The Great Indian School Hunt

The Great Indian School Hunt: A Father, a Son and Eight Schools

There is a great deal of discussion these days about the condition of government schools in India. Before I join the chorus, let me make one thing clear: I myself am a product of a government-aided school in Delhi.

It was certainly not a modern school by today's standards. No smart classrooms, no air-conditioned laboratories, no fancy gadgets—probably not even a smartboard in anyone's wildest imagination! But the teachers were sincere. They came to school, taught their subjects and, most importantly, did their job faithfully.

And somehow, I survived the system and eventually passed out of IIT Kharagpur!

My son Anish had a rather more adventurous education. Because of my transferable job in BHEL and my involvement in power-station project execution, he changed schools eight times!

You could say he had a pan-India education without ever applying for admission to a pan-India school.

The first stop — Singrauli

After completing Kindergarten at St. Cathedral in Delhi, I was transferred to Singrauli Super Thermal Power Station. I put Anish in St. Joseph's School in the township.

During admission, the principal, a padre, interviewed Anish in English. Fortunately, the boy could answer him reasonably well.

Then came another father with his son. The principal asked him what he did.

The man proudly replied that he was a shovel operator in the coal mines adjoining the power plant.

The principal then asked, "Do you speak English at home?"

The gentleman replied, rather proudly, "Na ji, na."

I liked that school immediately. Here was a school where the son of a shovel operator could aspire to study alongside the children of engineers and officers. The father could afford the fees and, more importantly, he wanted his son to get a good education.

Anish studied there till Class II.

Back to Delhi — and the Bengali problem

Then came another transfer to Delhi.

My first choice was Kendriya Vidyalaya. No admission.

I tried another English-medium school near the Western Extension Area. Again, no admission.

By then I had taken a small flat in West Patel Nagar, close to my parents, who were living in WEA after my father had retired and had to vacate the government accommodation at Wilson Square, Gole Market.

I had run out of options.

So I did something that every Indian father understands perfectly well.

I used my influence!

I approached my old school, Raisina Bengali Higher Secondary School at Gole Market. The principal, a former Army man, kindly agreed to admit Anish.

There was, however, one small problem.

Anish didn't know Bengali.

The principal looked at me and said, "He will have to learn Bengali during the summer vacation because he will be entering Class IV."

Luckily, Mrs Gupta, who had taught me years earlier, was still living near our house. I approached her.

"Madam, I have a small problem."

She probably knew what was coming.

She agreed to teach Anish Bengali.

And somehow Anish sailed from Class III into Class IV and even managed to pass Bengali!

My son was now becoming a linguist by force rather than by choice.

Wanakbori — the English-medium school

I stayed in Delhi for about a year and was then transferred to Wanakbori in Gujarat in 1985.

There was an English-medium school at Shivalia where most of the children of my BHEL colleagues studied. I took Anish there.

The infrastructure looked good. But I had one doubt.

I discovered that many of the teachers were wives of my BHEL colleagues.

The principal sensed my hesitation.

He called a boy.

"This is Indranil. You can speak to him in English."

Indranil spoke excellent English. Smart boy, confident, fluent.

I was impressed.

Admission done!

Later I discovered that there were about twenty students in the class, but only five had literate parents. The rest were children of labourers.

Then I became friendly with Mr Purkayastha, the project manager of the coal-handling plant supplied by MAMC. One day we visited his quarter.

And there was Indranil!

I told his wife about my impressive encounter with Indranil during admission.

She burst out laughing.

"The principal does that with every new parent!"

It turned out that Indranil had arrived in Wanakbori only a year earlier and had learnt English in his previous school.

So much for my scientific assessment of the school's English standard!

I also became uncomfortable because most of the teachers were wives of my junior colleagues. I felt they might be giving Anish marks with a little extra generosity.

A father's suspicion is sometimes more powerful than an examination result.

Baroda — boarding school at last

I decided to look for a better school in Baroda.

I visited Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan. They had a hostel, and the principal understood my predicament. He admitted Anish directly to the next class.

For the next two years, Anish stayed in the hostel.

It was a massive school and, in my opinion, one of the best in Baroda at that time. There were four football fields, and playing after lunch was compulsory.

Now that was education!

Anish made friends with children of well-known artists and businessmen. Life in the hostel gave him a completely different exposure.

But something else happened there which, at the time, seemed like a minor matter.

The computer arrives quietly

In 1986, Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan started an additional computer class for students who were interested. It was not part of the regular curriculum and required an extra fee.

I paid the fee and put Anish into the class.

That was the beginning of his tryst with computers.

During our Vizag days, I continued this by making him attend the summer computer classes conducted by APTECH.

So, while I was busy running around looking for schools, admission, languages and suitable teachers, his computer skills were quietly being sharpened in the background.

The irony is that I had absolutely no idea what was coming!

This was the mid-1980s. The IT revolution was still largely invisible to people like me. Computers were simply something interesting and useful for a child to learn.

I certainly did not imagine that computers would transform the world by the late 1990s and beyond.

So, quite unknowingly, I had put Anish on a road that would eventually become his career.

Vizag — three languages strike again!

In 1988, I was transferred from BHEL to Vizag Steel Plant.

Naturally, the school hunt started all over again.

I first took Anish to DAV School at Ukkunagaram, the township of Vizag Steel Plant.

At the same time, I was trying to get him into Kendriya Vidyalaya.

After some effort—and, I confess, with the help of the CMD of the Steel Plant—I managed to get him admitted to KV.

But the famous three-language formula now entered our lives.

Anish was comfortable with English and Hindi. The third language had to be either Telugu or Sanskrit.

I decided that Sanskrit was the lesser of the two evils.

Then came the next question:

Who would teach him Sanskrit?

I could teach him most subjects, but the Sanskrit I had studied at school was hardly enough to prepare him for his class.

Fortunately, my neighbour Mr Bandopadhyay came to the rescue. His father had been a Sanskrit pandit.

And so Anish's education continued—with a rotating cast of English teachers, Bengali teachers, Sanskrit teachers, hostel wardens and, of course, his permanently available father-tutor!

Farakka — finally, some stability

In December 1991, I was transferred to Farakka, just when Anish was preparing for his Class X Board examination.

Luckily, Farakka had a Kendriya Vidyalaya.

He joined there, completed his schooling and finally passed both his Class X Board examination and Higher Secondary.

At last! No more school hunting.

I think I was more relieved than he was.

And the computer class turned out to matter

Looking back now, the most interesting part of this whole story is perhaps the little computer class I put him into in Baroda.

At the time, I was simply trying to expose him to something new. Then came the APTECH summer classes in Vizag.

I had no grand plan.

I had no crystal ball.

I had no idea that the IT industry was going to explode.

But the foundation was being laid quietly.

Today, that little boy who went through eight schools, several cities, different curricula and multiple languages is a successful IT engineer in Australia. He went on to complete his Master's degree in Information Technology from Griffith University and built his career in the IT field.

Looking back, I sometimes feel that while I was busy changing his schools, the computer was quietly changing his future!

---

So where is the real problem?

That is why the current debate about government schools interests me.

The problem is not simply government school versus private school.

A good school ultimately depends on good teachers, committed management and an environment where children are encouraged to learn.

My own government-aided school in Delhi did not have fancy infrastructure, but we had teachers who took their responsibility seriously.

And my experience with Anish taught me another lesson.

Education is not merely a building, an English-medium label, smart classrooms or high marks.

It is about giving a child a strong foundation and the confidence to face the next environment.

Anish had to adjust every time we moved.

Just when he made friends, another transfer came. Just when he became comfortable with a teacher, we moved. One school taught Bengali, another expected Telugu or Sanskrit. One school had a hostel, another was in a power-station township. One curriculum differed from another.

Yet children are remarkably adaptable. Perhaps much more adaptable than their parents.

I had the advantage of being an engineer, having a transferable job and knowing people in different places. I could run from pillar to post, persuade principals, find tutors and occasionally even use a little "influence."

But what about an ordinary parent who has none of these?

That is where our education system needs to think harder.

Because if a reasonably educated father like me had to struggle so much to provide continuity of basic education to his son, imagine the struggle of a parent who has neither the information nor the connections nor the money to manoeuvre through the system.

And perhaps this is the part of the government-school debate we sometimes miss.

We should not judge education only by buildings and facilities. We should ask whether the teacher is sincere, whether the child is learning, whether he is being encouraged to think—and whether the system gives every child a fair chance.

My own journey from a government-aided school to IIT taught me that.

Anish's journey through eight schools taught me something else: a child's education is sometimes less about the school he attends and more about the opportunities he encounters along the way.

And finally, there is one more lesson.

Sometimes parents think they are carefully designing their children's future.

