Bulldozers, Bureaucrats and Stray Dogs

Bulldozers, Bureaucrats and Stray Dogs

The recent bulldozer action against unauthorized constructions in Bengal brought back an old memory from my BHEL Bhopal days in 2002, when I was serving as Executive Director. In those days, BHEL township was not merely a colony—it was practically a parallel civilization.

Spread over hectares of land, it was originally built for around 22,000 employees. By the time I took charge, the employee strength had come down to nearly 10,000. As a result, many quarters stood vacant like retired soldiers waiting for fresh orders.

The township had everything imaginable—11 company-run schools, a 100-bed hospital, four shopping complexes, and religious establishments of almost every possible faith and denomination. There were Jain temples of two sects, a Kalibari maintained passionately by Bengalis, a mosque, a church, an Ayyappa temple, and even a Radhaswami congregation area.

In short, if a man was born, educated, married, spiritually uplifted, medically treated, and finally retired within BHEL township, nobody would find it unusual.

But like every Indian township, modernity arrived in its own peculiar form—slums.

Right opposite the foundry gate stood a large slum of more than 200 shanties. Now, this was not merely an aesthetic issue. Those were the days when terrorist activities were making headlines regularly, and the Defence Ministry had already flagged the settlement as a security concern because of its proximity to the factory.

The warning had been issued before I took over, but like many official warnings in India, it had achieved peaceful coexistence with dusty files.

When the matter came to my notice, I contacted the then Principal Secretary of Urban Development, Mr. Raghav Chandra, a dynamic IAS officer with the rare ability to move files faster than glaciers. He agreed to help immediately—but with one condition.

“Samar babu,” he said in his calm bureaucratic style, “give us a patch of vacant land at the outskirts of your township.”

Now this was what management books call a win-win solution. We had unused land. The government had rehabilitation funds. The slum dwellers needed homes. Everybody could emerge happy without television debates.

So the land was officially transferred to the Madhya Pradesh Government. Using available government funds, small houses were constructed for the displaced families. BHEL agreed to provide electricity and water connections on a metered basis.

Then came the human side of the operation.

I sought help from late Babulal Gaur, the veteran political leader known for his practical wisdom and earthy communication skills. He negotiated patiently with the residents. From BHEL side, our Town Administrator, A.K. Bhattacharya, coordinated the ground activities with military precision and Bengali patience—an uncommon but effective combination.

We even provided trucks to help families move to their new homes. There was no drama, no resistance, no stone throwing, no television microphones screaming “exclusive visuals.”

The entire relocation happened peacefully.

After the area was cleared, the vacated land was converted into a garden. A ceremonial tree plantation was organized, and I planted a sapling there with all the seriousness of a man inaugurating a new chapter in urban management.

But the real surprise came a few days later.

I suddenly noticed that stray dog population inside the factory had increased dramatically.

I asked one of the staff members, “What happened? Have the dogs also received transfer orders?”

The reply came instantly:

“Sir, these dogs belonged to that slum. The people shifted… the dogs did not.”

For a moment I imagined the dogs holding an emergency meeting: “Humans have betrayed us. Occupy the factory premises immediately.”

Looking back today, I feel the entire episode taught me something important. Removing unauthorized settlements by force alone may clear land, but it rarely clears resentment. The real solution lies in rehabilitation with dignity, coordination between government agencies, and treating people as stakeholders rather than obstacles.

Bulldozers can demolish structures quickly. Trust takes a little longer to build.

गाय आई, फरी घबराया… और हमारा फार्महाउस कुछ दिनों के लिए सचमुच गाँव बन गया!

यह घटना मेरे भोपाल के दिनों की है, शायद 2002 के आसपास, जब मैं Bharat Heavy Electricals Limited में था। Executive Director का बंगला किसी छोटे-मोटे फार्महाउस से कम नहीं था। पूरा परिसर कई एकड़ में फैला हुआ। साल भर का चावल और गेहूँ उसी के खेत में उग जाता था। किचन गार्डन इतना बड़ा कि उसमें घूमते-घूमते आदमी रास्ता भूल जाए।

सुना था कि मेरे पूर्ववर्ती साहब तो सब्जियाँ बाजार में बेच भी देते थे। मैंने यह बात सुनकर माधुरी से कहा था—

“देखो, अगर नौकरी न रही तो कम-से-कम आलू-टमाटर बेचकर गुजर-बसर हो जाएगी!”

आँगन में आम, अमरूद, कटहल, लीची के पेड़ों की भरमार थी। मेरे पिता जी उन दिनों अधिकतर हमारे साथ ही रहते थे। सुबह-सुबह वे लॉन में टहलते और उनके पीछे-पीछे हमारा पालतू स्पिट्ज कुत्ता “फरी” ऐसे चलता जैसे कोई सिक्योरिटी गार्ड ड्यूटी पर हो।

उसी दौरान मैंने एक बूढ़े विशाल चील को कई बार लॉन के पास टहलते देखा। वह इतना बूढ़ा था कि उड़ भी नहीं पाता था। मैंने मजाक में माधुरी से कहा—

“असल मालिक तो यही चील है। हम तो बस रिटायरमेंट तक के शरणार्थी हैं!”

