Foot Notes to Power

---

After the Files

The Epstein files surfaced again that morning—names, counter-names, outrage neatly packaged for breakfast reading. By the time I reached the golf course, the scandal had already travelled ahead of me.

Someone mentioned it near the clubhouse. Someone else dismissed it as political theatre. The usual polarisation followed.

Rathore, my regular golf partner, said nothing until we had finished the round and settled down with tea. He had the habit of letting noise exhaust itself.

“You know,” he said finally, “people think the files created the sickness. They didn’t. They only confirmed it.”

I looked at him. “You sound unsurprised.”

“That’s because I’ve smelt it before,” he said. “Long before it had a name.”

---

“I was in Paris in 2002,” Rathore began, “when Epstein was alive but invisible. No files, no headlines. Just… arrangements.”

He spoke of a dinner with a senior multinational executive—Thomas, he called him. Polished, reasonable, persuasive in the way only people with nothing to fear can be.

“Over wine,” Rathore said, “he explained power without drama. According to him, the elite didn’t break laws. They designed lives where laws rarely intruded.”

Private retreats. Discreet hospitality. Guests who arrived without appearing to have travelled.

“At the time,” Rathore said, “I dismissed it as European arrogance.”

---

“Years later,” he continued, “on an early morning Indian Airlines flight to Delhi—Executive Class—I heard the same philosophy spoken again, though with a local accent.”

Somewhere over central India, the man beside him mentioned S.—just the initial.

“Everyone knows him,” the man said. “Even those who haven’t met him.”

S., Rathore was told, didn’t sell influence. He provided geography. Farmhouses scattered across the country, places where phones lost signal and explanations were unnecessary.

“In America,” the man said lightly, “they needed islands. In India, land was enough.”

By the time tea arrived, they were discussing cricket.

---

Rathore paused. “I saw the same pattern again near Gwalior.”

A respectable gathering. Professionals. No secrecy. Someone mentioned a piece of land outside the city.

“Neutral ground,” another said.

No one asked neutral for what.

“That’s when it became clear,” Rathore said. “This wasn’t about people. It was about design.”

---

Listening to him, my mind went back to Jeffrey Archer’s Clifton Chronicles, which I had read years earlier. There, manipulation moved effortlessly across continents, institutions, and generations. Decisions felt organic to those affected, but every outcome had been quietly positioned in advance. Nothing was illegal; nothing shouted; yet everything was engineered.

At the time, I had admired Archer’s craft while reassuring myself it was fiction.

Now, with Epstein files dominating headlines and Rathore’s recollections filling the gaps, Archer’s technique felt less imaginative and more observational.

“In Archer’s world,” I said, “manipulation didn’t shout. It arranged the room so the outcome was unavoidable.”

Rathore nodded. “Exactly. Power never pushes. It positions.”

---

The clubhouse hummed around us. Outside, the fairway lay calm and perfectly maintained, betraying no sign of the planning beneath it.

“When the Epstein files came out,” Rathore said quietly, “people were shocked by the names. They shouldn’t have been. Names are footnotes.”

He stood up, adjusted his cap.

“Files appear late,” he said. “Systems appear early. And by the time files are debated, the system has already relocated.”

As he walked away, I realised what had been troubling me all along.

The files were not revelations.

They were confirmations.

Like an Archer plot revealed in the final chapter, the outcome seemed shocking only to those who hadn’t noticed how carefully the stage had been set.

---

"A Spooky Night at The Chalet: Where Ghosts Sip Tea and Secrets Linger in the Mist! 🍵👻"

---

The December sun bathed Darjeeling’s mall in a golden glow, its warmth a fleeting shield against the Himalayan chill that crept into your bones. A few years back, I was wandering through the bustling heart of the town, sidestepping tea hawkers and selfie-snapping tourists, when I met Thapa, a retired professor from St. Joseph’s College. With his tweed jacket, salt-and-pepper beard, and eyes that sparkled with mischief, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a lecture on Himalayan mysticism. We settled on a bench, soaking in the view of Kanchenjunga’s snow-draped peaks, and got to chatting.

I mentioned Darjeeling’s reputation for ghost stories—tales of spectral British sahibs haunting colonial bungalows, restless monks wandering ancient monasteries, and the infamous “Gray Lady” of the old Victoria Hospital, said to drift through its abandoned corridors, searching for her lost child. Thapa chuckled, adjusting his glasses. “Hope you don’t think *I’m* one of those ghosts, lurking here to haunt unsuspecting tourists.”

I grinned and gave his arm a playful nudge. “Nope, you’re too solid for a specter. Ghosts don’t carry library cards, do they? Or do they haunt the overdue fines section?”

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed like a monastery gong. “In Darjeeling, the line between the living and the dead is thinner than a first flush tea leaf. If you’re chasing ghosts, meet me at The Chalet at 8 pm. It’s a tucked-away cafe on the winding road to the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute.”