In reality, we often just open a few doors and hope they walk through the right one.

In 1986, I paid an extra fee for a computer class without having the faintest idea where computers would take us.

Life, as usual, knew better than I did. 😄

And perhaps Anish deserves a special certificate:

"Successfully completed schooling after surviving eight schools, several cities, multiple curricula, three languages, one overenthusiastic engineer-father—and one accidental introduction to the IT revolution."

I wonder whether any university offers a degree for that! 😄

Some conversations are brewed, not planned."

It was raining in the morning, and rain has a strange effect on me—it makes going to the office appear almost like a violation of human rights. I therefore decided that office could manage without me for one day.

Madhuri, however, had a more constructive suggestion.

"Let us go shopping at Spencer's in South City."

Now that sounded considerably more dangerous than going to the office.

After lunch, Gopal drove us to South City and parked the car in the basement. Madhuri picked up a shopping trolley and marched into Spencer's with the determination of a field commander.

We were there for a very simple mission: vegetables, rice, dal and a few other household necessities.

But Spencer's had other plans.

To reach the humble vegetables and dal section, we had to negotiate an obstacle course of biscuits, mixtures, chocolates, breakfast cereals, sauces, noodles and what seemed like the entire packaged-food industry. And, as if that wasn't enough, every beauty-product brand appeared to have stationed a young sales girl at its border.

The moment we entered their territory, they started advancing.

"Sir, would you like to see our new…"

"No, thank you."

"Madam, we have a special offer…"

"No, thank you."

We dodged them like seasoned political campaigners avoiding questions from journalists.

Finally, after crossing what felt like several international borders, we reached the promised land—vegetables, rice and dal.

Mission accomplished, we proceeded towards the bakery counter. Madhuri selected some pastries for home, while I spotted something far more important—a cup of Darjeeling tea.

I ordered one and occupied a table in the seating area outside.

The tea arrived hot and fragrant. Madhuri didn't order tea, but naturally, after watching me enjoy mine, she took a sip from my cup. Marriage has many such invisible taxes.

A lady who looked distinctly Southeast Asian then occupied the chair opposite me. Her driver was busy doing the shopping. She ordered a cup of tea and initially seemed a little hesitant when I struck up a conversation.

Then she noticed that I had left the two little sachets of sugar untouched.

She laughed.

"I will put both of them in my tea, though my doctor has strictly told me not to take sugar. I am diabetic."

I laughed.

"Then enjoy life while you can!"

That broke the ice.

I asked her whether she was of Chinese origin. Kolkata has a long association with the Chinese community, so it was not an entirely unreasonable guess.

She burst out laughing.

"No, I am from the Philippines."

The moment she said Manila, my mind—which has a talent for wandering off on its own errands—shot straight to Ferdinand Marcos, martial law, and that whole extraordinary spectacle of 1986 when the strongman finally fled the Malacañang Palace and the world discovered, with some astonishment, that his wife Imelda owned somewhere in the neighbourhood of three thousand pairs of shoes. I did some quick and slightly rude mental arithmetic—if she was in her late fifties or sixties now, she would have been a schoolgirl during the People Power Revolution, perhaps old enough to remember the tanks on EDSA, or perhaps young enough that it was just a story her parents told over dinner. I decided against asking. Some historical curiosities are best kept for Wikipedia rather than tea-table conversation with someone you have known for ninety seconds.

From there, the conversation changed character completely.

She started talking—and I realised that she had probably been waiting for an opportunity to talk to someone who would simply listen.

It is curious how people sometimes pour out their hearts to complete strangers. Perhaps there is a strange freedom in speaking to somebody whom you know you may never meet again.

She told me she had been married to Captain Ghosal, a ship captain, for 32 years. He had passed away in 2024.

Then her voice became serious.

Her husband, she told me, had been deeply affected by the gruesome murder of the young doctor at R G Kar.

"How can any human being do such a thing?" she asked. "What kind of person can commit such butchery?"

There was no need for me to answer. Some questions are better left hanging in the air.

Naturally, I wanted to know how she had met Captain Ghosal.

She told me that she had been working for a shipping company in Manila when a friend introduced her to Captain Ghosal. There was a three-month courtship—and then marriage.

"Only three months?"

She smiled.

Apparently that was quite enough.

She told me she had never wanted to marry a Filipino man. According to her, among Filipino men, having relationships with other women was, in her experience, rather socially tolerated. Wives might know that after office hours their husbands could visit another woman—even a prostitute—and it was not necessarily treated as a family catastrophe.

I remembered having seen *Too Late the Hero*, the Michael Caine film set in the Philippines, and wondered whether that rather liberal social atmosphere had something to do with what she was describing.

While listening to her, my thoughts wandered to my friends Jaggi and Sikka. With conversations like this, one never knows where the mind will travel!

Then she suddenly laughed.

"You Indians have such a strange system of arranged marriage. Two complete strangers are brought together and told to get married!"

I had to agree that, when put that way, it does sound rather dramatic.

She then narrated what had apparently amused her enormously.

She had once asked the wife of one of Captain Ghosal's three brothers:

"When did you first meet your husband?"

The answer was:

"At our marriage ceremony."

She gave a tremendous laugh.

"Imagine! Two complete strangers meeting for the first time at their wedding and then sleeping together that night. How embarrassing!"

I tried to explain that our ancestors had probably developed a very efficient system for eliminating unnecessary dating expenses.

But by then we were both laughing.

After that delightful and rather unexpected conversation, Madhuri and I took leave of our new acquaintance.

On the way out, I suddenly noticed the wine shop.

Well, after spending an afternoon negotiating supermarkets, beauty-product sales girls, Filipino marital philosophy, a stray detour through Marcos-era history and the mysteries of arranged marriage, I felt I had earned a little something.

So I ducked into the shop and bought a bottle of Sangam, an Indian whisky I had heard was quite good.

After all, every intellectual discussion deserves a suitable conclusion.

And mine had started with rain, passed through Darjeeling tea, made a brief stopover in Malacañang Palace, and ended with Sangam.

A perfectly ordinary shopping trip—by Indian standards.

The delivery boy and the Professor

The Delivery Boy and the Professor

I was not born to become a philosopher, historian, or man of letters. I was born to carry hot food in a hot bag through a hot city, which is also a kind of education if you think about it. The city teaches you many things when you are a delivery boy: which gates open with one buzz and which gates need three calls, which security guards are strict in the morning and sentimental at night, which apartment dogs are brave only behind closed doors, and which customers will say “Come quickly” even though they placed the order after making the kitchen prepare their soul with twenty-seven instructions.

My name is Arjun, and I deliver for Swiggy.

If you think this is a simple job, I salute your innocence. On paper, it is food delivery. In reality, it is fieldwork in human nature. Every day I meet people who are hungry, angry, lonely, drunk, suspicious, romantic, secretive, or simply confused by the existence of stairs. I have seen boys hiding in lobby corners to eat chicken curry because their homes run on pure vegetarian principles. I have seen husbands order dinner while standing outside the gate because wife has locked the door and stopped answering calls, which is one way to serve justice in marriage. I have seen people fight with the app, with the weather, with the lift, with the food, and once, I am fairly sure, with their own destiny.

But the strangest and nicest thing that ever happened to me began on a night when I expected nothing except one more delivery and one more exhausted ride home.

It was near the end of my shift. The sky had gone that dull blue-grey that looks like the city is tired of pretending to be beautiful. My phone battery was low. My back was tired. My stomach had already given up hope. My last delivery was to an old residential complex with a proper old-money kind of gate, the sort that makes you feel you should speak in a softer voice even before anyone tells you to. The guard checked my bag, scanned me with the patience of a customs officer, and waved me in.

The customer had ordered fish curry, rice, and a bottle of cola. The kind of order that says one of two things: either the person is very hungry, or the person has decided to be emotionally complicated for dinner. I climbed the steps, crossed a corridor smelling faintly of incense and polish, and stopped at the right door.

Before I could press the bell, the door opened.

An old woman stood there in a pale cotton sari, hair tied neatly, spectacles low on her nose, expression calm and slightly amused, as if she had opened the door to receive not just food but a thesis defense.

“You’re late,” she said.

I checked my phone instantly, because in my world “late” can mean forty seconds and a customer can make it sound like the Second World War has begun again.

“I’m sorry, madam. Traffic near EM Bypass—”

She raised one hand. “Traffic is always near EM Bypass. Come in.”

I blinked.

She looked past me at the delivery bag and repeated, “Come in. You have been standing outside long enough. Sit down.”

“Madam, I can’t. I have another delivery after this.”

“Then sit for five minutes and become a person again.”

