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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