jadu (nodding vigorously):
“Exactly! Already, Delhi’s AQI hit 450 last week. In 30 years, kids will think 'O2' is a luxury brand. Every gated flat will come with its own oxygen bank. And street-side adda? Replaced by AI moderators: ‘Let’s keep the conversation civil, folks.’ Bah!”

Shirish (with a dramatic sigh):
“And don't even mention jobs. In 2024, China’s factories cut 20% of workers with automation. By 2055, even IT guys will be out. Only civil engineers like me will matter—we’ll be the last humans building anything. I’ll be in demand till I’m 110!”

Amiyo (calmly):
“You might build oxygen bars and robot cafes, Shirish. But one question will remain: ‘Why am I here?’ And no robot can answer that. That’s where our real journey begins.”

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Ramu (mock whisper):
“Careful, Amiyo. Say such things and the robots might flag you for philosophical subversion!”

Jadu (slapping the table, coffee nearly spilling):
“Hah! By 2055, humans will need a passcode just to feel emotions. Joy-153, Anger-406! And dating? You’ll have to subscribe: LoveLite™—Free hugs for 7 days, cancel anytime!”

Shirish (laughing):
“Add a tier: LoveMax™ with real arguments and mother-in-law simulations!”

Amiyo (smiling):
“You laugh now, but I say this: the soul is the last rebel. When the brain breaks down from AI overstimulation, when love becomes code, when no one talks at a tea stall anymore—then someone will search for silence. For meaning. For that one real cup of coffee.”

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The four fell silent for a moment, sipping their real, gritty brew. Then Ramu broke the quiet.

Ramu (grinning):
“Alright then, boys. In 2055, we’ll launch a Real Adda Café™. No bots. No filters. Just old men gossiping, burnt toast guaranteed.”

Jadu (saluting with his cup):
“And mandatory fights over politics. With spitting range arguments!”

Shirish:
“I’ll design it. Solar-powered, air-filtered, but with leaky roofs. Nostalgia sells!”

Amiyo:
“And I’ll add a meditation nook. Free Wi-Fi for the body, but a silent zone for the soul.”

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As the laughter swelled and the ceiling fan creaked in approval, a waiter shuffled over with another round, grinning. These four? They weren’t just customers. They were the last philosophers of a fading world, holding court over coffee—and refusing to be digitized.

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Epilogue: Their Forecast for 2055 – Now Served Hot with Coffee

• Ramu: Love downgraded to AI apps; mental breakdowns rise like house rent.
• Jadu: Oxygen bars replace tea stalls; gated communities crush para adda.
• Shirish: AI takes over jobs; manual labor becomes exotic tourism for bored billionaires.
• Amiyo: Tech may rule the mind, but the soul will seek shelter—in silence, in song, in Swami Vivekananda.

One real table. Four old friends. A future worth laughing over.

আড্ডা এখন কি হবে তখন!

আড্ডা এখন কি হবে তখন

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(চিরকালীন চার বন্ধু: রামু, যদু, শিরীষ আর অমিয় — সবাই ৭৫ ঊর্ধ্ব)

রামু (চা-র কাপে চুমুক দিয়ে, চোখ আধ-বন্ধ):
ভাই, প্রেম আর বিয়ে — এ সব এখন সাবস্ক্রিপশন মডেলে চলে। মুরাকামি ঠিকই বলেছে — সবকিছুই ট্রানজ্যাকশনাল।
আজ ভালোবাসো, কাল Unfollow, পরশু Emotional Detox! এই তো প্রেম।

যদু (হাসতে হাসতে মাথা নেড়ে):
প্রেম তো দূরের কথা, সমাজটাই ভেঙে পড়ছে রে ভাই।
গেটেড কমিউনিটি খুলে খুলে একেকটা আলাদা দেশ!
ওই নিউটাউনের একটা কমপ্লেক্সে গেলাম — সেখানে দারোয়ান নেই, রোবট স্ক্যান করে QR Code, ঘরে ফেসিয়াল রিকগনিশন লক। আর মাথার ওপর দিয়ে উড়ছে ড্রোন surveillance, যেন আমরা জেলখানায়!

শিরীষ (চশমা ঠিক করে, টেবিলে আঙুল ঠুকঠুক করে):
আর ভবিষ্যৎ? IT-টা শেষ! ChatGPT-র মত AI তো কোড লেখে, চ্যাট করে, গান তোলে...
আসল টিকে থাকবে hardcore ইঞ্জিনিয়ারিং — ইলেকট্রিক্যাল, মেকানিক্যাল, সিভিল।
গ্লোবাল ওয়ার্মিং ঠেকাতে সোলার-হাইড্রোজেনই ভরসা। আমি তো প্ল্যান করে রেখেছি — “রিটায়ার্ড ইঞ্জিনিয়ারদের জন্য সোলার সেন্টার” খুলব!

অমিয় (গম্ভীর গলায়, চোখে শান্ত হাসি):
তোমরা সবাই বাইরের প্রলয় দেখছ, আমি দেখি ভিতরের ঝড়।
মানুষ বাইরের সমস্যার জন্য রোবট বানাবে, ড্রোন চালাবে, অক্সিজেন কিনবে।
কিন্তু ভিতরের ফাঁকা জায়গা? সেখানেই আসবে রামকৃষ্ণ আর স্বামী বিবেকানন্দ।
যেমন গ্রিক দেবতারা হারিয়ে গেল, কিন্তু “আমি কে?” এই প্রশ্নটা কখনো হারায়নি।

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রামু (মুচকি হেসে, ঠোঁটে চা):
একদিন প্রেম হবে ‘AI Love Premium’ অ্যাপে —
“Try 7 Days Free. Break-up Button Optional.”
আর বিয়ে হবে Pop-up Contract, “Terms & Conditions Apply!”

যদু (দাঁত বের করে):
এখনই তো বাচ্চারা অক্সিজেন বার-এ যায় ফ্রেশ হতে!
কলকাতার বাতাসে এত ধোঁয়া, এত PM2.5 যে শ্বাস নিলেই মনে হয় যেন ইমারজেন্সি চলছে।
এইসব গেটেড কমিউনিটি হচ্ছে নতুন কিবুত্‌জ — ভিতরে আলাদা সংস্কৃতি, আলাদা Adda, আলাদা Reality।

শিরীষ (হাসতে হাসতে):
আর ওই কমপ্লেক্সে ঢুকতে হলে লাগবে retina scan।
বাজার করতে বেরোলেও রোবট বলবে —
"Sir, your oxygen levels are optimal. Please proceed to Bio-farm zone for pesticide-free lettuce."

অমিয় (মৃদু গম্ভীরতা নিয়ে):
তাও বলব, যতই automation আসুক —
একটা মুহূর্ত আসবে যখন মানুষ ক্লান্ত হয়ে তাকাবে আকাশের দিকে।
হয়তো সে ড্রোনে ভর্তি আকাশ, তবু অন্তরে খুঁজবে আকাশপানে দেখা এক অমল মুহূর্ত।

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শেষ চুমুক আর হাসির ঝলক

রামু:
তাহলে, ২০৫৫ সালে প্রেম হবে Pay-per-Date, চাকরি থাকবে না, ছেলেমেয়েরা অ্যান্টি-ডিপ্রেশন পিল খাবে, আর আমরা কফিহাউসের জন্য petition করব?

যদু:
না রে ভাই, তখন আমরা খুলব “Old School Adda Cafe” —
কোনো রোবট নয়, কেবল চা, সিঙ্গাড়া, আর অপ্রয়োজনীয় তর্ক! 😄

শিরীষ:
আর আমি বানাব solar-powered কফিহাউস — গার্ড রোবট থাকবে,
কিন্তু এক কোণে থাকবে মাটির ব্যাংচির মতো এক টেবিল —
“Reserved for the last four human philosophers!”