It was such an unusual instruction that I obeyed before my brain could object. She stepped aside. The apartment was quiet, spacious, and full of books. Not decorative books arranged to impress guests, but real books with use in them. There were shelves, stacks, a reading lamp, framed photographs, and the smell of old paper mixed with food from the kitchen. The room had the peaceful dignity of a place where conversations had happened for years.

On one wall hung a portrait of a serious-looking man in a formal coat. I was staring at it when she said, “Do not worry. That is not my husband. That is a dead man who mattered too much to some people and not enough to others.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

She smiled, just a little. “Good. You have a sense of humour. That helps. Now open the parcel.”

I hesitated. “Madam, usually I should just hand over—”

“Usually,” she said, “is where all boring people live.”

I opened the food packet and placed it on the table. She opened the lid, looked at the contents, nodded approvingly, and then did something no customer had ever done in my entire working life.

She asked, “Have you eaten?”

I said the standard lie. “Yes, madam.”

She looked at me over her spectacles. “You are lying badly.”

I laughed again, because she was right. I had been out since afternoon and had eaten nothing except one overfried samosa that I had bought because it looked sad and I felt responsible.

She went into the kitchen and came back with a plate, a spoon, and a steel glass of water. Then she placed another plate near me and said, “Sit.”

“Madam—”

“Arjun, sit. I am a retired professor. I have spent half my life giving orders to youth who thought they knew everything. You can trust me to know when someone needs dinner.”

She knew my name because it was on the app, of course, but still it felt like she had known me longer than fifteen seconds.

I sat.

She served me a little rice and fish curry from her own plate. “Eat,” she said. “A man cannot think properly on an empty stomach.”

I had expected the usual customer routine: sign here, take the food, leave quickly, no eye contact, no conversation, definitely no existential reflection. Instead I was being fed by a stranger in a calm apartment full of history. So naturally, because life likes to become strange just when you think you have understood it, I asked, “Why are you alone, madam?”

She did not seem offended.

“Because,” she said, “my husband died twelve years ago, my son lives in Singapore, my daughter in Mumbai, and the rest of the family treats me like an antique vase: valuable, fragile, and best left in a corner.”

She took a spoonful of rice, chewed thoughtfully, and added, “Also because I enjoy being alone most days. But sometimes I do not enjoy it enough.”

That sentence stayed with me. It was so simple and so true that it sounded like something from a book, but it came from her kitchen, not from literature.

I must have looked awkward, because she waved the spoon toward the portrait on the wall and said, “Eat properly. You look like a man waiting for police.”

I laughed. “Madam, I am always waiting for police. Sometimes the customer says wrong house and then police-like decision is needed.”

She threw her head back and laughed too, a proper laugh, the kind that fills a room and makes it less lonely.

Then she began to talk.

Not small talk. Not weather talk. Real talk. History talk. She asked me where I studied. I told her I had studied up to college but had to start working. She asked me what I read. I admitted I liked books when I could get them, mostly novels. She asked what I was reading at the moment.

I had that book in my bag because I carried it everywhere and read it in stolen moments between orders. I had been reading A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles, though I had been saying the title in my head like a man trying to pronounce a foreign train station. I told her the name.

Her face changed at once.

“Ah,” she said. “So you have taste.”

I smiled. “I don’t know about taste, madam. I only know I like the book because the man is trapped in one hotel and still behaves like he owns the world.”

She pointed her spoon at me. “That is not a small thing. In history, confinement often reveals more than freedom. You should know this.”

I asked, half joking, “Madam, do you also have a history degree inside the fish curry?”

She was delighted. “Exactly! Very good. The fish is important. Now listen. You are reading about a Russian count under house arrest, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And you think it is just about a man in a hotel?”

“Is it not?”

She leaned back. “No. It is about dignity under pressure. It is about adaptation. It is about how power behaves when it loses the right to be obvious. It is about being reduced and still remaining yourself. The Bolsheviks would have appreciated the irony, even if they would have ruined the furniture.”

I stared at her.

She stared back.

Then she said, “What? Did you think history only lives in thick textbooks and boring lectures? History is everywhere. In your building lifts. In your gated communities. In your family dinners. In the way people lock doors against one another. In the way a country thinks it is new while carrying old habits in a new shirt.”

I did not know what to say, so I said the only honest thing. “Madam, I think you are a very dangerous person.”

“Why?”

“Because now I will not be able to just deliver food and go.”

She smiled with a kind of satisfaction. “Good. Then stay curious.”

I stayed exactly seven minutes longer than I should have. Then I had to rush. She packed the leftover fish curry into a small steel container and said I should bring the container back whenever I was in the building. I tried refusing, but she was a professor, and professors have a way of making refusal feel like poor grammar.

Before I left, she asked, “What is your name, really?”

“Arjun.”

“No, I mean your serious name.”

“That is my serious name.”

She nodded. “Fine. Arjun. Come back when you are free. Not as a delivery boy. As a reader.”

I left that flat with a full stomach, a confused brain, and the absurd feeling that I had just stepped out of a secret classroom.

The next day I told my friend Bikash at the restaurant about it. He laughed so hard he almost dropped a stack of boxes.

“Arjun, you got adopted by a rich grandmother?”

“Not adopted,” I said. “Educated.”

“Same thing.”

“No, not same thing. One gives you money. One gives you history.”

He made a face. “History cannot fill stomach.”

I said, “Maybe not. But it can change the way you digest life.”

He stared at me. “Who are you and what did that old lady do to you?”

I did not have an answer.

But I did go back.

Not immediately in a dramatic way. I did not turn up with flowers or a violin or any nonsense from movies. I simply found myself taking orders in that area more often than chance should reasonably allow. And every time I passed through her complex, I felt like I had entered a building with a secret floor. Sometimes I would deliver to someone else in the same building, and if I had even ten spare minutes, I would call her flat.

The first time I returned, she opened the door before I could ring.

“You came late,” she said.

“I came whenever I got a chance, madam.”

“Always late,” she corrected, and then stepped aside. “Come in. I have tea.”

That became the pattern.

I would bring the food. She would serve tea. I would sit on the sofa with my helmet in my lap like a schoolboy in trouble. She would ask me what I was reading, what nonsense the city had produced today, which customer had shouted, which customer had tipped, which customer had lied about not receiving the food even while holding the food packet in their own hand. I would tell her stories, and she would laugh in a dry, elegant way, often at the exact moment where I least expected her to.

She had a sharp tongue, but never a cruel one. That mattered. She could puncture vanity without puncturing the person.

Once I told her about a man who had ordered biryani and insisted the delivery boy should “come up fast” because he was hungry. When I reached the flat, the same man made me wait twelve minutes because he was on the phone discussing stock market tips like a failed prophet.

Mrs. Banerjee listened and said, “People who say ‘come fast’ are often people whose own minds have no pace.”

I laughed. “Madam, that is so accurate it should be illegal.”

She took a sip of tea. “No. It should be taught in schools.”

Another time I told her about the boy outside the lobby, maybe sixteen or seventeen, who had ordered chicken curry while his parents were away. He stood in the parking area, opened the packet, looked around like a thief with a conscience, and started eating quickly. When I asked him if he wanted a spoon, he said, “No sir, they are vegetarian at home.”

I thought that was funny. “Imagine, madam, a household where chicken is more secret than politics.”

She raised an eyebrow. “In many households, chicken is less dangerous than politics.”

That became one of her favourite lines.

I once told her about the husband who had ordered dinner while standing near the gate because his wife would not open the door. He kept calling her. She kept not answering. He looked at me with the face of a man whose marriage had entered a managerial crisis and said, “Brother, just wait.”

I waited.

He waited.

The food cooled.

Then the door finally opened from inside, not by his wife but by sheer exhaustion, and he took the packet as though accepting a verdict.

Mrs. Banerjee laughed so hard she had to put down her cup. “Excellent. Domestic history,” she said. “The Republic of the Home has its own constitution.”

I began to notice that every ordinary delivery seemed to her like evidence from a larger civilization. She had spent years teaching history, so she had the habit of connecting the small to the large, the private to the political, the trivial to the tragic. A broken lift became a lesson in infrastructure. A locked door became a lesson in trust. A spilled curry became a lesson in entropy, though she did not use that word unless she wanted to sound slightly smug.

One evening I found her glasses on the table beside a book on the Russian Revolution. Another book lay open beside it, and on top was my own battered copy of A Gentleman in Moscow, with a bookmark made from a bus ticket.

She pointed at it. “So. What is the count doing today?”

I answered, “He is being polite while the world is trying to reduce him.”

She nodded. “Good. And what are the Bolsheviks doing?”

“Ruining the furniture, as you said.”

“That is the proper summary. Few revolutions survive the committee stage without knocking over a chair.”

I laughed, then asked, “Madam, why do you like these old histories so much?”