I raised an eyebrow. “The Chalet? What’s the deal—haunted by spirits, or just hipsters in Halloween costumes year-round?”

Thapa’s smile turned cryptic, like he was sharing a secret with the mountains. “Oh, it’s a place where the past lingers like mist. Ever heard of the Lepcha legend of the ‘Shadow Walkers’? They say spirits of ancient traders roam these hills, guarding hidden treasures from the Silk Route days. Some claim The Chalet’s built on one of their old paths. Show up, and you’ll see. Bring a scarf—it gets chilly when the shadows dance.”

Intrigued and mildly spooked, I arrived at The Chalet that evening. The cafe was nestled on a lonely hillside, shrouded by towering pine trees that stood like silent sentinels, their needles whispering secrets to the night. The air carried the scent of woodsmoke and mystery, and the distant howl of a Himalayan wolf—or was it the wind?—sent a shiver down my spine. The exterior was deceptively charming, with ivy-clad walls and glowing lanterns, but stepping inside was like crossing into a gothic novel. Dim candlelight flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls, and the low, haunting strains of organ music—straight out of a Dracula soundtrack—filled the air. The patrons didn’t help: cloaked in dark coats, wide-brimmed hats, and masks that hid all but their glinting eyes, they looked like they’d wandered in from a masquerade for the undead. Were they locals sipping Darjeeling’s finest, or apparitions nursing spectral brews? The jury was out.

Thapa waved me over to a semi-dark corner table, where the light barely reached. “You made it,” he said, handing me a leather-bound menu that creaked like an old crypt door. “No chickening out now. The ghosts here don’t take kindly to cancellations.”

I slid into the seat, scanning the room. “This place is creepier than a fog-covered tea estate. Those folks over there—coats, hats, masks—look like they’re auditioning for a ghost convention. What’s the deal, Thapa? Are we in a cafe or a portal to the underworld?”

He leaned back, smirking. “In Darjeeling, my friend, every cafe is a potential portal. You know the local lore about the ‘Mist Wraiths’? They say when the fog rolls in thick, spirits of lost trekkers wander the hills, drawn to warm places like this. Those masks? Could be fashion, could be precaution. Ghosts hate being recognized—it ruins their mystique.”

Before I could retort, a lanky waiter glided over, his black uniform blending into the shadows. “Good evening, sirs. I’m Luther,” he said, his voice smooth as moonlight on a frozen lake. “Our special tonight is the ‘Wraith’s Whisper,’ a dessert so light it might float off your plate. What’ll it be?”

I smirked. “Wraith’s Whisper? Sounds like it’ll haunt my stomach. What if it possesses my fork?”

Luther’s eyes twinkled, but his face stayed deadpan. “Sir, our forks are blessed by a lama from Ghoom Monastery. No possession guaranteed, but if it tries, we’ll banish it to the kids’ menu.” Thapa roared with laughter, and I ordered a masala chai to calm my nerves, while he opted for a black coffee—“to match the vibe,” he quipped.

As we sipped, the manager, Sebastian, strolled over—a burly man with a mustache that could hide a yeti and a voice like gravel crunching under boots. “All good here, gentlemen? No spectral disturbances?”

Thapa grinned. “Sebastian, my friend here thinks your customers are straight out of a Lepcha ghost tale. Tell him—are those masks for style, or are we dining with the Shadow Walkers?”

Sebastian’s mustache twitched with amusement. “In The Chalet, we welcome everyone—living, dead, or just here for the Wi-Fi. But if you’re worried, try our ‘Yeti Toddy.’ It’ll warm your soul, even if it’s halfway to the afterlife.”

I played along. “Yeti Toddy? Does it come with a side of abominable snowman? I’m already wondering if I’m dining with humans or the cast of a haunted tea party.”

The banter flowed like the chai, but the atmosphere thickened when the music surged and a sudden gust from an open window rattled the lanterns. One of the masked figures at the bar turned slowly, its eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that froze my blood. My pulse quickened—was this a real ghost? A Shadow Walker, perhaps, guarding some ancient treasure buried beneath the cafe? I whispered to Thapa, “Professor, that one’s staring like I owe it money. Friendly spirit, or should I start chanting the names of tea estates to ward it off?”

Thapa whispered back, “Chanting tea names? Brilliant. Try ‘Margaret’s Hope, Temi, Castleton.’ Ghosts can’t resist a good Darjeeling blend—they’ll float off in embarrassment.”

Luther reappeared with our drinks, but as he set them down, his hand seemed to shimmer *through* the steam rising from my chai—or was it the dim light playing tricks? I blinked, and he smirked. “Just the fog, sir. It loves to mess with first-timers. Or maybe I’m just that ghostly fast.”

Sebastian joined in, chuckling. “Don’t mind Luther. Last month, a tourist swore he saw a spectral yak herder at the bar. Turned out it was just Mrs. Tamang in her new shawl, sipping momos and rum.”

