Sidhu, the Bengali Robot

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?”

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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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