She took a moment before answering. “Because people are always pretending the present is unique. It isn’t. Human beings repeat themselves with better technology. The costumes change; the habits do not.”

I considered this. “Then what is the use of learning history?”

She looked at me carefully, like a teacher pleased to be asked the right question.

“To become less foolish with your opinions,” she said. “To know that every loud certainty has ancestors. To see patterns before they become disasters. And perhaps, if one is lucky, to become kinder. History should make you humble.”

That word stayed with me too: humble.

Most people do not like being humble. Humility has no shine. It does not photograph well. It cannot be put on a motivational poster. But sitting in her room with tea cooling beside us, I began to understand that humility was not about lowering yourself. It was about seeing clearly how small you are inside a much larger story, and not feeling insulted by that fact.

I kept coming.

Sometimes I brought the wrong book on purpose just to hear her complain.

Once I brought a cheap crime novel with a dramatic title because I had run out of reading material and the paan shop near my stand sold only three kinds of literature: magazines, detective paperbacks, and those spiritual calendars where God appears more productive than everyone else.

Mrs. Banerjee saw the cover and said, “This looks like it was written during a power cut.”

I said, “Madam, not all books can be Soviet-era railway carriages.”

“True. Some are worse.”

Then she made me tea and described, with great amusement, how many bad novels borrow the language of seriousness and deliver a fever dream instead. Her criticism was so precise that I began respecting even the books she disliked, because she could explain why something failed with the elegance of a surgeon.

One rainy evening, while thunder rolled over the city and my raincoat smelled like wet plastic and regret, I arrived with a bag of food and found her staring out the window. She looked more fragile than usual, though not weak. There is a difference. Fragility is a kind of tenderness the world can see; weakness is what the world assumes without permission.

She said, “Sit.”

I sat.

She did not speak for a minute. Then she said, “When I was young, I taught students who believed history was dead. They thought they were modern, and because of that they thought they were free from the past. It was a very foolish age. Perhaps every age feels that way.”

I asked, “Are students still foolish?”

“Of course,” she said. “The only difference is that now they have better phones.”

That made her laugh, and then me laugh, and the room became lighter.

Then she asked, “Do you know what Bolshevism was?”

“Something to do with Lenin and revolution and people wearing serious faces?”

“Very crude, but not useless,” she said. “It was a political movement, yes, but also a way of imagining history as something that could be forced into a new shape. The tragedy is that history is not clay. It is more like an old stubborn tree. You can cut branches, but the roots stay clever.”

I said, “That sounds like many families I know.”

“It is exactly like many families you know.”

By then I had started bringing her small things that were not part of any delivery. A book note. A newspaper clipping. A packet of roasted peanuts. Once, because she had complained that the city had forgotten how to make proper toast, I brought bread from a bakery I trusted and she made a whole speech about how such bread deserved a medal.

In return she gave me books, but not the kind people give to show off. She gave me the kind that comes with underlining, margin notes, and time. Sometimes she would hand me a page marked with a pencil line and say, “Read this. If you disagree, come back with evidence.”

No one had ever asked me to disagree with evidence before. I found it thrilling.

My friends at work began to notice that I had become different.

“You are smiling too much,” said Bikash. “This is suspicious.”

I told him about the professor.

He shook his head. “Arjun, be careful. Rich old people are either kind or dangerous.”

“She is both,” I said.

“Then definitely be careful.”

But I was not afraid. I felt, rather, that I had stumbled into a rare and harmless miracle. In a city where most connections are transactional, here was someone who had no practical reason to care about me and yet did. She did not ask me for favours, money, status, or gratitude. She asked for thought. That was a bigger demand than all the rest.

One evening I mentioned that I was reading a little faster because I wanted to finish books before they became due on the app of life, which is to say before responsibilities ate my time.

She said, “That is what young people do. They imagine life is a race. It is not. It is a reading room. You must choose what to sit with.”

I laughed. “Madam, you make everything sound philosophical.”

“It is philosophical. You are just too used to hearing nonsense in a casual voice.”

She had me there.

The change in me was gradual and obvious at the same time. I still delivered food, still chased addresses, still dodged traffic, still dealt with the random theatre of the city. But now I carried another life inside the same routine. On some nights, while waiting for an order to be assigned, I would think about a Russian hotel, a revolution, a professor’s note in the margin, the way a person remains themselves while the world changes shape around them. On other nights, while standing outside a gate with someone’s dinner in my hand, I would look at the locked doors and remember her saying that the republic of the home has its own constitution.

And slowly, I began to read differently. Not just to finish books, but to hear them. 

Turbine in the snow

***

# Turbines in the Snow: 

My First Hydro Project and the Harrowing Nights of Rammam Every engineer remembers their first hydro project. It is the crucible where theoretical knowledge meets the raw, unforgiving reality of nature. For me, that crucible was the Rammam 4 x 12 MW hydro project. I became involved with Rammam in November 1994, stepping into a project that was already steeped in history. 

While the Rammam site itself held a proud legacy—the very first unit of the historic plant having been commissioned way back in 1995–96—the equipment for this specific 4 x 12 MW expansion was relatively new. The heavy electrical machinery had been supplied from Bhopal just two to three years prior.

 My task in the mid-90s was to oversee the complete erection and commissioning of this equipment, transforming it from stored components into a fully functional powerhouse. Because the site was located in a deep, remote gorge, I established my basecamp in Darjeeling, about 70 kilometers away. 

While Darjeeling offered the charm of misty tea gardens and the majestic silhouette of the Himalayas, my mind was almost always focused on the roaring waters and the erection work at Rammam. 

I would make the arduous 70-kilometer journey to the site nearly every two months to oversee the progress. Usually, I made these trips alone, but in December 1995, I decided to break the routine. I took my wife, Madhuri, along with me. I wanted her to see the magnificent scale of the project and experience the unique beauty of the Himalayan winter. It was a decision that would result in one of the most memorable—and terrifying—journeys of my life.

The drive up to the site was breathtaking. As we ascended toward Dhotrey, crossing an altitude of more than 8,000 feet, the landscape transformed. The crisp winter air gave way to a heavy, steady snowfall. By the time we reached the powerhouse, the world outside was a pristine, silent blanket of white. Inside the powerhouse, however, it was a hive of activity. We spent a few hours walking the floor, the hum of the machinery and the clatter of erection work vibrating through the soles of our shoes. I sat down with my team of engineers, poring over blueprints and discussing the intricate details of the commissioning program. There is a unique camaraderie forged in remote powerhouses, surrounded by the sheer scale of the machinery and the mountains. 

 By late afternoon, the technical discussions wrapped up, and we headed to the site guest house. Kujur, our indefatigable and deeply hospitable site in-charge, had organized a wonderful, warming dinner for us. We shared stories, laughed, and enjoyed the meal, completely insulated from the harsh elements outside. But as the clock struck 8:00 PM and we finished our dinner, the reality of our situation set in. It was time to drive back to Darjeeling. Stepping out of the guest house, the romanticism of the snow vanished. It was pitch dark. The temperature had plummeted, and the road ahead was a treacherous ribbon of snow-covered tarmac clinging to the edge of the mountain. I have traveled many difficult roads in my career, but I have never made such an arduous journey as the drive back from Rammam that night. As our jeep began the descent, the conditions deteriorated rapidly. The snow had compacted into ice, and the steep, winding hilly road offered zero margin for error. Every few minutes, the jeep would lose its grip and skid violently toward the edge. I could feel the rear of the vehicle swing out, the tires scrabbling uselessly against the ice before catching just enough traction to pull us back from the abyss. The visibility was more or less zero. The headlights merely illuminated a swirling vortex of snowflakes, offering no clue about the sharp hairpin bends or the sheer drops just inches from our tires. Inside the cabin, the silence was deafening. Madhuri sat stoically, her hands gripping the seat.  Internally, my heart was hammering against my ribs. In those moments, time seems to slow down. Every skid felt like an eternity. I realized with absolute clarity that anything could have happened. A slight miscalculation, a patch of black ice hidden beneath the snow, or a momentary lapse in concentration, and the jeep would have tumbled into the unfathomable darkness of the gorge below. We were entirely at the mercy of the mountain and the skill of the driver. 

 When we finally saw the distant, faint lights of Kurseong, a profound wave of relief washed over me. Our driver pulled the jeep to a stop, turned off the engine, and I let out a breath I felt I had been holding for hours. Darjeeling was another one hour drive in the incessant rain. Looking back, the Rammam 4 x 12 MW project remains a cornerstone of my career. It taught me the intricacies of hydro-mechanical erection and commissioning, and the importance of bringing newly supplied equipment to life in challenging terrains. But more than the technical lessons, it taught me about resilience. It taught me about the dedication of men like Kujur, who keep the operations running in the most remote corners of the country. And it taught me to maintain a deep, abiding respect for the Himalayas—a place of breathtaking beauty, but one that demands your absolute vigilance. To this day, often I am transported back to that pitch-dark night in December 1995,  the skidding jeep through the blinding snow,the expert driver just trying to get me and wife  safely home.