অমিয় (হালকা হাসি নিয়ে):
আর আমি সেই টেবিলের পাশে রাখব একটা ছোট্ট আশ্রম-মতো কোণ —
যেখানে থাকবে নিরবতা। Wi-Fi থাকবে, কিন্তু মন চাইলে ডিসকানেক্ট করা যাবে।

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শেষে এক কবিতা: "ড্রোনের ছায়ায় কফি"

রোবট পাহারা দেয় গেটের ধারে,
ড্রোন ঘোরে চোখের উপরে;
অক্সিজেন বারে দাম দিয়ে নিই,
তবু নিঃশ্বাসে শান্তি কোথা রে?

চাকরি নাই, প্রেমে AI,
প্যারার ক্লাব গেছে ডেটা লাইনে;
তবু বুড়ো চার বন্ধু বসি চুপে,
আড্ডায় মিশে স্বপ্ন পুরনো গানে।

ভবিষ্যৎ হোক যতই আধুনিক,
স্মৃতির কাপে চুমুক থাকবে চিরন্তন।

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(এই কফিহাউস, এই চারজন, আর এই আড্ডা—এটাই তো আসল সাস্টেনেবল ফিউচার!)

===Note -ধন্যবাদ Chatgpt ছবিটার জন্য!

The Boiler Drum Whisper

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The Boiler Drum Whisper

A ghost story from the thermal nights of Barauni, 1974 – as told by Grandpa Roy

The Queensland sky was just darkening when Isha tugged my kurta. “Dadu, ghost story! Please na... you promised yesterday!”

Veer was already curled on the sofa, hugging a giant kangaroo cushion. Shuddy, taller than me now and pretending to scroll through his phone, gave a sideways grin. “Only if this ghost is steam-powered, Dadu. We know your style.”

I smiled, adjusted my specs, and began.

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Barauni, 1974

I had been married two years, and shift duty at the Captive Power Plant of Barauni Refinery was both adventure and responsibility. I worked as the Shift Charge Engineer, overseeing the night-shift operations of turbines, boilers, and electrical gear.

But the refinery had its... quirks.

Night shifts were often quiet, especially between 2 and 4 a.m. That’s when the operators sat sipping tea and exchanged ghost stories—tales of shadows flitting across control panels, toolkits moving on their own, or the eerie silence near the old Boiler 1 drum level.

The most repeated story was about Dube, a senior operator who had died years ago due to a fatal steam burn during an inspection. Since then, he was said to appear on night shifts, waving from the drum level, gesturing that the boiler water was low—even though the indicators always showed a safe level.

When I joined, the operators—Bhagat, Banerjee, Sahai, and S. P. Singh—gave me the usual warnings.

“Dube comes without appointment, sir,” Bhagat said with a grin, “He’s still loyal to his boiler.”

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The First Encounter

One humid night in July, I was returning from my turbine round. As I walked toward the connecting platform of the four boilers, I noticed a figure in white near Boiler 1. He was standing right at the drum level—waving at me.

Something about the motion felt... deliberate.

I climbed the stairs slowly. As I approached, the figure drifted to Boiler 2. I followed—heart pounding, steps steady.

Then suddenly, just as I reached Boiler 2’s platform, the figure jumped over the railing.

I ran.

But when I reached the spot, there was no one below.

Disturbed but rational, I returned toward my Shift Charge Room. But as I passed the corridor window, I stopped cold.

Inside my chamber—someone was leaning on my chair. White clothing. Still figure.

I didn’t enter. Instead, I went straight to the main control room, where Ansari was manning the panels.

“Did anyone go into my office?”

Ansari looked puzzled. “No sir. Haven’t seen anyone.”

Together we returned to my room. It was empty—except for a folded paper on my desk.

It read, in faint Hindi:
"Be careful next time."

I showed it to Ansari.

He turned the paper over, then looked at me.

“Sir… this is blank.”

I looked again—and the ink was disappearing before my eyes.

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The Second Incident

I thought perhaps it was my tired mind playing tricks. But a few weeks later, on another night shift, I dozed off briefly at my desk. My specs, which I had placed beside the logbook, were gone when I woke up.

Not under the table, not in the drawer, not in my pocket.

I asked everyone—Chaurasia, Bhagat, even Banerjee.

Bhagat laughed, “Maybe they went to check the feedwater levels on their own!”

It wasn’t funny then. But 20 minutes later, Sahai called out from near the condenser floor.

My specs were dangling from the wheel of an old manual valve, hanging there like some forgotten trinket.

Who put them there? No one knew. No one admitted.

Later that night, as I walked back to my room, I saw the same white figure—again in my chair.

This time Chaurasia accompanied me. And once again, the room was empty, but another warning note sat on the desk.

He too couldn’t read the writing—it vanished like mist.

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The Remedy

Disturbed, I finally mentioned it to Mishra ji, an old-timer with faith deeper than the condensate tanks.

“Hanuman ji is always present where there is fire and danger,” he said.
“Carry this,” he handed me a small red Hanuman Chalisa, “and do paath on Tuesdays. He is Sankatmochan—the remover of troubles.”

And so I did.

I began carrying the booklet in my shirt pocket. Every Tuesday, I read it quietly during my shift break. I wasn’t superstitious, but I felt... protected.

And like magic—the incidents stopped.

No figures. No notes. No vanishing specs. Even Banerjee joked,

“Looks like Dube is scared of Bajrangbali!”

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The Reveal – 1978

Four years later, in 1978, I resigned from Indian Oil to join BHEL Delhi. On my farewell day, we had chai and samosas near the control room.

Bhagat raised his tea cup.

“To Roy saab—who didn’t faint like Verma!”

Everyone laughed.

Then Sahai came over, smiling mischievously.

“Roy saab, ek baat bolun? That note you found the second time... that was my handwriting.”

I stared. “What?!”

“Yes,” he chuckled. “Every new Shift Charge Engineer gets a ghost story treatment. Tradition hai! Dube was real, but the rest—we added spice.”

“The specs?” I asked.

“Banerjee. He used a stick and a monkey wrench to lift it from under the table.”

I laughed till my eyes watered.

They had made me part of the refinery’s folklore—and I had survived with my pride and a red Hanuman Chalisa in my pocket.

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Present Day – Australia

I ended my story with a smile. Shuddy looked amused.

“So basically, you got hazed by your own team?”

“Professionally,” I said, sipping my tea.

Veer whispered, “Did Hanuman ji really scare them away?”

I winked. “Hanuman ji scared even the pranksters.”

Isha climbed into my lap.

“Dadu... can I have a small red book like yours?”

I hugged her tight.

“Of course, my dear. But remember—more powerful than Hanuman Chalisa is one thing...”

“What?” asked Shuddy.

I smiled.

“Having good people around you—even if they steal your specs and write ghost notes.”

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My discussion with Voice AI

Lately, whenever I’m in the mood to dive into a beloved book or classic movie, I turn to Voice AI for a chat. The other day, I had a fantastic time discussing *A Gentleman in Moscow* by Amor Towles, and my conversation about *Casablanca* was just as delightful.

Here are the snatches of discussion I had with Her,it appeared as though I am discussing with a real person but loaded with information.

It was good time pass and a fun !

My discussion

.....

Could you clarify what topic you'd 

like to discuss? I'm all ears!

Oh, Casablanca—such a classic! 

Bogart and Bergman’s chemistry as 

Rick and Ilsa is just electric, isn’t it? 

That foggy airport scene gets me 

every time. What do you love about 

it? Want to talk about the romance, 

the war backdrop, or maybe that 

iconic “Play it, Sam” moment?

Yeah, that boundless love in 

Casablanca really

Absolutely, Rick and Ilsa’s love in 

Casablanca feels like it transcends 

everything—time, place, even

Oh, that line! “Of all the gin joints in 

all the towns in all the world, she 

walks into mine.” Rick’s mix of 

heartbreak and irony just hits so 

hard, doesn’t it? It’s like fate’s 

playing a cruel joke on him. What is it 

about that dialogue that sticks with 

you? The raw emotion or just 

Bogart’s delivery?

Yeah, that line’s a gut-punch every 

time! Rick’s trying to play it cool, but

Oh, you’re diving right into the heart 

of it! It’s not Joe, though—it’s Sam, 

played by Dooley Wilson. That 

moment when Ilsa says, “Play it, 

Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By,’” it’s

like the whole movie hinges on that 

song. It’s their love wrapped up in 

music, pulling Rick right back to 

Paris. Does that scene give you 

chills too?