The tension broke when the “ghost” at the bar unmasked, revealing a young local artist in costume for an Instagram photoshoot, her eyes glinting with laughter, not malice. No Shadow Walker, just Darjeeling’s quirky charm at work. But the near-miss had us all cackling. Thapa raised his cup. “To almost-ghosts and foggy frights! Better than meeting a real Mist Wraith—they’re terrible tippers.”

I clinked my chai against his coffee. “And to Thapa, the professor who drags innocents into haunted cafes. Next time, warn me if the menu includes ‘spectral samosas’ or a side of Lepcha curses.”

Luther chimed in, balancing a tray with eerie grace. “No curses here, sir, unless you count our spicy chutney. That’ll haunt you till dawn.”

Sebastian clapped me on the shoulder. “Come back tomorrow. We’re hosting a ‘Ghosts of Darjeeling’ storytelling night. You might hear about the Phantom Rickshaw of Chowrasta or the Singing Monk of Observatory Hill. Bring your friend—he’s got a knack for spotting spirits.”

As we stepped out into the starry night, the pine trees rustling like they were applauding our survival, I felt the thrill of a memorable adventure. The Chalet hadn’t been truly haunted, but between the foggy folklore, the masked patrons, and Thapa’s wicked wit, it was the closest I’d come to dining with Darjeeling’s legendary spirits. The town’s tales—of Shadow Walkers, Mist Wraiths, and ghostly sahibs—lingered in my mind, as did the warmth of that chai and the laughter that echoed louder than any ghostly moan. I turned to Thapa. “Next time, professor, I’m picking the cafe. Somewhere with less... otherworldly ambiance.”

He winked. “Good luck. In Darjeeling, even the tea leaves have ghosts.”

বাংলা 1 লেট নাইট শো

**বাংলা১ লেট-নাইট শো: “রাতের সঙ্গী” – নন্তুর সঙ্গে** 

*(রাত ১২টা থেকে ভোর ৩টে – কলকাতা, ১৪ ডিসেম্বর ২০২৫)*

*[স্টুডিওর মৃদু আলো। জানালার বাইরে হুগলি হলদে আলোয় ঝিকমিক করছে। দূরে এসপ্ল্যানেডের কাছে শেষ ট্রামের টুংটাং শোনা যাচ্ছে। শো শুরু হয় রবীন্দ্রসংগীতের মৃদু সুরে…]*

**নন্তু** (গভীর, মখমলের মতো গলা, ধীরে, প্রায় ফিসফিস করে):  

আকাশ ভরা সূর্য-তারা…  

গুড ইভনিং, কলকাতা। এটা তোমাদের নন্তু, বাংলা১-এর রাতের সঙ্গী। রাত অনেক হয়ে গেছে, ট্রামের শেষ ঘণ্টাও বেজে গেছে, কিন্তু তোমরা জেগে আছ। আমার সঙ্গে জেগে থাকো।  

আজ রাতে আমরা একসঙ্গে মোমোর  খেয়ে, বিরিয়ানির গন্ধ নিয়ে, রোল চিবিয়ে… আর সল্ট লেক স্টেডিয়ামে মেসিকে ঠিকঠাক দেখতে না পাওয়ার এই কালেক্টিভ হার্টব্রেক নিয়ে কথা বলব।  

ফোন লাইন খোলা আছে। ডায়াল করো। কী বলবে?  

*[সুর মিলিয়ে যায় নীরবতায়। প্রথম কলার আসে।]*

**কলার ১ – রাজু, সুইগি ডেলিভারি বয়** (হাঁপাচ্ছে একটু, পেছনে বাইকের ইঞ্জিনের শব্দ):  

দাদা, লাস্ট ডেলিভারি শেষ করে এলাম কলেজ স্ট্রিটে। একটা চিকেন বিরিয়ানি এসপ্ল্যানেড থেকে পার্ক সার্কাস… এখন রাত দুটো, পেটে ছুটছুট আওয়াজ করছে।  

**নন্তু** (মৃদু হেসে):  

আরে রাজু ভাই, বিরিয়ানি ডেলিভার করে নিজে বিরিয়ানি খাসনি? এটা তো অন্যায়!  

বলো, আজ রাতের মুড কী? ফুটবল নিয়ে দুঃখ, না সল্ট লেকের বিশৃঙ্খলা নিয়ে ফ্রাস্ট্রেশন?  