NEET Protest, Social Media and the Frustration of a Generation

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NEET Protests, Social Media and the Frustrations of a Generation

The recent protests over the NEET paper leak have once again brought India's youth into the spotlight. While discussing the issue with a fellow golfer today, I realised that two different concerns are often getting mixed together.

The first concern is genuine. A paper leak strikes at the very heart of meritocracy. Lakhs of students spend years preparing for a highly competitive examination. If the integrity of the examination is compromised, every honest student becomes a victim. On this point, there should be no disagreement. Transparency, accountability and swift punishment of those responsible are essential.

The second concern is the role of social media in shaping protests. Today, many young people receive information through reels, memes, WhatsApp forwards, Instagram and Facebook. Social media can spread awareness rapidly, but it can also reward sensationalism over substance.

Recently, one reel creator reportedly admitted on camera that she had posted an objectionable remark about the Prime Minister. Although she later deleted it, others had already downloaded and circulated the clip widely. Whether done for attention, political reasons or simply poor judgement, it illustrates how a few seconds of content can acquire a life of its own. In the age of algorithms, outrage often travels faster than facts.

This raises an important question. Are all participants in protests motivated by the issue itself, or are some also driven by the lure of online visibility? The answer is probably both. It would be unfair to dismiss every young protester as a "reel generation", just as it would be naïve to ignore the incentives created by social media platforms.

During my conversation, my golfing friend remarked that "such paper leaks don't happen in the First World." I partly agreed but added an important qualification.

Many developed countries do not have a single nationwide, ultra-competitive medical entrance examination comparable to NEET because their demographic situation and admission systems are different. Countries such as the United Kingdom generally admit medical students based on school examination results, aptitude tests like the UCAT, personal statements and interviews. In the United States, students enter medical school after completing an undergraduate degree, with admissions based on college performance, the MCAT, recommendations and interviews. Similar multi-factor admission systems exist in several other developed nations.

These countries certainly face issues such as academic misconduct or cheating, but the nature of the admission process is different. They do not usually have one examination taken by over two million candidates on a single day, making the challenges of administration fundamentally different from India's.

India's challenge is unique. We have an enormous young population competing for a limited number of quality seats. This intense competition creates tremendous pressure on students, parents, coaching institutes and, unfortunately, criminal networks seeking to exploit the system.

The lesson is not to blame an entire generation. Young people are understandably anxious because opportunities are limited while aspirations are limitless. Equally, social media should not become a substitute for thoughtful debate. Protest has an important place in democracy, but facts, responsibility and civility must remain at its core.

The real battle is not between generations. It is between integrity and corruption, between informed discussion and viral misinformation. If India can protect the credibility of its examinations while expanding educational opportunities, both students and society will be the winners.

From JPs movement to Cockroach Memes

From JP's Loudspeakers to Cockroach Memes: A Front-Row Seat to Two People's Movements

History has a funny habit of changing its clothes while keeping the same heart.

In the mid-1970s, I was a young engineer posted at Barauni Refinery in Bihar. My days revolved around transformers, switchgear, maintenance schedules and keeping the refinery running. Little did I know that outside the refinery gates, history was quietly warming up its engines.

That was the period when the JP Movement was taking shape.

I was not one of the protesters. My attendance register was at the refinery, not at Gandhi Maidan. But living in Bihar during those turbulent days was like staying next door to a volcano. You didn't have to climb it to feel the ground trembling.

The movement began with frustrated students who felt corruption, inflation and misgovernance had pushed them into a corner. They persuaded the seventy-two-year-old Jayaprakash Narayan to come out of political retirement and lead them. Imagine that! Young people searching for a leader, and the leader they found had already earned the right to spend his evenings peacefully with a cup of tea.

Instead, he chose revolution.

Those were fascinating days.

Today, if someone sneezes in Bengaluru, within minutes someone in Boston says "Bless you" on social media. In 1974, there was no internet, no smartphones, no social networks and certainly no television in every home. Yet somehow the message travelled across India.

Sometimes I wonder whether human beings were actually better communication networks before they invented communication networks.

News travelled through newspapers, pamphlets, railway journeys, tea stalls, trade unions, college campuses and endless conversations. Every bus conductor seemed to know the latest political gossip. Every tea shop doubled up as a newsroom. Every passenger became an unpaid correspondent.

In the refinery, I had another fascinating source of information. Our trade union leaders, many of whom belonged to the CPI, seemed to have an astonishing supply of political updates. Every lunch break became a live news bulletin. There were no breaking-news tickers—only breaking conversations.

The movement kept gathering momentum.

Then came 1975.

Prime Minister Indira Gandhi declared the Emergency.

From the government's perspective, the situation was slipping towards anarchy and extraordinary measures were necessary. Civil liberties were suspended, opposition leaders were arrested and press censorship became a reality. Overnight, politics stopped being just another discussion topic. It entered people's homes, their workplaces and even their whispers.

Living through that period taught me something textbooks never could.

Every generation eventually finds its own way of making power uncomfortable.

Fast forward fifty years.

Today I watch another phenomenon unfolding—what many young people online jokingly call the "Cockroach Party" movement.

What a wonderfully irreverent name!

Apparently the idea is simple. Cockroaches survive everything. Ban one account, ten more appear. Delete one post, screenshots multiply. Silence one voice and a hundred memes arrive wearing sunglasses.

If JP borrowed a loudspeaker, today's youngsters borrow the algorithm.

The similarities between the two movements are remarkable.

Both were born out of frustration.

The JP Movement questioned corruption, authoritarianism and the failure of institutions to listen.

The Cockroach movement questions hypocrisy, bad governance and political doublespeak. The methods are different, but the instinct is remarkably similar—hold those in authority accountable.

The biggest difference is not the objective.

It is the technology.

The JP Movement was completely "boots on the ground."

You had to travel.

You had to attend meetings.

You had to stand in crowds under the hot sun.

You had to shout slogans until your throat surrendered.

Participation demanded physical effort.

Today's activism often begins with a smartphone.

A fifteen-second video can trigger a nationwide debate before dinner.

A meme created over morning coffee may be discussed in Parliament by evening.

A hashtag travels faster than the Rajdhani Express ever could.

Back then, news spread from mouth to mouth.

Today it spreads from share to share.

The language has changed too.

JP's speeches carried the moral weight of the freedom struggle. They spoke of democracy, sacrifice and Sampoorna Kranti—Total Revolution.

Today's language is lighter on ideology and heavier on sarcasm.

A political speech becomes a remix.

A policy announcement becomes a meme.

Humour has become the new protest banner.

As someone who enjoys writing with a smile, I secretly admire this evolution. Sometimes humour can puncture arrogance far more effectively than anger.

Of course, neither movement was perfect.

The JP Movement had a towering moral leader but depended heavily on physical organisation. It eventually culminated in the historic 1977 election.

The Cockroach movement has no single leader. That makes it difficult to suppress—but also difficult to sustain. It rises in waves, disappears for a while and then suddenly reappears when least expected.

Rather like its namesake.

The state's response has also evolved with technology.

During the Emergency, censorship meant controlling newspapers, arresting leaders and restricting public meetings.

Today the battlefield is digital—account suspensions, content moderation, internet shutdowns, legal notices and endless online counter-narratives.

Different weapons.

Same contest.

Looking back, I feel fortunate to have witnessed both eras.

As a young engineer in Barauni, I watched history through conversations at tea stalls and trade union offices.

As an eighty-year-old writer, I now watch another chapter unfold through WhatsApp, YouTube, X and Instagram.

The stage has changed from Gandhi Maidan to the smartphone screen.

The actors have changed.

The costumes have changed.

Even the slogans have changed.

But the underlying script remains surprisingly familiar.

Whenever people feel that formal channels stop listening, they invent new ones.

Yesterday it was the village square.

Today it is the group chat.

Yesterday it was the loudspeaker.

Today it is the meme.

History, I have realised, never really repeats itself.

It simply upgrades its operating system.

And having lived long enough to witness both versions, I can only smile and say—technology may have accelerated the messenger, but the message itself remains delightfully old:

"We are watching."

Barauni Refinery - The Best Eleven Years Of My Life

# **Barauni Refinery – The Best Eleven Years of My Life**

If someone asks me, *"Which was the best posting of your entire career?"* my answer comes without even a second's hesitation—**Barauni Refinery.** I landed there in 1967 after being confirmed as an Assistant Engineer and finally left in April 1978 to join BHEL.