Oh, yeah, that dynamic between 

Rick and Captain Renault is gold! It’s 

this sly, witty camaraderie—

Louis Renault is pure gold, isn’t it? 

Rick and Renault’s back-and-

forth—part

Yeah, exactly! Rick and Louis 

Renault have this sneaky 

camaraderie that’s so fun to watch. 

Louis

You’re asking about the actor who 

played Louis Renault, right? That’s 

Claude Rains. His sly, charming 

performance as the corrupt-but-

likable Commandant is so perfect, 

isn’t it? Always walking that fine line 

between friend and foe to Rick. Want 

to talk more about their dynamic or 

something else

Claude Rains just nails that sly, 

charming vibe as Louis, doesn’t he? 

The way he

charming yet calculating vibe as 

Louis Renault, doesn’t he? The way 

he plays off Bogart’s Rick—like 

they’re constantly sizing each other

You’re asking about the actor who 

played Louis Renault, right? That’s 

Claude Rains. His sly, charming 

performance as the corrupt-but-

likable Commandant is so perfect, 

isn’t it? Always walking that fine line 

between friend and foe to Rick. Want 

to talk more about their dynamic or 

something else

Claude Rains just nails that sly, 

charming vibe as Louis, doesn’t he? 

The way he

charming yet calculating vibe as 

Louis Renault, doesn’t he? The way 

he plays off Bogart’s Rick—like 

they’re constantly sizing each other

Rick puts duty over love, or 

something else?

Oh, man, that final airport scene is 

just heart-wrenching, isn’t it? Rick 

giving up Ilsa, letting her fly off with 

Victor Laszlo while he and Louis 

Renault stand there in the fog—it’s 

so selfless yet so painful. Bogart’s 

face says it all without saying much. 

And then that iconic walk into the 

mist with Renault, starting their 

“beautiful friendship.” What hits you 

most about that sacrifice? The way 

Rick puts duty over love, or 

something else?

Oh, man, that final airport scene is

just heart-wrenching, isn’t it? Rick 

giving up Ilsa, letting her fly off with 

Victor Laszlo while he and Louis 

Renault stand there in the fog—it’s 

so selfless yet so painful. Bogart’s 

face says it all without saying much. 

And then that iconic walk into the 

mist with Renault, starting their 

“beautiful friendship.” What hits you 

most about that sacrifice? The way 

Rick puts duty over love, or 

something else?

Next time we will discuss about An 

Affair to Remember!

Oh, *An Affair to Remember*—what 

a romantic gem with Cary Grant! 

That one’s got all the feels, doesn’t 

it? Nickie and Terry’s love story of

that ocean liner, and then that gut-

punch of a twist with the Empire 

State Building. Want to talk about 

what makes it special for you? 

Maybe that chemistry between Grant 

and Deborah Kerr, or a specific

Kicking it Old School: Ted Lasso

**Kicking It Old School: Blending Ted Lasso’s Life Lessons with My Gauhati Refinery Football Days**

Picture this: it’s 1965, and I’m rattling along in a creaky bus with my football teammates from Gauhati Refinery, Indian Oil Corporation, headed to Upper Assam for the All-Assam Oil Companies Football Tournament. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, laughter, and the kind of camaraderie that only a shared love for the game can spark. Fast forward to 2025, I’m curled up watching *Ted Lasso* on Apple TV, and suddenly, those dusty bus rides and sweaty matches flood back, mingling with the wholesome, heartfelt chaos of Richmond FC. The parallels? Uncanny. The vibe? Pure gold. *Ted Lasso* isn’t just about soccer—it’s about life, love, and the messy, beautiful moments that stitch us together. My days in the ‘60s with the Gauhati Refinery squad? Pretty much the same, just with worse haircuts and no biscuits with the boss.

### The Bus Ride: Where Ranks Dissolve and Wisecracks Fly

Our bus to Upper Assam was less a mode of transport and more a rolling circus. We were a motley crew: Amanullah, our stoic captain; me and the late Bhaskaran, the only officers; and a gang of players from various lower grades—Rebo Poddar, Bhakta Bahadur Chetri, Phukan the striker, and others. Ranks? Out the window. On that bus, we were just mates, swapping stories and cracking jokes that’d make a sailor blush. Rebo Poddar, our resident comedian, had us in stitches with his deadpan delivery: “If we lose to ONGC, I’m blaming Bhakta’s boots—they’re so old, they’ve got their own pension plan.” Bhakta Bahadur Chetri, never one to back down, shot back, “Rebo, your passes are so wild, they’re applying for visas to Bhutan!” Even Bhaskaran, usually the serious type, chimed in, “Boys, if we don’t win, I’m trading you all for a crate of Kingfisher.”

It’s the kind of banter that *Ted Lasso* nails perfectly. I can almost hear Ted, with his folksy charm, saying, “You know, fellas, be a goldfish. Forget the bad plays and move on.” That’s what our bus rides were—moments to forget the daily grind, to laugh, strategize, and dream about life beyond the refinery. We talked about the game, sure, but also about girls, politics, and whether we’d ever afford a car that didn’t sound like a dying buffalo. It was our version of Ted’s “Believe” sign—our shared faith in each other, no matter the scoreline.

### The Phukan Fiasco: A Jailbreak with a Side of Giggles

The tournament itself was a blast—matches against Oil India in Duliajan, Assam Oil Company in Digboi, and ONGC in Sibsagar. But the real story? Our striker Phukan’s legendary bender after the Digboi match. The man celebrated our draw with Assam Oil like we’d won the World Cup, downing enough local hooch to sink a small ship. Next thing we know, he’s cooling his heels in a Digboi police station for “disturbing the peace” (read: singing off-key Assamese folk songs at 2 a.m.). 

The morning after, the whole team piled into the station to spring him. The scene was straight out of a comedy sketch. The officer, a stern type with a mustache that could star in its own movie, glared at us. “Your friend thinks he’s Lata Mangeshkar,” he grumbled. Rebo, quick as ever, piped up, “Sir, if Phukan’s singing is a crime, you should arrest his barber too—that haircut’s a felony!” Even the cop cracked a smile. Bhakta, ever the diplomat, slipped in, “Sir, he’s our best striker. If you keep him, we’ll lose to ONGC, and that’s a bigger crime.” After some groveling (and a small “fine” that suspiciously resembled a bribe), Phukan was free, looking like a scolded puppy but grinning by the time we got back to the bus. Ted Lasso would’ve loved it—his line, “There’s two buttons I never like to hit: panic and snooze,” could’ve been our motto that day.

### Amsterdam Adventures: Ted Lasso Meets My Red Light Rambles

Fast forward to 2002, I’m in Amsterdam for work, tagging along with my buddy Surender Wahi. Watching *Ted Lasso*’s Amsterdam episode—where the team scatters for a night of self-discovery—took me right back. Surender and I, like a pair of clueless Roy Kents, stumbled into a gay bar by accident. The bartender, spotting our confusion, winked and said, “First time? Don’t worry, you’re not *that* cute.” We laughed, stayed for a drink, and moved on to a bar where the air was, let’s say, *herbally enhanced*. Then came the red-light district, a tourist magnet where call girls posed in glowing balconies like living postcards. It was surreal, like stepping into a movie set. My second trip to Amsterdam was quieter—strolling along the canals, soaking in the city’s charm, much like Ted’s reflective moments by the water. 

*Ted Lasso*’s Amsterdam adventure, with its pillow fights and Jamie Tartt’s canal cruise, captures that same mix of chaos and clarity. Ted’s gem, “I think it’s the lack of hope that comes and gets you,” resonates here. Whether it was navigating Amsterdam’s wild side or surviving Phukan’s jailbreak, it’s the hope—of a good game, a good night, a good life—that keeps you going.