**রাজু**:  

দাদা, মেসি… সল্ট লেকে এসে গেল, কিন্তু আমরা ঠিকঠাক দেখতেই পেলাম না। বাইরে দাঁড়িয়ে হ্যাশট্যাগ দিয়ে মরছি, আর ভিতরের লোকেরাও বোতল ছুঁড়ছে।  

**নন্তু**:  

হ্যাঁ রে, পুরো কলকাতা একটা কালেক্টিভ হার্টব্রেকে ডুবে গেছে – আবার একবার। কিন্তু জানিস রাজু, মেসি চলে গেছে, কিন্তু তোদের মতো ডেলিভারি বয়রা রাতের কলকাতাকে বাঁচিয়ে রেখেছে। তুই হিরো।  

শোন, তোর জন্য একটা গান… প্রতি রাতে বাইকে ১০০ মাইল দৌড়নোর জন্য।  

*[বাজে: “100 Miles” – ইংরেজি গান, সফট রক ভাইব]*  

**নন্তু** (গানের পর):  

রাজু, এখন বিরিয়ানি খেয়ে ঘুমিয়ে পড়। ডেলিভারি শেষ, রাত শেষ না… কিন্তু তোর শিফট শেষ। গুড নাইট, হিরো।  

*[পরের কলার]*

**কলার ২ – রিনা, বেহালার গৃহিণী** (গলা কাঁপা, রাগী ফিসফিস):  

নন্তু-দা, ও আবার ড্রিঙ্ক করে বেরিয়ে গেছে। রোজকার রোজকার… এখন রাত তিনটে, ঘরে নেই। বাচ্চারা ঘুমিয়ে গেছে, আমি এখানেই বসে আছি।  

**নন্তু** (গলা আরও নরম, কাউন্সেলর মোড):  

রিনা দি, শান্ত হয়ে বসো। শ্বাস নাও… শ্বাস ছাড়ো।  

জানো, কলকাতার অনেক মেয়েরা রাতে রেডিও শুনে শোয়। তুমি একা নও।  

ও যাবে, এসে পড়বে, কাল সকালে হ্যাঙ্গওভার নিয়ে মাফ মাগবে… আর তুমি অপেক্ষা করবে, কারণ তুমি বড়ো মনের।  

একটা পুরোনো গান শোনো… বেলা বয়ে যায়, যদি ও না আসে…  

*[বাজে: “বেলা বোস” – অঞ্জন দত্তের গান, নস্টালজিক, খুব কলকাতা]*  

**নন্তু**:  

রিনা দি, কাল ও আসবে। আর না এলেও… তুমি স্ট্রং। যখন ইচ্ছে কল করো।  

*[মাঝে মুড বজায় রাখতে]*  

**নন্তু**:  

কলকাতা, রাতের এই শান্তিতে এখন একটা গান যে আমার গানের স্বরলিপি লেখে… হেমন্ত-দার গলায়। শোনো, এই রাতটাকে আরও সুন্দর করে।  

*[বাজে: “আমার গানের স্বরলিপি” – হেমন্ত মুখোপাধ্যায়ের আত্মিক বাংলা ক্লাসিক]*  

*[পরের কলার – ক্লাস টেনের মেয়ে, গলা কাঁপছে]*

**কলার ৩ – প্রিয়া**:  

নন্তু-দা… বাবা-মা ফোন দেবে না বলে… আমি আজ… অনেক কিছু ভেবে ফেলেছিলাম…  

**নন্তু** (গলা আরও নীচু, জরুরি কিন্তু শান্ত):  

প্রিয়া, শোন। ফোনটা একটা মেশিন। তুমি একটা জীবন।  

বাবা-মা তোমাকে ভালোবাসে, ওদের ভয় হয় তোমাকে ইন্টারনেটের হাত থেকে বাঁচাতে।  

তুমি খুব ইম্পর্ট্যান্ট। এই রাতটা পার করে দাও… কাল স্কুলে যাও, বন্ধুদের সঙ্গে কথা বলো, আমার শো শোনো।  

লাইফ অনেক বড়ো, ফোন ছোটো। প্রমিস করো এখন ঘুমোতে যাবে?  

**প্রিয়া** (নাক টানছে):  

প্রমিস…  

**নন্তু**:  

গুড গার্ল। এই গানটা শোনো… আর মনে রেখো, তুমি তোমার উপায়েই জিতবে।  

*[বাজে: ফ্র্যাঙ্ক সিনাত্রা – “My Way”]*  

**নন্তু** (গানের পর):  

প্রিয়া, তুমি তোমার উপায়েই জিতবে। যখন ইচ্ছে কল করো।  

*[পরের কলার – চিন্তিত ভোটার]*  

**কলার ৪ – বিশ্বনাথ, সল্ট লেকের মধ্যবয়সি ভদ্রলোক** (উদ্বিগ্ন, তাড়াহুড়ো গলা):  

নন্তু-দা, ভোটের লিস্টে আমার নাম থাকবে কি? এই এসআইআর-এর জন্য সব কনফিউশন… ডকুমেন্ট জমা দিয়েছি, কিন্তু ভয় লাগছে, ইলেকশন আসছে, নাম না থাকলে কী হবে?  