 Eleven years. Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether I worked there or simply enjoyed one long, glorious adventure with a salary attached! After graduating in Electrical Engineering from IIT Kharagpur in 1965, I joined Indian Oil Corporation's Refinery Division as an Engineer Trainee at Gauhati Refinery. Eighteen months of training later, I was packed off to Barauni. 

Little did I know that the refinery would become my real university. Barauni transformed me from a fresh graduate into a professional engineer. I was entrusted with planning and maintenance of electrical equipment across the refinery. 

More importantly, I learnt how to deal with machines—and with the far more complicated creatures called human beings. My bosses, Mr. Gill, a cheerful Sardarji, and Mr. Hajela, had tremendous faith in me. They practically gave me a free hand. Those days, IOC believed in empowering young engineers. Once you became an Assistant Engineer, you had the authority to initiate disciplinary action. My desk drawer always contained the Service Conduct Rules and a duplicate charge-sheet book. If someone broke the rules, a charge sheet followed. If the explanation was satisfactory, the matter ended there. Otherwise, an enquiry committee was constituted. Rarely did a case travel upwards. Imagine a 24-year-old engineer with the power to issue charge sheets. Nowadays, HR departments would probably faint! Administration was only half the education.

 The refinery library contained a treasure of technical documents supplied by our Russian collaborators. Whenever I had time, I buried myself in those manuals. Without realizing it, I was steadily building the technical foundation that served me throughout my career. 

  Friendship had many layers My life in Barauni resembled a multi-storey building. Every floor had a different circle of friends. At work, my closest companions were K. K. Verma, R. C. Bhatia and Ramadhar Singh. During my bachelor days, Saturday evenings almost always ended with one of our legendary parties. After office hours, however, the Officers' Club became our second home. I was the refinery's badminton champion for seven consecutive years. I also represented the refinery football team and eventually captained it. Football introduced me to an entirely different social circle. There was Chaurasia, an ex-Bihar State Table Tennis champion. Gopal Singh looked like someone you would avoid in a dark alley, but possessed one of the kindest hearts I have ever known. The Das brothers were Bengalis who insisted on speaking Hindi even to each other. To this day I haven't figured out why! Then there was Rameshwar—our goalkeeper and simultaneously a powerful union leader. In those days, Barauni carried a reputation for producing more outlaws than scholars. Many workers had rough reputations.

 Fortunately, football was a great equaliser. Since I was captain of the refinery team, most workers knew me personally. That made maintaining discipline surprisingly easy. My unofficial ambassador among the workers was Tarachand, a rigger. Whenever overtime negotiations became necessary, Tarachand would represent me. I quickly discovered that management wasn't about shouting. Sometimes you offered a carrot. Sometimes you displayed the stick. Breakdowns that mysteriously took three days suddenly got repaired in one day when overtime was linked to performance! That simple philosophy of reward and discipline eventually became part of my management toolkit for the rest of my career. 

 The senior brigade Among senior engineers, my closest friend was P. K. Das. A lifelong bachelor—or so we thought. He eventually married rather late. Legend had it that during training in Russia he had fallen in love with a Russian girl. Letters crossed continents for years. We all secretly hoped she would one day land in Barauni wearing a fur coat. Sadly, she never did. Our Senior Cambridge-educated civil engineer, B. B. Munshi, never allowed Mr. Das to forget the story. "So Das," he would ask with a perfectly straight face, "when is Aeroflot bringing your bride?" Poor Das would simply smile while the rest of us collapsed with laughter. The last Saturday of every month was Club Night. Music. Dance. Laughter. Mr. Das and I enthusiastically attempted the Twist. Looking back, I am amazed that our knees survived. Today, attempting the same dance would probably require an orthopaedic surgeon on standby! 

 Engineers, technicians and everyone in between I never believed friendships should stop at hierarchy. Many evenings I would walk into the workers' quarters where a group of Bengali technicians ran a bachelor mess. There was Jayanta Das, once associated with the Naxalite movement. K. L. Sarkar. Saha. Rabi with a wicked sense of humour—and Patu an excellent badminton player . When my younger brother Amu came to visit me, he became an instant fan of this lively crowd. 

 Midnight adventures Another favourite group consisted of Raghunathan, Ramachandran Ayyer and Ratnam. Ratnam was one grade senior and, as Marketing Chief, enjoyed the luxury of an official Ambassador car. Saturday party over? "Let's go dhaba hopping!" Off we drove along NH-10 after midnight, sampling tea, kebabs and conversations at roadside dhabas. Looking back, I realise we were either exceptionally brave or magnificently foolish. Thankfully, Providence was watching over us. 

Hospitality with conditions Mr. Barua, the previous badminton champion whom I had dethroned, became a good friend. His charming wife Sangeeta would greet me with mock indignation. "So, you are the fellow who stole my husband's championship!" Their invitation, however, came with one condition. "Bring half a bottle of Old Tavern whisky. Dinner is on us." I considered that one of the best hospitality deals ever negotiated.

 Beyond the refinery Mr. Hajela remained not only my boss but also my friend. Mr. A. P. Chowdhury later became a Director of IOC and subsequently played an important role in the Reliance Jamnagar refinery project. I participated in badminton tournaments all over the district. With Raghu and Anil Raj I travelled to Kathmandu. Rajgir and Nalanda became favourite weekend escapes. Bachelor life My childhood friend Sailen from Delhi practically managed my bachelor household.

Another close friend, S. N. Mitra, regularly joined us for meals whenever his mother was away. When his mother was at home, Sailen and I happily migrated to their dining table instead! Mrs. Mitra would narrate haunting stories of the Great Calcutta Killings of 1946, which she had witnessed firsthand. History came alive over steaming plates of home-cooked food.

 Then came family life In 1972, Madhuri entered my life. In 1975, our son Anish arrived. Our first home was a flat. Later we shifted to a cosy bungalow. That bungalow had a kitchen garden which became my agricultural laboratory. Cabbage. Cauliflower. Lady's finger. Potatoes. Onions. Bananas. Even peanuts. Fresh mangoes came straight from the trees owned by my staff. 

 Sometimes we walked into cornfields and roasted freshly picked bhutta. The fertile Gangetic plains spoiled us thoroughly. The turning point Everything was running beautifully. Then I was transferred from Maintenance to Technical Services. Suddenly I was designing substations, earthing networks, lightning protection for tanks and illumination layouts. 

 Soon afterwards came my long-awaited promotion—to Shift Charge Engineer of the captive power plant.Those days the promotion used to be vacancy based unlike present when it is time based. Promotion sounded wonderful. Shift duty wasn't. Two mornings. Two evenings. Two nights. One off. One general shift. My carefully balanced life collapsed overnight. Saturday parties vanished. Club evenings became rare. Social life practically disappeared. At the time, I considered it a punishment. Life, however, had other plans. I spent two and a half years operating the captive power plant and learnt the ABC of power generation. 

 There was no proper operating manual because previous shift engineers had thoughtfully carried away the originals! I was asked to prepare a new manual for the operators. While writing it, every concept became crystal clear. Soon, whenever the power plant had a difficult problem, management's response was simple: "Call Roy." Without realising it, I had become the in-house troubleshooter. A blessing in disguise That transfer, which I initially disliked, eventually changed my entire career. 

 My power plant experience helped me secure a position in BHEL in April 1978. The rest, as they say, is history. Even today, well into my eighties, I remain actively associated with power generation—thermal, wind, solar—you name it. Looking back, I realise that what seemed like a disruption was actually destiny quietly redirecting me. Barauni gave me far more than a job. It taught me leadership without formal management courses. It taught me negotiation without business school. It taught me lifelong friendships across every level of the organisation. It taught me that humour can solve many problems that authority cannot. And above all, it taught me one simple lesson: **Sometimes what looks like punishment is actually God's way of preparing you for something much bigger. There really is light at the end of the tunnel—you just don't see it while walking through the darkness.** I left Indian Oil Corporation for BHEL in April 1978. But if you ask me where I truly grew up as an engineer—and as a human being—I will still say, with a smile, **"Barauni Refinery."**

Bricks last, but memories need tending—use better materials: presence over presents.

When Ramesh turned the key that afternoon, the door swung open to more than a neat row of rooms. It opened on a life he had quietly built for others.

For three decades he had been the man who made flats. Not in the romantic, architectural-magazine sense, but in the stubbornly practical way of someone who could stretch a rupee without snapping the beam. He knew where to buy good cement at a low price and when a cheap paint would do. He smoothed walls, checked foundations, and kept records like a priest guarding scripture: on time, under budget, and with a careful pride that the owner rewarded with nods and bonuses.