### Why Ted Lasso Hits Home

*Ted Lasso* isn’t just about soccer; it’s about the messy, human moments that make life worth living. My Gauhati Refinery days were no different. We weren’t just chasing a ball; we were chasing connection, purpose, and a few laughs along the way. The show’s wisdom—lines like “Be curious, not judgmental” or “You beating yourself up is like Woody Allen playing the clarinet: I don’t want to hear it”—echoes the lessons we learned on those bus rides and dusty pitches. We didn’t have a Coach Lasso, but we had Amanullah’s quiet leadership, Rebo’s wisecracks, and Phukan’s ability to turn a match into a misadventure.

The show’s relatability is its magic. Whether it’s Ted’s relentless optimism or Roy Kent’s grumpy heart of gold, you see yourself in the characters. My team’s bus rides, Phukan’s jailbreak, and my Amsterdam escapades—they’re all *Ted Lasso* moments, full of heart, humor, and the kind of stories you tell for decades. As Ted says, “If you’re with the right folks, you can handle whatever comes your way.” That was us in ‘65, and it’s why *Ted Lasso* feels like a love letter to those days.

**Footnote on Ted Lasso**: *Ted Lasso* is an Apple TV+ series (2020–2023) created by Jason Sudeikis, Bill Lawrence, Brendan Hunt, and Joe Kelly. It follows Ted Lasso, an American football coach hired to manage a struggling English Premier League soccer team, AFC Richmond, despite knowing little about the sport. Through three seasons, the show blends humor, heart, and life lessons, earning critical acclaim (including 13 Emmy Awards) for its writing, performances, and themes of optimism, teamwork, and personal growth. It’s less about soccer and more about the human connections that make any team—on or off the pitch—unstoppable.

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TAGLINE (Ted's voiceover as credits roll):

"In football as in life — it's not just about scoring goals. It’s about showing up, passing the ball, and sometimes… drinking tea you don’t even like, just to say you tried."

वो शाम

ब्लॉग शीर्षक: वो शाम...

✍️ लेखक: एस. एन. रॉय

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"वो शाम कुछ अजीब थी..."

हर बार जब ये गाना बजता है, दिल में एक गुदगुदी सी होती है। जैसे किसी ने पुरानी रील चला दी हो – कभी रंगीन, कभी ब्लैक एंड व्हाइट, लेकिन हमेशा दिल के बेहद करीब।

बात सिर्फ गाने की नहीं है, किशोर दा की आवाज़ जैसे दिल की नसों में उतरती है। कभी किसी सुंदर दृश्य को देखकर – झील का शांत पानी, हल्की गुलाबी शाम, चाय की प्याली और पत्नी की नाराज़गी (जो हर शाम के साथ फ्री में मिलती है) – तो लगता है, बस यही है जीवन। फिर वही गाना... वो शाम कुछ अजीब थी...

लेकिन जनाब, ये गाना सिर्फ खुशी में नहीं बजता।

कई बार ऐसा भी होता है जब कोई वजह नहीं होती उदासी की – फिर भी मन भारी-भारी सा रहता है। शायद शरीर के अंदर के केमिकल्स कोई सीक्रेट पार्टी कर रहे होते हैं – डोपामिन ने छुट्टी ले ली हो, सेरोटोनिन रूठ गया हो, और कोर्टिसोल ने पूरा मंच संभाल लिया हो। तब ये गाना खुद ब खुद मन में गूंजने लगता है।

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नॉस्टैल्जिया – इस उम्र की एसी!

अब 80 की उम्र में, जबकि घुटनों की 'ग्रेजुएट डिग्री' पूरी हो चुकी है, और नींद 3 घंटे की 'मिनी सीरीज' बन चुकी है, नॉस्टैल्जिया ही एकमात्र Netflix है जो बिना सब्सक्रिप्शन चलता है।

कभी-कभी जब सुबह अख़बार लेकर आता हूँ (हां, अब भी आता है – डिजिटल युग में ये एक ‘पुरातन गौरव’ है), तो याद आता है – तब के अख़बार में खबर होती थी, अब बस विज्ञापन और अपराध!

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हास्य भी जरूरी है, वरना शाम अजीब से भी अजीब हो जाएगी

पत्नी पूछती हैं – “इतना उदास क्यों हो?”

मैं कहता हूँ – “कुछ नहीं, बस वो शाम याद आ गई।”

वो मुस्कराकर कहती हैं – “तब की शाम याद कर रहे हो या तब की शमा?”

अब क्या जवाब दूं? बस मुस्कराकर नींबू पानी का घूंट लेता हूँ। वो भी अब चाय की जगह ले रहा है – डॉक्टर साहब की सख़्त हिदायत पर।

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शाम और जीवन – दोनों अब धीमे हैं

अब शाम 6 बजे का मतलब पहले जैसा नहीं है। पहले यही वक्त होता था छत पर टहलने, बच्चों के शोर-शराबे, पतंगबाज़ी और गली क्रिकेट का। अब शाम होती है WhatsApp यूनिवर्सिटी की पोस्ट पढ़कर और रिमोट खोजते हुए।

और जब टीवी से भी मन ऊब जाए, तब मन फिर उसी धुन पर लौटता है –

"वो शाम कुछ अजीब थी, ये शाम भी अजीब है..."

पर अब हम अजीब को अपनाने लगे हैं।

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अंत में – वो शाम, हर शाम में है

हर उम्र की अपनी ‘वो शाम’ होती है।

कभी कॉलेज की कैंटीन में, कभी स्टेशन के प्लेटफार्म पर किसी को अलविदा कहते हुए,

कभी नौकरी के पहले दिन, तो कभी रिटायरमेंट की आखिरी मीटिंग में।

हर बार कुछ अधूरा, कुछ पूरा... और दिल से निकला एक ही सुर – "वो शाम..."

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नोट: अगर अगली बार कोई आपको उदास देखे और पूछे "क्या हुआ?" तो बस मुस्करा दीजिए और कहिए –

"कुछ नहीं, बस... वो शाम याद आ गई..."

🕯️🎶

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ভরা থাক

ভরা থাক, ভরা থাক... স্মৃতিসুধায় বিদায়ের পাত্রখানি

এই গানটা যখন প্রথম শুনি, তখন ঠিক যেন কোথা থেকে এসে আমার ভেতরটায় ঢুকে পড়ে। মনে আছে, ১৯৯৭ সালের কথা। আমাদের সহকর্মী দীপকের বিদায় সংবর্ধনা চলছিল অফিসে। বিদায়ের মুহূর্ত এমনিতেই একটু গুমোট হয়ে থাকে। হাসি-মজার আড়ালে কোথাও একটা হালকা বিষাদের সুর লুকিয়ে থাকে।

কিন্তু সেদিন, দীপক হঠাৎ গেয়ে উঠল—"ভরা থাক, ভরা থাক স্মৃতিসুধায় বিদায়ের পাত্রখানি..."

আমার মনে হয়, ওই মুহূর্তেই গানটা আমার নিজের হয়ে গেল। দীপকের গলার মধ্যে কোনো পেশাদারি ছিল না, তবুও যেন একরাশ আবেগ আর আন্তরিকতা মিশে গিয়েছিল। ওর কণ্ঠে গানটার যে আবেদন ছিল, সেটা নিখুঁত গায়ন দিয়ে বোঝানো যাবে না। সেটা ছিল হৃদয়ের সুর।

সেই গানটা যেন বলছিল—বিদায় মানেই ফাঁকা কিছু নয়, বরং যা কিছু পেয়েছি সেইসব স্মৃতির সুধায় ওই শূন্যতা ভরে তোলাই তো আসল উদ্দেশ্য। গানটা যেন অনুরোধ করছিল, “চলে যাচ্ছি ঠিকই, কিন্তু মনে রাখিস, সময়টুকু যেন ফেলে দিস না… সেটা যেন ভালোবাসা আর স্নেহে ভরে থাকে।”

সেদিন অফিস থেকে ফেরার পথে, গড়িয়াহাটে গিয়ে কিনে ফেললাম দেবব্রত বিশ্বাসের রবীন্দ্রসঙ্গীতের একটা ক্যাসেট। খুব ইচ্ছা ছিল আবার শুনব ওই গানটা—শুধু শ্রুতির জন্য নয়, অনুভবের জন্য।