**নন্তু** (শান্ত, আশ্বস্ত করে, কাউন্সেলর ভাইব):  

বিশ্বনাথ-দা, শান্ত। এসআইআর-এর এই গোলমালে অনেকেই টেনশনে আছে, কিন্তু তোমার নাম থাকবে। অনলাইনে ইলেকশন কমিশনের সাইটে চেক করো, না হলে লোকাল বুথে যাও।  

এই শহরে আমরা সবাই এক, ভোটের অধিকার কেউ হারাবে না। রিল্যাক্স, এক কাপ চা খাও, আর এই গান শোনো… আগর মুঝসে মোহাব্বত হ্যায়, তাহলে টেনশনকে দূর করো।  

*[বাজে: “আগর মুঝসে মোহাব্বত হ্যায়” – আপকি পরছাইয়াঁ ছবির রোমান্টিক হিন্দি ওল্ডি, একটু রসিকতার ছোঁয়া নিয়ে]*  

**নন্তু**:  

বিশ্বনাথ-দা, কাল চেক করো। সব ঠিক হয়ে যাবে। গুড নাইট।  

*[শেষ কলার – ১২ বছরের আরজুন, ভয়ে ভয়ে]*

**আরজুন**:  

নন্তু আঙ্কল… মা-বাবাকে পুলিশ বলেছে ডিজিটাল অ্যারেস্ট… ওদের ফোনে কিছু ফ্রড বলেছে, ব্যাঙ্ক অ্যাকাউন্ট খালি হয়ে যাবে বলে… আমি কী করব?  

**নন্তু** (দৃঢ় কিন্তু ভালোবেসে):  

আরজুন, সাবধানে শোন। এটা স্ক্যাম। পুলিশ কখনো ফোনে ডিজিটাল অ্যারেস্ট করে না।  

তুমি এখন মা-বাবাকে বলো ফোনটা অফ করে দিতে। কোনো লিঙ্ক ক্লিক করবে না, কোনো ইউপিআই পিন দেবে না।  

কাল সকালে কাছের থানায় যাও, কমপ্লেন করো।  

তুমি খুব স্মার্ট বাচ্চা… এই সময় তুমিই ওদের হিরো।  

একটা রোমান্টিক পুরোনো গান শোনো… জানো, লাইফে অনেক সন্ধে অদ্ভুত হয়, কিন্তু সব ঠিক হয়ে যায়।  

*[বাজে: “ইয়ে শাম মাস্তানি” – একটু রসিক হিন্দি ক্লাসিক ভাইব দিয়ে মুড হালকা করতে]*  

**নন্তু** (গানের পর):  

আরজুন, হিরো, এখন ঘুমিয়ে পড়। কাল সব সর্ট হয়ে যাবে।  

*[আরেকজন কলার ঢোকার চেষ্টা করে]*  

**কলার ৫ – অজ্ঞাতনামা রাজনৈতিক উৎসাহী** (উত্তেজিত, র‍্যান্ট করছে):  

নন্তু-দা, এই সরকারটা… সব দুর্নীতি, মেসির ঘটনাটাও রাজনৈতিক ষড়যন্ত্র, আর এই এসআইআর বা এনআরসি-র জন্য পুরো বাংলায়—  

**নন্তু** (মসৃণভাবে কেটে দিয়ে, হাসি মিশিয়ে):  

আরে ভাই, রাতের এই শান্তিতে পলিটিক্স না। এই শোটা লাভ, লাইফ আর কলকাতার রোল-বিরিয়ানি নিয়ে। তোমার জন্য একটা গান যে সব কথাকে ওয়ার্ডসে বাঁধে… কিন্তু পলিটিক্স নয়, প্লিজ!  

*[বাজে: “Words” – বিজিসের গান, শান্ত ইংরেজি ট্র্যাক দিয়ে টেনশন কমাতে]*  

**নন্তু**:  

দেখো, কথা সারিয়ে দিতে পারে বা আঘাত করতে পারে… সাবধানে বেছে নাও। কলার, পরের বার পার্সোনাল গল্প বলো।  

*[শো শেষ করতে, গলা উষ্ণ, বহুভাষিক]*  

কলকাতা, রাত অনেক হয়ে গেছে – আজ তো সল্ট লেকের বিশৃঙ্খলার পরেও। কেউ মোগলাই পরোটা খেয়ে ঘুমোতে যাচ্ছে, কেউ উত্তম-সুচিত্রার “সপ্তপদী” আবার দেখতে বসবে।  

তোমরা জেগে থাকো, কারণ এই শহর রাতেই বেঁচে থাকে। ইনসমনিয়াকরা, আমার সঙ্গে থাকো।  

কাল আবার মিডনাইটে দেখা হবে – আশা করি কম বিশৃঙ্খলা নিয়ে। এখন… শুভ রাত্রি, শুভ রাত্রি, গুড নাইট।  

আকাশ ভরা সূর্য-তারা… আবার শুরু হবে।  

*[আউট্রো: “আকাশ ভরা সূর্য-তারা”র ইন্সট্রুমেন্টাল ফেড, দূরে রাতের ফুচকা ঠেলার ঘণ্টির শব্দ মিশিয়ে]*

Midnight masala with Sandy

---

🌙 “Midnight Masala With Sandy” — Private FM Delhi

Time: 12:05 AM – 2:00 AM

Host: RJ Sandy

Station Tagline: “Dilli ke raat ke saath… hum bhi jaagte hain!”