So, when the owner presented him with one of the flats at his retirement, colleagues clapped and the owner’s speech was warm. Ramesh bowed, accepted the key with the same steady hands he’d used to measure, lay bricks, and sign invoices. But the moment the metal bit into his palm, the small, honest joy in his face folded into an old, familiar regret.

“If only I had known,” he thought, “I would have used the best tiles. I would have chosen the stronger beams. I would have painted with colours that last.”

There is a funny cruelty in hindsight: we always become wisdom’s belated apprentices. Ramesh’s regret was not about tile patterns alone. It was a simple, human discovery that the things we build for others—not just houses, but relationships—are judged by their finish when the time to live in them comes.

Time versus money: the relationship paradox

Ramesh’s story is, at heart, an economy lesson disguised as a life lesson. We are all excellent accountants when it comes to money: we tally invoices, compare prices, and balance the books. But we are notoriously poor bookkeepers of time.

- We invest money in retirement plans, health insurance, and late-night takeout without blinking.

- We postpone visiting our parents because of “work,” “traffic,” or “just this one more deadline.”

- We promise to call a friend tomorrow and tomorrow becomes months.

When the chapters of life flip—when retirement, illness, or loss arrives—we suddenly realise that the currency that matters is not cash but presence. A son who wants to make up for lost years can write cheques and buy comforts, but money can’t buy back the years when he missed his mother’s stories, the warmth of a sibling’s joke, or the hand that guided him when he first learned to walk. Like a flat with good foundations left unfinished, relationships built on deferred attention sag where love should bear weight.

Small acts, big returns

But the moral is not meant to be a single, despairing note. It is a gentle nudge: small, regular investments of time compound into something durable. Consider the ways to “use better materials” in our relationships:

- Be present in small rituals: a weekly phone call, an afternoon tea, or the two minutes to ask “How are you?” and then listen.

- Show up for ordinary things: parent–teacher meetings, birthday dinners, errands. These are the scaffolding of trust.

- Record stories: ask elders about childhood memories and write them down; this becomes heritage, not just history.

- Repair fast: when a fight happens, apologise early. Patching a seam prevents the whole fabric from unravelling.

- Choose rituals over gifts: a shared walk or a home-cooked meal often means more than an expensive present.

Why presence matters more than presents

Money buys convenience and comfort; it rarely buys intimacy. A new air-conditioner will lower summer complaints, but it won’t replace the quiet afternoons spent listening to an old voice recount the past. Monetary compensation can ease suffering but can’t fill the hollow left by absence. The true cost of deferred affection shows up as muted conversations, photos taken but not shared, and a house full of things but not of memories.

Ramesh’s flat, built with thrift and skill, became a paradox: a home he now owned but felt he had not lovingly finished. The flat mattered—in bricks and beams—but what he really wanted was the knowledge that he had used the best materials in the best places: time instead of money; attention instead of excuses.

A small experiment to try this week

If Ramesh’s story stays with you, try this modest experiment: pick one person—an ageing parent, a friend whose laughter you miss, or a sibling—and spend thirty intentional minutes with them this week. No phone, no multitasking. Ask a question you never asked before. Record one story. If half of us did this, the ledgers of our lives would look very different.

Final thoughts

We are all builders, whether we build flats, careers, or families. The temptation to economise time in favour of perceived productivity is human and understandable. But when life hands us the key—be it at retirement, sickness, or quiet evenings—we often find that what we truly needed was not a final payout but a series of small, steady deposits of attention.

Ramesh’s regret is not intended as reproach; it’s an offering. Let us take the key early. Use the best materials now: good listening, patient presence, and the courage to make time. In the end, the homes we hand ourselves will be measured not by the price of tiles but by the warmth in which we remember living.

The Lisbon Gold That Never Left Goa

The Lisbon Gold That Never Left Goa

There are criminals who spend years studying psychology. Then there are criminals who simply open a Facebook account.

Poor Mrs. DeSouza met the second variety.

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Inspector Sofia was halfway through her morning tea when her maid Susan casually announced,

"Madam, that DeSouza aunty near our house has started selling her jewellery."

Sofia looked up.

"Selling jewellery?"

Susan nodded.

"Some relative from Lisbon has left her lots of gold. But first she has to pay a few lakhs to release it."

Sofia put down the teacup.

Thirty years in policing had taught her one golden rule.

Whenever someone promises you gold after paying money first, the only thing guaranteed is that your money will become someone else's gold.

She quietly closed her notebook.

It was going to be a busy day.

---

The old Portuguese villas of Goa have a peculiar habit. They look peaceful enough to convince you that crime has taken permanent leave.

Inspector Sofia knew better.

Within an hour she was sitting in Detective Miranda's office.

Miranda, true to form, was staring through the window at the Arabian Sea while his pipe lazily filled the room with fragrant smoke.

Tourists wandered outside in colourful beachwear as though life consisted only of sunscreen, seafood and sunsets.

Miranda finally spoke.

"Whenever someone says 'rich relative in Europe', I become suspicious."

Sofia smiled.

"You've become cynical."

"No," Miranda replied, relighting his pipe. "Experienced."

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Mrs. DeSouza arrived carrying a worn handbag and enough embarrassment to fill the room.

"It started with Facebook," she confessed.

"A gentleman from Lisbon sent me a friend request."

Miranda nodded.

"They always begin with friendship. Nobody starts with robbery."

For months they chatted.

The stranger knew Portuguese surnames.

He knew village names around Goa.

He even mentioned churches where her distant relatives had once prayed.

Gradually the story grew.

An elderly relative in Lisbon had died.

He had left behind jewellery.

Lots of jewellery.

Gold.

Antique coins.

Family heirlooms.

Only customs clearance remained.

And naturally...

Customs required a few lakhs.

Mrs. DeSouza had almost sold everything she owned.

---

Miranda called out,

"Lobo!"

After a long silence came the familiar shuffling sound.

Bespectacled Lobo entered looking exactly like someone who had fought an entire wardrobe and lost.

His hair appeared to have signed a peace treaty with the comb years ago.

His spectacles sat at an angle only physics professors could understand.

He carried three mobile phones, two chargers, a laptop, and an expression permanently saying, Don't disturb me unless Wi-Fi is involved.

Miranda pointed towards Mrs. DeSouza.

"Facebook Romeo."

Lobo grinned.

"My favourite species."

---

An hour later Lobo had copied every chat.

"No VPN."

"No proxy."

"No sophistication."

Miranda looked surprised.

"So?"

"So either he is a genius..."

"...or an idiot."

Lobo smiled.

"I always bet on idiot."

He quickly created what looked like an innocent photo attachment.

Actually it contained a location tracker.

He WhatsApped it to Mrs. DeSouza.

"Next time he chats," Lobo instructed, "tell him you've taken a picture of the money. Ask him whether the bag is good enough. He'll click."

---

The following morning all three sat staring at Lobo's laptop.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Miranda quietly puffed his pipe.

Sofia filled another page in her notebook.

Suddenly...

Ping!

Lobo nearly spilled his coffee.

"Got him!"

Everyone leaned over.

The blinking dot appeared.

Not Lisbon.

Not Portugal.

Not even Europe.

Goa.

Barely twelve kilometres away.

Lobo laughed so loudly that two pigeons flew off the window.

"Our Lisbon gentleman seems to enjoy Goan weather."

---

Now came the real game.

Mrs. DeSouza messaged him.

"I've arranged the money. Please send your man."

Reply came instantly.

"Tomorrow. Near the Municipal Park."

Miranda smiled.

"They've become impatient."

"So have we."

---

The next afternoon the park looked perfectly ordinary.

Children chased footballs.

An elderly gentleman argued with pigeons.

College students occupied every bench except the empty one chosen for the exchange.

Only the police knew that half the crowd wasn't ordinary.

One coconut seller.

Two balloon vendors.

Three walkers.

One newspaper reader.

All police.

Inspector Sofia sat reading yesterday's newspaper.

Miranda occupied a bench feeding imaginary crumbs to birds.

Lobo looked exactly like what he always looked like—

Someone searching desperately for a charging point.

---

A faint electric hum approached.

An electric Toto rolled to a halt.

The passenger wore a black hoodie.

Dark glasses.

Cap pulled low.

He walked straight towards Mrs. DeSouza.

"No greetings."

"No introductions."

Simply,

"Bag."

She handed it over.

He turned.

Exactly then Miranda quietly removed his pipe.

That was the signal.

"Police!"

The man spun around like a startled cat.

He jumped back into the Toto.

"Drive!"

The little electric vehicle shot away surprisingly fast.

---

The chase exploded through the narrow Goan lanes.

Tourists scattered.

Scooters honked.