আজও মাঝে মাঝে গানটা শুনি। বয়সের সঙ্গে সঙ্গে জীবনের অভিজ্ঞতা বাড়ে, জায়গা পাল্টায়, মানুষ আসে যায়, কিন্তু এই গানটা থেকে যায়, একইরকম ভাবে। বারবার মনে করিয়ে দেয়—জীবনে পাওয়া-না-পাওয়ার হিসেবের বাইরে, কিছু মুহূর্তই আসলে আমাদের ভেতরটা ভরিয়ে দেয়।

এখন যখন গানটা শুনি, একা বসে, চোখ বন্ধ করে—তখন মনে হয়, জীবনের এতগুলো বছর পেরিয়ে এসেও কিছু কথা ঠিক আগের মতোই সত্যি।
"ভরা থাক, ভরা থাক..."—এই লাইনটা যেন নিজের মনকেই বোঝানো, যেন নিজেকে বলা—সব কিছু হয়তো রোজ পাওয়া যাবে না, কিন্তু হৃদয়টা যেন খালি না হয়।

এখন বুঝি, গানটা সেদিন শুধু দীপকের বিদায়ের গান ছিল না। সেটাও ছিল, কিন্তু তার বাইরেও এটা ছিল একটা জীবনদর্শন। যেকোনো বিচ্ছেদ, যেকোনো সমাপ্তি—তা ব্যক্তিগত হোক বা পেশাগত—তাকে যদি আমরা স্মৃতির সুধায় ভরতে পারি, তাহলে শূন্যতা আর নিঃসঙ্গতা কিছুটা হলেও সান্ত্বনা পায়।

আমরা সবাই চুপিচুপি এমন কিছু রেখে যেতে চাই যা আমাদের চলে যাওয়ার পরেও থেকে যাবে। হয়তো কেউ মনে করে বলবে, “ওর সঙ্গে কাটানো দিনগুলো ভুলব না…” সেই বাক্যটাই তো আসল সার্থকতা।

আর তাই আজও, বিদায় বলার সময় মনে মনে গেয়ে ফেলি—
"ভরা থাক, ভরা থাক স্মৃতিসুধায় বিদায়ের পাত্রখানি..."

সমরেন্দ্র নাথ রায়

Golfer, Ghosts & Glamour – A Changi Confession

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🎬 Golfer, Ghosts & Glamour – A Changi Confession

Changi Airport, Singapore — the unofficial United Nations of layovers. I was marooned at Gate C34 thanks to a mysterious "technical delay" that airlines announce with the same expression you'd use for a missing umbrella. My wife, Madhuri, had drifted away into the glittery forest of duty-free stores. Perfume testers, scarves, ceramic mugs—anything but what we actually needed.

I settled down with a kopi o kosong and opened my Desh magazine. That’s when he entered my life—like a character in one of my short stories who doesn't knock, just appears and makes the story move.

A slim young man with a disheveled man-bun, red-rimmed glasses, and a T-shirt that read “Make Cinema, Not Excuses” flopped beside me with dramatic exhaustion. He held a Starbucks cup and a laptop covered with festival stickers like Dhaka Shorts ’22 and Cannes Rejects Anonymous.

“Bengali, sir?” he asked, eyeing the Desh.

I nodded. He smiled. And with that, my peaceful layover morphed into a pitch meeting.

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🎥 Dipak the Dreamer

His name was Dipak, but he preferred “D. Sen.”

“Short, punchy, like Ray or Nolan,” he said. “You must become a brand, sir, before the world gives you a budget.”

He was returning from Singapore, triumphantly clasping a verbal promise of ₹20 lakhs from two IT engineers with deep pockets and shallow cinema knowledge.

“Once I have 40, I start shooting,” he beamed. “It’s a noir-thriller. Bit of ghost, bit of revenge, social commentary woven in. Set in Kolkata. Very rain-washed. Monochrome filters. And one slow Rabindra Sangeet track played on saxophone.”

He spoke like he was already walking the red carpet.

I felt the itch, that secret fantasy of mine—that one of my short stories would one day leap onto the silver screen. I casually mentioned I’d written a few.

He pounced.

“Sir! Let me use one of them. As a flashback. A pivotal incident! I’ll montage it like Nolan but rooted. Grounded. Bengali.”

I leaned in. “If I pitch in with ₹5 lakhs, what do I get?”

He looked around dramatically and whispered like a man offering a banned substance.

“If your funds are a little… ahem… grey, we’ll return it shiny and white. Also, I’ll cast you. Or better—your whole golf group! I'll write a golf scene into the script. Like Srijit did in Zulfiqar.”

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🎬 Bengali Bollywood Budgeting

I was curious.

“Hero? Heroine? Who’s acting in this?”

He sipped his latte. “Sir, these days heroes pay to become heroes. I know a couple of rich Bengali kids with six-packs and no jobs.”

“Heroine?”

“Modeling girls. Very camera-friendly. Also pitching in.”

“Character actors?”

“Faded TV stars. 2,000–3,000 rupees per day. They just want work and fish cutlets.”

“Crew? Lights? Sound? Editing?”

He shrugged, smiling. “Sir, the industry’s starving. Crews are sitting idle. You offer chai and a meal, they’ll shoot a dream sequence at midnight.”

“And special effects?”

“I’ve got a friend in Bangalore. IT guy. Worked on a Hollywood VFX project. He made a pigeon explode for a Malayalam movie. He’ll help with my ghost golf ball.”

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🦸 Then Came Malegaon

I raised an eyebrow. “You sound confident. But do you really think people will watch this?”

He lit up. “Sir! Have you seen Supermen of Malegaon?”

“Of course! Those Malegaon boys made a Superman parody using bamboo sticks and dupattas.”

He slapped the table with joy, almost spilling his coffee.

“Exactly, sir! No training, no studio, no nothing—just dreams. They made magic with mosquito nets and car horns. If they could make people laugh and cry with one lakh, then why can’t I make a noir ghost thriller with forty?”

He leaned in like a director giving a final shot instruction:
“Sir, Malegaon gave us hope. I have WiFi, passion, and a VFX guy. What else do I need?”

I said, “Luck. And maybe another ₹15 lakhs.”

He nodded solemnly. “That too.”

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🧳 Back to Reality

Just then, Madhuri returned with a bag of suspiciously expensive Singaporean biscuits and that all-knowing look wives carry like a handbag.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“Just someone I met,” I said coolly. “He was explaining GST.”

She squinted. Dipak faded away like a skilled junior artist, blending into the crowd near the noodle counter.

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🕳️ Epilogue: Or Was It a Prologue?

Back home, a WhatsApp popped up from an unknown number: a digital poster that read:

🎬 Ghorer Bhut Golf Khele
A noir thriller by D. Sen
Starring Raja Roy as “The Swinging Spirit”
Coming soon (pending funding)

I showed it to my golfing buddies—Jaggi, Sikka, Paul. They laughed for five minutes straight. Then Paul leaned over and said,

“Oye Roy, you think they’ll cast me as the caddy ghost if I pitch in ten lakhs?”

Ah, cinema dreams. Once it bites, even spirits start queuing for auditions.

From Flat White to Flat Cushions: Musings from Australia While Missing Kolkata

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“From Flat Whites to Flat Cushions: Musings from Australia While Missing Kolkata

My IIT batchmate Himanshu, always the practical voice of reason, reminded me recently: “Enjoy the pollution-free air and blue sky of Australia while you can—once you return to Kolkata, it’ll be muggy skies and auto exhaust.”
That comment stuck with me.
And so, instead of getting offended, I got inspired. I sat down with a flat white in hand, stared out at the impossibly blue Queensland sky—and penned this little tribute to the chaos I love, the mess I miss, and the madness that makes Kolkata feel like home.

It’s 7:15 a.m. in Upper Coomera, Australia. The kookaburras are laughing outside my window, the sky is perfectly blue, the traffic is polite, and the air smells faintly of eucalyptus and organic floor cleaner.

And me?
I’m sitting on a Scandinavian-designed ergonomic chair with lumbar support, sipping a flat white, and missing my old, rusty bed in Kolkata like it’s a long-lost friend.