---

🎙️ Opening Monologue

“Good eveniiiiing Dilli!

Yeh hai aapka dost… aapka padosi… aur thoda sa nautanki… Sandy!

Aur aap sun rahe ho Midnight Masala, jahan raat bhi jawaan hai… aur main bhi!”

“Abhi clock ne bajaya 12… aur iss waqt Dilli teen categories mein divided hoti hai:

1️⃣ Jo so rahe hain…

2️⃣ Jo so nahi paa rahe…

3️⃣ Aur jo so nahi chaaahte… like me… kyunki paisa tabhi milta hai jab main mic par bolta rehna hoon!”

“Chaliye… raat ki shuruaat ek old-school English beauty se karte hain… Elton John ka ‘Sacrifice’.

Stay tuned, don’t go anywhere… warna main aapke sapnon mein aa jaunga!”

🎶 SONG 1: Elton John – Sacrifice

---

☎️ Caller 1 — The Night-Shift Nurse

Sandy: “Aur ab hamare saath line par hain… Sister Neha from Safdarjung Hospital. Neha, kya haal-chaal?

Aap log hamare asli heroes ho!”

Neha (tired voice): “Bas Sandy… 14-hour shift hoyi… teen emergency cases aa gaye.”

Sandy: “Neha, aapko salute! Aaj ke liye aapka dedication… ‘Zindagi ki yahi reet hai’—from Mr. India.”

🎶 SONG 2: Zindagi Ki Yahi Reet Hai – Mr. India

Before the song ends Sandy cuts in smoothly:

“14 ghante duty? Agar main karta toh show mein soota milta! But Neha… you rock.”

---

☎️ Caller 2 — The Insomniac Philosopher

Sandy: “Agla call… oh ho… hamare regular caller ‘Shakespeare Sharma’!

Sharma ji, iss waqt aap kya soch rahe?”

Sharma: “Sandy beta… zindagi ki meaning batado?”

Sandy: “Sir, agar mujhe meaning pata hota… toh main FM RJ nahi… TED Talk speaker hota!

Chaliye, aapke liye ek soulful track bajata hoon.”

🎶 SONG 3: ‘Fix You’ – Coldplay

---

☎️ Caller 3 — The Restless Auto Driver

Sandy: “Line pe hain Mukesh bhaiya, CP se! Bhaiya auto chala rahe ho is waqt?”

Mukesh: “Haan Sandy bhai… ek chakka utha ke laaya hoon Gurgaon se. Ab thoda music chahiye.”

Sandy: “Lo bhai… aapke auto ki headlight se zyada bright gaana:

‘Khaike Paan Banaras Wala’!”

🎶 SONG 4: Khaike Paan Banaras Wala – Don

---

☎️ Caller 4 — The Suspiciously Nervous Man

(A thief)

Sandy: “Hello caller! Naam bataoge?”

Caller (whispering): “Naam mat puchho… bas gaana bajao… ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’…”

Sandy: “Arre bhai… itni raat ko kya kar rahe ho?”

Caller: “Bas… kaam par jaa raha hoon…”

Sandy: “Kaisa kaam?”

Caller: “Mat puchho!”

Sandy: “Theek hai… naam nhi batate… kaam nhi batate… par gaana suno.

Just don’t commit anything illegal before the chorus. Police bhi sun rahi hoti hai kabhi-kabhi!”

🎶 SONG 5: Don’t Stop Me Now – Queen

Sandy fades in laughing:

“Bas bhai… agar kuch ulta-seedha karne ja rahe ho… toh mera naam mat lena!”

---

☎️ Caller 5 — The Final, Sensitive One (possible suicidal mood)

Sandy switches tone: gentle, empathetic.

Sandy: “Hello… this is Sandy. Aap kaun bol rahe ho?”

Caller (sad male voice): “Sandy… I don’t know if I should continue… everything is useless…”

Sandy pauses, soft voice:

Sandy:

“Dost, ruko. Deep breath.

Raat lambi hai… aur mushkil bhi.

Lekin ek RJ ka phone line kabhi band nahi hota.

Tum bolte raho… main yahin hoon

Caller sobs about job loss, loneliness.

Sandy:

“Sun… ek gaana bajata hoon. Tum phone mat rakho.

After the song, we talk again… okay?”

🎶 SONG 6: ‘Chalo Ek Baar Phir Se Ajnabi’ – Talat Mahmood

After the song:

Sandy:

“Dost… duniya me koi raat itni andheri nahi hoti jisme subah naa ho.