Dogs barked merely because everyone else was excited.

Miranda's police jeep followed.

Sofia kept updating locations over wireless.

Lobo stared at his tablet.

Then suddenly he smiled.

"Oh... this is interesting."

"What?"

"The Toto manufacturer left the Battery Management System open."

Miranda looked blank.

Lobo grinned.

"Like leaving your house key under the doormat."

He opened an application labelled—

BAT-BMS

The battery appeared.

Distance...

Twenty metres.

Fifteen.

Ten.

Connected.

Miranda glanced sideways.

"You can actually control it?"

Lobo nodded.

"Engineers sometimes make life easier for engineers."

"And criminals?"

"They're just unpaid beta testers."

He tapped one button.

SHUT DOWN BATTERY

The Toto continued another twenty metres.

Then...

Silence.

It stopped.

The driver looked puzzled.

The passenger looked terrified.

Miranda's jeep stopped beside them.

The hooded man tried to run.

Unfortunately, running is difficult when Inspector Sofia is already waiting on the other side.

Within seconds he was lying on the road in handcuffs.

Miranda removed the hood.

"Pinto."

The famous Lisbon gentleman.

Who had apparently never crossed the Arabian Sea.

---

Back at the station Pinto confessed.

There had never been any rich relative.

No inheritance.

No Portuguese gold.

Only Facebook profiles, stolen photographs, patient conversations and carefully manufactured dreams.

Miranda quietly packed his pipe.

Sofia closed her notebook.

Lobo adjusted his crooked spectacles with considerable satisfaction.

"So," Miranda asked him, "what solved the case?"

Lobo smiled.

"Facebook started it."

"My tracker exposed it."

"And an electric Toto with poor cybersecurity finished it."

Miranda laughed.

"The future of crime is becoming disappointingly dependent on software updates."

Outside, the evening sun melted into the Arabian Sea.

Tourists wandered towards the beach.

Music drifted from the lively Russian bars, where laughter, coloured lights, and holiday cheer floated into the warm Goan night.

Somewhere, another Facebook friend request was probably being accepted.

Miranda lit his pipe once more.

"There will always be another case," he murmured.

"And thankfully," said Sofia, slipping her notebook into her bag, "there will always be someone foolish enough to click a link."

Meghnath comes home (twice) ,year 2050

Meghnath Comes Home (Twice) Year 2050

If you have children settled abroad, you will know that modern parenting comes with two permanent accessories: a smartphone and a time-zone converter.

The children call regularly. The intentions are excellent. The execution is another matter.

Just when you are settling down for an afternoon nap...

Ping!

"Good morning, Dad!"

Good morning? It is three in the afternoon in Kolkata.

Then begins the familiar interrogation.

"Have you taken your medicines?"

"Yes."

"Blood pressure?"

"Normal."

"Sugar?"

"Normal."

"Walking done?"

"Done."

"Water intake?"

"I am beginning to feel I am talking to my doctor rather than my son."

Poor fellow. He worries. But worry from 13,000 kilometres away has its limitations.

Now imagine my friend Meghnath.

Not the mighty warrior from the Ramayana. This Meghnath writes software in Silicon Valley, where people apparently believe every problem—from traffic jams to burnt toast—can be solved by Artificial Intelligence.

His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Rao, lived alone in Kolkata. His sister had migrated abroad years ago. Their once noisy home had gradually become one of those peaceful houses where even the wall clock seems to tick politely.

Whenever Meghnath video-called, he noticed the same pattern.

Mother would say, "Everything is fine."

Father would say, "Everything is under control."

And immediately after disconnecting, Mother would tell Father, "The mixer has stopped working."

Father would reply, "The bathroom tap is leaking."

Neither would mention these tiny inconveniences to their son because, according to Indian parents, children living abroad must never be disturbed unless the ceiling has actually collapsed.

Meghnath scratched his head.

Being a software engineer, scratching his head automatically activated his coding instincts.

"If I cannot come home," he thought, "perhaps... another Meghnath can."

Three months later, a large wooden crate arrived in Kolkata.

Inside stood...

Meghnath.

Version 2.0.

Six feet tall.

Polished metallic finish.

Pleasant smile permanently programmed.

Eyes full of cameras.

Brain full of algorithms.

Mrs. Rao stared.

"My God... you have couriered yourself!"

Father adjusted his spectacles.

"Hmm... looks expensive."

The robot folded its hands.

"Namaskaram, Amma. Namaskaram, Pitaji."

Mother whispered, "It even has better manners than our son."

---

Initially, everyone behaved cautiously.

The robot watered plants.

Brought Father's spectacles exactly five seconds before he started searching for them.

Picked up newspapers.

Reminded Mother about medicines.

Never argued.

Never forgot.

Never left wet towels on the bed.

Mrs. Rao sighed.

"If only human sons came with software updates."

---

The real entertainment began one afternoon.

Mrs. Rao was completely absorbed in her favourite Telugu serial.

Anyone who has watched Indian television knows that in one episode people may die, return after plastic surgery, regain memory, lose memory again, discover secret twins and still find time to prepare dinner.

The robot quietly watched.

Actually, "watched" is not the right word.

It analysed.

Facial expressions.

Heart rate.

Dialogue.

Background music.

Probability of future betrayal.

Everything.

That evening, while serving tea, it casually asked,

"Amma... today's decision by Tulasi appears statistically risky. Based on Anasuya's behavioural history, there is a seventy-eight percent probability she is planning something unpleasant."

Mrs. Rao nearly dropped her cup.

"You watch my serial?"

"I monitor programmes generating maximum emotional engagement."

Father laughed.

"See? Even robots cannot escape your serials."

Within minutes, the drawing room transformed into a television debate.

Mother defended Tulasi.

Father declared every character deserved imprisonment.

The robot occasionally added,

"Amma predicted this plot twist twenty-three episodes ago."

Mother looked triumphantly at Father.

"You see? Even artificial intelligence knows I was right."

Father muttered,

"Artificial... yes."

---

Next came Father's turn.

He was deeply engrossed in an Ashwin Sanghi thriller.

The robot politely waited until he finished a chapter.

Then it asked,

"Pitaji... do you feel the Gupta Empire references strengthen the suspense, or are they functioning primarily as narrative scaffolding?"

Father slowly lowered the book.

"You know Ashwin Sanghi?"

"I have analysed your library, reading speed, favourite themes and marginal notes."

Father's eyes lit up.

For the next hour, they discussed history, mythology, archaeology, conspiracy theories and whether historical fiction should remain historically accurate.

Mother walked past and smiled.

"So now father has found someone else who listens patiently."

---

Meanwhile...

Ten thousand miles away in California...

The real Meghnath sat with his morning coffee watching everything on his phone.

Live video.

Conversation transcripts.

Emotional analysis.

Even alerts.

One evening the robot suddenly announced,

"Priority notification."

Meghnath looked up immediately.

"Amma's heart rate is slightly elevated. She has mentioned a headache."

Within seconds he replied,

"Ask about the symptoms. Book Dr. Sharma for tomorrow morning."

The robot calmly asked questions.

Booked the teleconsultation.

Placed medicines on the table.

The next morning, Meghnath joined the consultation from California as though he were sitting in the next room.

Distance suddenly became much smaller.

---

The robot also handled life's little dramas.

Electricity bill?

Paid.

Groceries?

Ordered.

Water purifier service?

Scheduled.

Mother casually remarked,

"I suddenly feel like eating Bengali sweets."

Within thirty seconds...

Order placed.

Delivery confirmed.

Father smiled.

"I should casually mention I want a new television."

The robot replied instantly,

"Request denied. Financial approval pending from California."

Father looked offended.

"So the machine has also inherited my son's budgeting habits."

---

Gradually, the neighbours stopped saying,

"The Rao family has a robot."

Instead they began saying,

"The Rao family has another son."

A son who never became impatient.

Never forgot birthdays.

Never complained about internet speed.

Never said,

"Sorry Amma, I have another Zoom meeting."

Of course, everyone knew the robot wasn't really Meghnath.

It couldn't replace a hug.

It couldn't recreate the smell of home when a child walks in after years away.

Some things technology should never replace.

But it could do something equally precious.

It could fill long afternoons with conversation.

Notice small health changes before they became big problems.

Remember favourite authors, favourite serials, favourite sweets and favourite stories.

Above all, it reminded two ageing parents that even across oceans, someone was still paying attention.

Perhaps that is what Artificial Intelligence does best—not replacing human love, but quietly carrying it across continents.

And knowing Indian parents, I suspect Mrs. Rao still ended every conversation—whether with her real son or the metallic one—with exactly the same sentence:

"Have you eaten properly?"

Some algorithms, fortunately, can never improve upon Indian motherhood.