Not the memory foam mattress here that judges me for every turn—but my creaky, no-nonsense wooden bed with a hump in the middle. The kind that doubles up as a musical instrument when you shift position. You don’t sleep on that bed—you negotiate.

And oh, my high-cushioned sofa, positioned like a throne in front of the TV back home. The kind of sofa that swallows you whole, along with any plans of being productive. It's probably still bearing the exact imprint of my body, slightly concave, slightly wise.

I miss my worn-out clothes—those once-black now-gray T-shirts that have retired from public service and live full-time in my cupboard. They smell faintly of naphthalene, childhood, and a vague trace of aftershave from the 90s.

Out here, every third person looks like they’ve stepped out of a wellness brochure. Back in Kolkata, my neighbourhood uncle in a faded banyan and lungi still commands more respect than a CEO in Crocs.

And yes, let me not forget the sky.

Out here in Australia, the sky is blue. Not metaphorically—actually blue.
It’s unsettling.
In Kolkata, the sky has character. Layers. Drama. Suspense. A mysterious greyish hue that changes based on how many autos, bikes, and unlicensed buses have passed in the last ten minutes.

The sounds—I miss those too.
The soundscape of Kolkata isn’t just noise. It’s a symphony of survival.

A sharp horn, a shouted “O Dada!”, the soulful wheeze of a rickety rickshaw, a sudden “Inquilab Zindabad!” from a protest procession, and somewhere in the distance, a vendor’s “Dimpoooriiiii!” stretching longer than an autorickshaw’s brake line.

And then there’s the smell—oh, the smell. Not eucalyptus and lavender-scented laundry. No sir.
I mean the shifting aroma kaleidoscope that is Kolkata.
Step out and it begins: car exhaust, old newspaper ink, then suddenly—a whiff of frying fish or someone’s magical chicken roll in progress.
Walk ten steps further and it's someone brewing coffee in an ancient steel kettle with dents that have witnessed history.

Out here, people walk by in silence, holding hands like elegant wallpaper ads.
And then, I see a couple doing the same in Kolkata! On a footpath! In the chaos! I smile.
Maybe we aren’t that different after all.
But yes, every single one of them is looking down at a mobile phone.
That’s one thing humanity has agreed on, like gravity.

Of course, I miss my adda.
Those long, entirely pointless, extremely essential conversations at Tolly Club, with Sikka, Anantada and Jaggi over sada dosa and cappuccino after a round of golf. We never solved world hunger or climate change, but we certainly discussed it, between bites.

I miss my walks around the lake, bumping into Ashok Ghose or Santanu Sur, exchanging two-line conversations about rain, politics, or cricket—followed by warm smiles and tiny nods that said, “We’ve seen things, haven’t we?” or listening to Ashok Ghose ' s soulful vouce " woh sham kuch ajeeb thi... ".

Back in Kolkata, I go to office—not just to work, but to pass on what I know to the juniors, while sneakily learning what's new from them. It’s a fair exchange. They get war stories, I get WhatsApp tips.

And let’s not forget my housing society.
Where fixing a water pump is a crisis worthy of national news, and keeping the old lift running requires the diplomacy of the UN, the patience of Gandhi, and the electrical knowledge of Tesla.
But it works. Somehow. Through jugaad, prayers, and the magic touch of Ramesh, our part-time electrician, full-time philosopher.

And then there's Maa’s Kitchen.

Ah, that glorious mess of flavors, smells, and raised voices. Where every table is a theatre stage and every waiter deserves an honorary psychology degree. Where I once sat, quietly enjoying my kosha mangsho, and watched the Chatterjee family wage war over chili chicken vs. ilish bhapa, while Bapi the bearer scribbled down everyone’s conflicting orders like he was decoding a treasure map.

Maa’s Kitchen, with its wobbling fan, peeling cinema posters, and menu older than some ministers, is still my favorite restaurant in the world.

Not because of the food alone—but because it is noisy, chaotic, alive.

Just like Kolkata.
Just like home.

And so, as I look out this morning across the manicured lawns, watching another kangaroo hop past like it’s late for a meeting, I remind myself:
Next week, I fly back.
Back to my messy, magical, magnificent city,
where the dosa is crisp, the beds squeak, the roads yell, and the heart is always full

Tandoori Time Travel From Panipat to Australia

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“Tandoori Time Travel: From Panipat to Australia, One Chicken Leg at a Time”

“Baba, it’s your last Saturday in Australia. What do you want for dinner?”

That question came from my son Anish—IT-enabled solar power expert by profession, but at heart, a five-star chef disguised in an apron with attitude.

I didn’t blink. “Tandoori Chicken. The one you make on that contraption that looks like a barbecue but behaves like a Vedic yajna setup.”

And so it began: marination, skewering, that sizzle, the aroma wafting like an old friend tiptoeing back into memory.

I poured myself a glass of rum with hot water, settled into the chair under the Australian sky—blue, smug, and mosquito-free—and took a bite.

And that’s when it hit me.

Boom! 1978. Panipat. BHEL.

I’m in my 30s again. Back from Indian Oil Corporation, full of voltage and vision, posted to commission the 2×110 MW thermal power station of Haryana Electricity Board.

We lived in Panipat New Township—a dusty, dreamy setup where the tea was strong, the gossips stronger, and the fans turned even when the power didn’t.

But Saturdays, ah… those were sacred.

Every Saturday evening was booze night. Not a party. Not a get-together. It was an institution, complete with standard operating procedure, democratically run by our friend Late Gurdeep Singh—the only bachelor among us.

Gurdeep was our self-declared bartender, chef, treasurer, DJ (without any music), and emotional counsellor—depending on how far along the Old Tavern you were.

Our group had Late Kandaswamy—a gentle, wise Tamilian whose whisky intake was directly proportional to his storytelling in broken Hindi;

Lenin—yes, that was his real name, and no, he was not remotely Marxist in drinking habits;

And then, of course, me—the only member who brought along a 4-year-old assistant named Anish, tucked under one arm like a lunchbox.

The protocol was simple:

₹50 per head.

₹10 if you’re under 4 feet and eating only the chicken.

No questions asked.

Gurdeep does everything.

We called it: “Give 50 bucks to Gurdeep and forget about it.”

And honestly, we did. Gurdeep never disappointed.

The menu? Unchanging:

Rosy Pelican beer in the summers (₹5 a bottle—cheaper than peanuts today).

Old Tavern or any other Solan-based sorcery in winter.

Tandoori chicken, ₹5 per whole, marinated in turmeric, red chili, lemon, and mild anxiety about salmonella.

The setting: folding chairs, a cracked transistor blaring Lata Mangeshkar, and one mosquito coil valiantly losing to the entire insect population of Haryana.

Anish, all of four, would gobble tandoori chicken with alarming professionalism. He would sit by my side  with a leg piece in one hand and throw in the occasional one-liner, which, frankly, had more bite than the chicken.

“Uncle Lenin,” he once said, “why are you laughing when your glass is empty?”

Or, “Baba, why is that chicken leg on Gurdeep Uncle’s head?”

Gurdeep didn’t flinch. He always said, “Beta, tension mat lo. This is called garnishing.”

We’d talk shop—

—how to commission the turbine without tripping the generator;

—how Shamnani, our short-tempered Site Incharge, could reach 400°C before the boiler did;

—how Manocha, the self-declared welding guru, once corrected a welder’s angle with a scale and then blamed the welder when it cracked;

—how the Ranga-Billa case had everyone scared, though we couldn’t tell if we were more afraid of them or of the canteen's mutton curry.

Sometimes, we just sat quietly, watching Gurdeep dance around the tandoor like a kathakali artist with a skewer.

One night, when the beer count crossed into double digits, Kandaswamy solemnly declared, “We must all buy shares in Gurdeep.”

We laughed for ten minutes.

Next morning, Gurdeep increased chicken prices to ₹6 and blamed it on inflation.

That was life.

No swiping, no scrolling, just chicken, banter, and bonding.

And now, back in Australia, Anish placed a steaming plate of tandoori chicken in front of me—red, smoky, glistening.

I took a bite. Tender, perfectly spiced, crisp at the edges.