Tum mujhe paraya mat samajhna.

Hum sab kabhi-kabhi toot jaate hain.

Par radio is for keeping you company… till the sun rises.”

They continue talking (off-air).

---

🎙️ Closing Monologue

“Dilli… it’s 1:55 AM.

Main hoon Sandy… aur yeh thi Midnight Masala.

Aaj ki raat ne sabko dikhaya:

Koi beedi pee raha, koi auto chala raha, koi hospital me jaan bacha raha…

Aur koi sirf zinda rehne ki koshish kar raha.

Music un sabka saath hai.

Main kal phir aaunga… tab tak…”

🎶 SONG 7: ‘Sweet Child O' Mine’ – Guns N’ Roses

“Good night Dilli… stay kind… stay alive.”

---

---

🌙 EPISODE 2 — “The Robber, The Radio, And The Ridiculous Night”

From the series: Midnight Masala With Sandy

The night after his emotional roller-coaster show, Sandy comes back to the FM station at 11:40 PM, clutching his favourite plastic cup of vending-machine cappuccino (which tastes like wet cardboard but keeps him awake).

He enters Studio 3 and the technician Ravi whispers:

“Bhai… raat ko ek ajeeb banda phone kiya tha… ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ wala. Lagta hai kuch gadbad tha.”

Sandy laughs:

“Arey aise log roz aate hain yaar… Dilli ka late-night clientele. Insomniac philosopher, heartbroken lover, night-shift nurse, aur beech mein koi petty thief. It’s part of the charm!”

🎙️ ON AIR — 12:03 AM

Sandy starts the show:

“Good night, Dilli! Aaj raat ka episode… thoda thanda, thoda garam, thoda masaledaar! Let’s open with ‘Hawa Hawai’ from Mr. India!”

The phones start lighting up like Diwali.

He takes one call, then another… and then…

Line 4 flashes.

The same number from last night.

The “nervous thief.”

Sandy smirks and picks up.

---

☎️ Caller: The Nervous Robber Returns

Sandy: “Hello caller… aapki saanson ki gati dekh kar lagta hai… ya toh aap ne marathon daudi… ya kuch aur.”

Caller (whisper whisper):

“Sandy bhai… main phir bol raha hoon…”

Sandy: “Waah! Delhi ka Robin Hood is back! Kal kya kara? Bank loot liya?”

Caller:

“Nahin bhai nahin! Main abhi mission par hoon… aur ek request hai… please aaj ‘Eye of the Tiger’ bajaa do. Motivation chahiye.”

Sandy can’t stop laughing.

He lowers his voice theatrically:

“Bhai… honestly… agar chor bhi motivation ke liye FM sunte hain… toh hamara TRP khatarnak hai.”

Caller (still nervous):

“Sandy bhai… bas bajaa do… main thoda darr gaya hoon.”

Sandy:

“Haan bajata hoon… but ek baat batao… last time kya kaam karne jaa rahe the?”

Caller:

“Bhai… sach bolun? Main chor nahin hoon…”

Sandy: “Toh?”

Caller:

“Main… learner chor hoon.”

Sandy: “WHAT? Apprentice chor?”

Caller:

“Haan bhai… training chal rahi hai! Aaj pehla assignment hai. Ek kirane ki dukaan se cash drawer uthana… bas… chhota kaam hai… 2-minute ka.”

Sandy chokes on his coffee.

He plays the song anyway — because station guidelines say “Never break character on-air” — and the moment the mic is off, he bends double laughing.

---

🎶 SONG BREAK: Eye of the Tiger – Survivor

---

🕐 1:15 AM — Off-Air Twist

After a commercial break, Sandy walks out to the vending machine to get water.

As he turns the corner of the parking lot…

A man jumps out of the dark.

Black hoodie.

Mask hanging on one ear.

Mobile in hand.

The SAME VOICE says:

“Sandy bhai?”

Sandy freezes.

“TU?!”

The man looks exactly like a nervous mosquito.

Skinny, jumpy, eyes like he hasn’t slept since demonetisation.

Robber:

“Bhai, main hi hoon. Aap se live advice leni thi… radio pe nahi bol sakta tha.”

Sandy:

“Bhai… tu radio pe tu robbery ka consultancy le raha hai… and now you’re here in person?! Security!”

The robber waves frantically.

“Nahin bhai… main chor type ka banda hoon hi nahin! Mujhe actually chor ban’na hi nahi tha!”

Sandy rubs his forehead:

“Then why the hell did you choose THIS career path?”

The man blurts:

“Bhai… main BCom fail ho gaya… call center mein bolne ka talent nahi… girlfriend ne bola ‘Tu kuch dhamakedaar kar’… toh main scripts dekh raha tha… chor character bada stylish lagta hai! But real life… haal kharab!”

Sandy starts laughing so hard he holds his stomach.

