Turbine in the snow

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# 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.