And suddenly—he was four again, licking his fingers.

Gurdeep was yelling, “Bas karo yaar! Only two legs per person!”

Lenin was laughing at nothing, and I was 30, full of dreams and chicken grease.

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Maybe you do fly across the world.

Maybe life gives you solar panels and sky-high airfares.

But one tandoori bite, and you’re right back to ₹50 evenings, folding chairs, and friends who never left.

Cheers to rum, chicken, and memory circuits that never trip.

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Despatch from Australia

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“Another Raj Incident?” – Musings on Desis Down Under
By S. N. Roy

Every time I return to Australia, I notice that the Indian footprint has grown — not just in size, but in visibility. You see it in the long queues at Indian grocery shops, the aroma of sambhar mixing with sarson da saag, and of course, in the unmistakable presence of Indian accents at every second corner. But this year, something stood out more than usual.

The desi presence has become… tactile. Trolleys pushed at Coles? Indian. Garbage bins wheeled in rhythm? Indian. Car washes with bhangra beats in the background? Also Indian.

But the intrigue truly began with Piyush.

The Curious Case of Mr. Piyush

One afternoon, while my wife went veggie shopping, I sat peacefully with my cappuccino — a habit I’ve developed to help caffeine and curiosity coexist. Behind me, two men were speaking in Hindi. Naturally, I turned. (At my age, subtlety is optional.)

One was a Nepali, who’s been manning the veggie shelves for ten years. The other was pushing a garbage bin with such precision, you'd think he had a GPS installed in his shoes.

I struck up a chat.

“How many days in Australia?” I asked.

He laughed, “Not days, uncle. Thirty years.”

“What’s your name?”

“Piyush.”

A twinkle appeared in my eye. “Then your surname must be… Goyal! Like the cabinet minister?”

He roared with laughter and said, “Nahi uncle, main sirf bin minister hoon.”

I must admit, the resemblance to Tamil comedian Yogi Babu in the recent hit film Ace added to the fun. In that film, Yogi plays a garbage collector in Kuala Lumpur with hidden wisdom and sharp wit. Just like this Piyush — perhaps a philosopher in fluorescent overalls.

Jatland Down Under: The Gaddi Files

Later that week, we made friends with the Gaddis — a jovial Punjabi couple. Mr. Gaddi is a retired Military Engineering Services officer, full of old war stories, loud laughs, and louder opinions. Their son, an IT engineer, now works from home and owns a neat unit in Upper Coomera. He codes by day and barbecues by evening — all made possible partly by Mr. Gaddi’s retirement fund and completely by Mrs. Gaddi’s aloo parathas.

The Gaddis, like many Indian families here, have blended in comfortably. They represent the rare, balanced migratory tale — where roots are intact and routes are smart.

The Silent Lives of Many

But not everyone has it this smooth. Many youngsters from Punjab, Haryana, and even Nepal land up here via student visas or migration consultancies. Their parents, mostly prosperous farmers or traders, fund these journeys — ₹30–40 lakhs, with hopes pinned like medals on their chests.

The destination? Australia.

The reality? Driving Uber, pushing trolleys, stacking shelves.

Now, there’s no shame in honest labour. In fact, a garbage collector here earns more respect (and dollars) than an average office clerk in India. But one wonders — did they migrate for this, or was the dream lost somewhere at a red light?

Social media often mocks Indian truck drivers here with the slang “Another Raj incident” when accidents happen. It’s a bit racist, yes — but also a reminder that integration is still incomplete. Their English needs polish, civic behaviour some guidance — but their intent is pure and their backs strong.

Library, Walks, and Rebus

Meanwhile, I’ve found my own rhythm in Upper Coomera — staying mostly with our son’s family. Every morning, my wife and I take our walk to the community centre, 1.5 kilometres away. It's our ritual. There, at the library, we meet people from all over the world — Chinese grandmothers, South African toddlers, European retirees. But strangely, never any Indians. Perhaps they are too busy coding, cleaning, or driving trucks.

As for me, the library is my temple. Books are my prayers.

The last one I read was The Final Curtain by Keigo Higashino — a subtle, suspenseful farewell. Now I’m engrossed in Midnight and Blue by Ian Rankin. I’ve always been a fan of Inspector Rebus — the only detective who can out-stubborn a Scotchman and out-think a whisky.

I often joke that books are keeping me alive — they engage the mind, stir the soul, and politely ignore my aging knees. While others count calories or steps, I count chapters.

Final Thoughts

Australia is a kaleidoscope of cultures — where dreams meet dustbins and destinies collide at coffee shops. Whether it’s Piyush the garbage collector or Mr. Gaddi’s son in IT, each has a story, a struggle, and a smile.

As for me, I’ll keep sipping my cappuccino, keep reading my books, and keep writing my thoughts — because as long as there are stories, life refuses to retire.

– S. N. Roy
Upper Coomera, July 2025

Chasing dreams Catching vibes

**A Rip Van Winkle in Australia: Juggling Time, Food, Grandkids, and Dreams with a Dash of Nostalgia**

When I touchdown in Australia to visit my son’s family, I slip into a peculiar state—a modern-day Rip Van Winkle, caught between time zones, cultures, and the whirlwind of my grandchildren’s antics. It’s a charming disarray, like waking up in a new era with Ameen Sayani’s voice still echoing in my ears. Life Down Under calls for flexibility, and I embrace it with a book in hand, a quirky vowel game, and Google Home as my nostalgic lifeline. Here’s how I navigate this Australian adventure, sprinkled with humor and a hearty dose of reminiscence.

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Food: Sadhguru’s Wisdom and Tasmanian Simplicity

The first challenge is food. In India, my kitchen hums with Bengali delights—ilish maach, cholar dal, and mishti that could seduce a monk. But in Australia, I channel Sadhguru’s advice: “Indians eat like it’s their final feast. One-third is plenty!” He’s not wrong. During a biting Tasmanian winter, I thrived on bread, butter, and eggs—a minimalist meal that felt like a culinary sonnet. So, I skip the craving for elaborate curries and settle for rustle-up fare: avocado toast, a quick pasta, or whatever my daughter-in-law tosses together. It’s freeing, like swapping a woolen shawl for a light summer scarf.

As Mark Twain quipped, “Too much of anything is bad, but too much of good whiskey is barely enough.” I’d say the same to food—too much weighs you down, but just enough leaves space for life’s sweeter moments.

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 Time: Books, Grandkids, and a Game of Vowels

If food fuels the body, time is my canvas. In Australia, managing it is the real task, but my books are a trusty ally. Reading is my time machine, making hours dissolve like sugar in tea. Reading is my time machine—whether it’s a tattered classic or a fresh thriller. But my immersion is often hijacked by Isha, my four-year-old granddaughter, a pint-sized attention seeker. With her impish smirk, she insists on “horsey” rides or tales of chatty kangaroos. I cave, because resisting a toddler tyrant is futile.

Then there’s Veer, my eight-year-old grandson, as restless as a cricket fan during a rain delay. To keep him occupied, I devised the Vowel Game. I throw him a letter—say, A—and he responds with a word containing two vowels, like “apple” or “aura.” I give him B, he fires back “bubble.” By Z, he’s tossing out “zebra” and “zombie” with the zeal of a quiz show champ. It’s a hoot, sharpening my English and his quick thinking. As Oscar Wilde noted, “Many lack the originality to lack originality.” Veer, bless him, is brimming with it.

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 Dreams and Drives: Bonding with Shuddy

And then there’s Shuddy, our eldest grandson, teetering on the brink of adulthood. At 17, he’s a dreamer with his eyes on the horizon, eager to slide behind the wheel of a jalopy he’s saving for with his weekend gig as a salesperson. Over cups of tea, he shares his ambitions—plans for uni, career ideas, and the thrill of owning his first car. I listen, marveling at his drive (pun intended), though I secretly worry about that jalopy’s reliability. “Shuddy,” I tease, “make sure it’s got more horsepower than my old bicycle back in Kharagpur!”