“Bhai… film mein Ranveer Singh chor hota hai, tu nahi. Tu toh ‘training wheels’ waala chor lagta hai!”

The robber looks embarrassed.

“Bhai… ek problem solve kar do.

Mera trainer, Vimal Cargo, waiting in that alley. He told me: ‘Jaa, store loot ke aa.’

But main darr raha hoon. Kya karoon?”

Sandy becomes philosophical.

“Dekh bhai… agar tujhe chor banna hota, tu mujhe phone nahi karta. Chor raat ko FM nahi sunte.

Unke paas apna playlist hota hai — ‘Jab se tere naina’ and ‘Jai Ho’.

You’re not a criminal. You’re just unemployed.”

The robber nods miserably.

---

🎭 THE CLIMAX — SANDY THE SAVIOUR

Sandy grabs his arm.

“Chal, tujhe ek kaam deta hoon.”

“FM station mein housekeeping ka vacancy hai. Raat ki shift. Paisa kam, crime zero.”

The robber’s eyes shine.

“Sach? Job mil jayegi?”

Sandy: “Haan. Bas training chor ki chhod de.”

At that moment, the trainer Vimal Cargo arrives — a bulky man with gutka-stained teeth.

“Arrey… isko kya sikhaya re Sandy?!”

Sandy folds his arms.

“Vimal bhai… isko HR department de diya. Ab ye radio station ka employee hai.

Agar aap usko disturb kiya… toh kal subah police wala Sharma ji ko main khud phone karunga.”

Vimal Cargo mutters curses and disappears into the darkness.

The robber looks at Sandy like he’s God.

“Bhai… main aapko life bhar ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ dedicate karunga.”

Sandy pats his shoulder.

“Chal… jaa job join kar. Aur haan… aaj ki raat ka gaana tere naam…”

---

🎙️ BACK ON AIR — 1:40 AM

Sandy (on air):

“Dilli… kabhi-kabhi life weird logon ko aapke raste mein bhej deti hai…

Par agar aap thoda sa waqt de do… toh sab theek ho sakta hai.

Aaj ka gaana… sab ‘lost but not bad’ logon ke liye.”

🎶 SONG: “It’s My Life” – Bon Jovi

---

🌅 END OF EPISODE 2

Sandy signs off at 2:00 AM, walks out of the studio…

…and sees the nervous ex-robber sweeping the office corridor, humming “Jai Jai Shivshankar.”

Sandy smiles.

“Welcome to honest work, brother.”

---

The Magnet of Misery

The Magnet of Misery

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

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

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

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

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

Vinod sat, sweating.

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

“Hold this.”

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

“Shh. Close fist. Feel the pull.”

Vinod closed his fist. “Nothing is pulling.”

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

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

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

Vinod left, slightly confused but lighter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arjun panicked. “No magnet? No plant?”

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

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

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

“Whose photos are these?” Arjun asked.

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

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

“Baba, I have stopped overthinking.”

“Good!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baba offered her tea in the Best Employee 1998 glass.

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

The journalist smiled. “So placebo?”

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

She asked for a magnet to take home.

Baba gave her the obscene dancing Shiva one.

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

She laughed all the way back to London.

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

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

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

A leaaf from a diary

I came across this short story written in blank verse!

The doorbell hums, a single lazy bee.  

I open—there stands a man of thirty-five  

or so, tall, smiling like an old refrain  

I almost know. His face is half a ghost  

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

they tug at memory, then slip the hook.  

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

the word a warm coin pressed into my palm.  

I stare, ashamed. These sixty years of postings—  

Ambala, Tezpur, Wellington, Surat—  

have strewn my mind with faces like confetti  

after parades long over. North, South, East,  

West: I have shaken hands in every dust  

and every rain this country owns. Somewhere  

among those thousands, surely, is his father.  

I smile the helpless smile of the forgetful,  

usher in this polite familiar stranger.  

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

whose springs still sigh for friends who never age.  

The maid is summoned; tea will come anon.  

He sets a box upon the table—mithai,  

bright as festival, wrapped in silver hope.  

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

you have the sweet tooth of a twenty-five  

year captain who could finish half a kilo  

and ask for more.”  

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

Diabetes now polices every spoon.  

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

it tries to kill me with affection.”  

He laughs, and for an instant I almost catch  

the name that dances just behind his teeth.  

Almost. The moment slips, like railway platforms  

sliding past the window of an express  

I boarded long ago and can’t get off.  

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

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

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

while in my skull a thousand ghostly uncles  

lean forward, straining to remember him  

for me. They fail.  

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

Next time I’ll bring namkeen.”  

I touch his shoulder—warm, substantial, real—  

and feel the small sharp sorrow of the old:  

to be a crowded album no one opens  

quite the right way anymore.  

He leaves. The box of sweets remains, unopened,  

a polite assassin on the table.  

I sit alone, tasting the bitter tea  

of being loved by people I’ve forgotten  

and forgetting those who still remember me.