I try peeking into his iPad to grasp his school subjects, but it’s like deciphering an alien script. The education system has leapfrogged since my 1950s schooling—another Rip Van Winkle moment. Back then, calculus was the peak of academic peril; now, Shuddy’s juggling coding, AI ethics, and quantum something-or-other. I nod sagely, but it’s clear I’m out of my depth. Still, these chats with him are precious, a bridge between my past and his future. As Kahlil Gibran said, “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.” Shuddy’s longing is loud and clear, and I’m cheering him on.

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 Nostalgia: Ameen Sayani’s Timeless Spell

When jet lag or homesickness nudges me, and my brain flips between Indian and Australian clocks, I turn to Google Home, my digital djinn. “Play Binaca Geetmala by Ameen Sayani,” I command, and suddenly, the room glows with the golden voice of the legendary host, spinning Bollywood hits from the 1950s. It’s more than music—it’s a portal. I’m back in my school days, glued to the radio every Wednesday at 8 PM, soaking in Sayani’s charm.

The nostalgia peaks when I recall my IIT Kharagpur years (1960–65). My friend Y.C. Puri, the proud owner of a transistor in Patel Hall, was the Wednesday king. I’d invade his room, sprawl on his bed, and let Binaca Geetmala’s melodies—“Yeh Raat Bheegi Bheegi” or “Mera Joota Hai Japani”—carry me away. In Australia, I shut my eyes, and for a fleeting second, I’m that 20-year-old again, dreaming big in a hostel room. This is my Rip Van Winkle spell—waking in a new land, a new age, yet cradling the past. As Washington Irving wrote, “He had been sleeping for twenty years, and the world had changed around him.” My slumber is brief, but the shift feels just as profound.

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The Invisible Sphere: My Portable Sanctuary

Unlike some who seek out old friends or recreate Little Indias abroad, I don’t chase what was. I carry an invisible sphere—a cocoon of habits, memories, and joys that makes any place home. Books, the Vowel Game, Isha’s giggles, Veer’s wit, Shuddy’s dreams, and Ameen Sayani’s voice are all tucked inside. This sphere is my compass, proof that a change of geography doesn’t rattle the heart. Pico Iyer put it best: “We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves.” In Australia, I find myself in the familiar, even amid the new.

So here I am, a Bengali Rip Van Winkle, juggling time zones, grandkids, and nostalgia with a chuckle. Life in Australia is a whimsical ride, and I’m all in—whether it’s cheering Shuddy’s jalopy dreams, dodging Isha’s mischief, or outsmarting Veer at vowels. Now, if you’ll pardon me, Isha’s demanding a kangaroo tale, and Shuddy’s probably eyeing another car ad. Somewhere, Ameen Sayani waits to whisk me back to the 1960s.

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Footnote: Binaca Geetmala

Binaca Geetmala was an iconic Indian radio program broadcast on Radio Ceylon (later All India Radio) from 1952 to 1994, hosted by the legendary Ameen Sayani. Aired every Wednesday at 8 PM, it featured a countdown of the week’s top Bollywood songs, chosen based on record sales and listener requests. Sponsored by Binaca toothpaste, the show became a cultural touchstone, enchanting millions with Sayani’s warm, engaging style and hits like “Awara Hoon” (1951) and “Chaudhvin Ka Chand” (1960). At its zenith in the 1950s and 60s, it was a household ritual, uniting families around radios and shaping India’s musical legacy.

Sapner Boi

Sapner Boi 

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Sapner Boi

(Dream Book)

I was combing through College Street in the muggy March light of 2015, chasing a ghost—the first-edition set of Srikanta, all four parts, by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay.

My quest for old books has always had an air of pilgrimage. As a schoolboy, I had scoured the pavements of Ajmal Khan Road in Karol Bagh, sniffing out dusty treasures. Later, I rummaged through the bookstalls of Gariahat, and even Darjeeling, where musty cartons lay half-forgotten under the misty mountain sun. But College Street—Boi Para, the Mecca of books—that was different. Here, I was chasing both a title and a memory.

It was while turning away from a glossy modern bookstore that I saw it—tucked between a crumbling sweet shop and a digital Xerox centre: a faded stall with a hand-painted board that read: Sapner Boi.

“Dream Book,” I chuckled to myself. It looked anything but dreamy—old wooden shelves sagging under the weight of memory, cloth covers fraying at the edges, and a crooked umbrella keeping out the sun. But something pulled me in.

A bespectacled old man, white-haired and smiling, waved me over.
“Babu, ki khujchen?”

I told him about Srikanta.
He didn’t bother to check the stacks. “Nai,” he said calmly. “But wait…”

From a shelf behind him, he pulled out a treasure: a first edition of Devdas, also by Sarat Chandra. My breath caught. I ran my fingers along its faded cloth spine, the pages yellowed, the type faint.

“I’m Narayan Bose,” he said. “The stall’s mine. Since long before Café Coffee Day came to this lane.”
He gestured to a battered wooden stool. I sat, and stories poured.

I told him about my book-hunting adventures—Ajmal Khan, Gariahat, Darjeeling, even a long-lost Russian novel I’d once found in a tea shop. He laughed and said, “You must be waiting for a magic book to find you.”

Then, almost casually, he pointed to a stack of handmade graphic stories. The covers were plain, stitched with thread. Inside: hand-drawn comics—Tintin in unfamiliar territories, teamed with Feluda, no less. The drawings were meticulous, filled with Bengali wit and a child’s wonder.

“Not for sale,” he said firmly, almost protectively.

Just then, a little whirlwind swept in. A girl of about nine, with oversized spectacles, jeans, a bright yellow top, and a backpack weighed down with imagination. She pulled out a handmade graphic notebook and handed it to Narayan Babu.

“This is Mishka,” he said. “Bengali father, Malayali mother. Shifted from Bangalore recently. Walked in one morning and began sorting my books.”

She glanced up at me, curious but not shy. The notebook she’d brought was a graphic story based on Jayant and Manik, my own childhood favourites by Hemendra Kumar Roy. Her illustrations were detailed, humorous, alive.

“She shares these with kids in the nearby slum,” Narayan Babu added. “And when customers come with children, she keeps them busy with her books. She's... part of the shop now.”

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A Decade Later

In May 2025, I was back in College Street to visit my publisher, Abhijan, when I felt an urge—more instinct than intention—to revisit Sapner Boi.

The stall stood there still. The signboard had been repainted but retained its old-world charm. The familiar smell of old paper mingled with the scent of brewed coffee, drifting from a CCD dispenser neatly installed in the corner.

Narayan Bose sat like an aging banyan tree—frail, eyes watery, hands trembling but warm. He remembered me.

“Devdas, 2015,” he said, smiling.

And there stood Mishka, now a young woman—taller, confident, still wearing slightly oversized glasses. The stall had evolved under her care. A small chalkboard listed storytelling sessions every two hours. A few benches and cushions were scattered around, and subtle background music played softly—piano notes, gentle and emotive.

I stayed for the 2 PM session. Mishka began reading from A Gentleman in Moscow. Her voice was steady, lyrical—each sentence spoken like a musical note. As Count Rostov paced the corridors of the Metropol, Satie’s Gymnopédies floated in the background. She had paired the reading with music so perfectly, it felt like watching the novel unfold on an invisible stage.

When she finished, no one moved. The stillness said everything.

I left quietly but not empty-handed. I bought a copy of Keigo Higashino’s The Final Curtain from the shelf—a little something for the flight ahead.

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Epilogue

Before leaving for Australia, I had asked Samaranand to stay in touch with Narayan Babu—and, indirectly, with Mishka. I passed along a list of Bengali and English children’s books I wanted him to buy from Sapner Boi from time to time—ostensibly for the books, but really so that Samaranand could keep a gentle eye on her well-being through Babulal and Soumya.

In truth, I had grown fond of her—drawn by her spirit, her imagination, her strange, beautiful world of drawings and dreams.

During my last visit, Narayan Babu shared with quiet pride that Mishka was now studying English Literature, pursuing a B.A. Honours degree.

That little girl who once stitched together Tintin and Feluda in a notebook was now walking steadily into the world of letters—book by book, story by story.

And Sapner Boi, the Dream Book, continued to shelter them both!