एक दिन मैं लंच के लिए घर आया। माधुरी बड़े रहस्यमय अंदाज़ में बोली—

“चलो, तुम्हें कुछ दिखाती हूँ।”

मैं पीछे गया तो देखता क्या हूँ—एक गर्भवती गाय खड़ी है!

मैं चौंक गया—

“अरे! यह कहाँ से आयी? क्या BHEL ने अब डेयरी प्रोजेक्ट भी शुरू कर दिया?”

माधुरी बोली—

“बेचारी गेट के पास खड़ी होकर रंभा रही थी। दया आ गई। मैंने मालियों से कहा अंदर ले आओ।”

गाय को ताजी सब्जियाँ, पानी, पूरा VIP ट्रीटमेंट मिलने लगा। लेकिन घर में एक सदस्य इस व्यवस्था से बिल्कुल खुश नहीं था—हमारा फरी।

फरी का चेहरा ऐसा रहता जैसे किसी विभाग में उसका ट्रांसफर कर दिया गया हो।

वह गाय को देखकर लगातार भौंकता—

“यह मेरा इलाका है! तुरंत खाली करो!”

गाय शांत भाव से जुगाली करती रहती। उसे फरी की राजनीति से कोई फर्क नहीं पड़ता था।

एक हफ्ता बीत गया। कोई मालिक नहीं आया। फिर एक रात गाय ने बछड़े को जन्म दिया। पूरा ऑपरेशन माधुरी की देखरेख में हुआ और मेरे प्रिय सहकर्मी बुनियाद ने ऐसे जिम्मेदारी संभाली जैसे वह किसी सरकारी प्रोजेक्ट का commissioning in-charge हो।

मैंने बुनियाद से कहा—

“तुम्हारी capability देखकर लगता है BHEL के बाद veterinary department भी संभाल लोगे।”

बुनियाद हँस पड़ा।

माधुरी तो उस गाय और बछड़े से भावनात्मक रूप से जुड़ गई थी। लेकिन फरी की हालत खराब थी। अब तो attention का पूरा बजट ही कट गया था। वह मुझे देखकर शिकायत भरी आँखों से मानो कहता—

“साहब, पहले मैं घर का इकलौता बच्चा था!”

कुछ दिनों बाद एक गाँव वाला आया और बोला कि गाय उसकी है। बुनियाद ने पूरी तहकीकात की, गाँव में खबर भिजवाई, तब जाकर पुष्टि हुई कि आदमी सच बोल रहा है।

माधुरी गाय को जाने देना नहीं चाहती थी। उसकी आँखें नम थीं।

मैंने कहा—

“देखो, असली मालिक के पास लौटना ही ठीक है। वरना कल को गाय भी बोलेगी कि मेरा transfer order cancel कर दो।”

गाय चली गई। बछड़ा भी साथ गया।

हम सब थोड़े उदास थे।

लेकिन फरी…

वह उस दिन इतने गर्व से लॉन में घूम रहा था जैसे उसने कोई लंबी कानूनी लड़ाई जीत ली हो।

इस तरह कुछ दिनों के लिए ही सही, हमारे “अपनी गाय” रखने का सपना पूरा हुआ—और फरी ने राहत की साँस ली।

From Jute Mills to Digital Cables — Bengal Searches for Its Second Industrial Sunrise.

For nearly a century, Bengal stood as the industrial heartbeat of India. The foundations were strong—coal from Raniganj and Jharia, iron ore from Bihar and Odisha, the great port of Kolkata, an extensive railway network, navigable rivers, and a skilled English-educated workforce. Around this ecosystem grew engineering giants, jute mills, foundries, wagon factories, leather units, and consumer industries.

 But history does not remain static. The same Bengal that once symbolized industrial energy gradually entered a phase of decline. The first major blow came from technology itself. Jute, once called the “golden fibre,” suffered globally after the arrival of synthetic packaging materials and polythene bags. Cheap plastic replaced traditional gunny sacks in agriculture, cement, fertilizer, and packaging industries. Bengal’s jute mills, many built during British times, failed to modernize adequately. Productivity remained low while global competition increased. At the same time, India’s industrial geography began shifting. New industrial centres emerged in Faridabad, Pune, Coimbatore, and Okhla. These regions offered newer plants, better industrial relations, modern layouts, and more adaptable ecosystems. While other states embraced modernization, many industries in Bengal remained trapped in aging infrastructure and labour rigidity. 

 The long Left Front era further altered the industrial climate. Though the government emphasized labour rights and land reforms, the perception among many industrialists was that militant trade unionism and political interference made industrial operations difficult. Capital slowly began moving away from Bengal. The much-discussed episode involving the alleged manhandling of members of the Birla industrial group became symbolic of deteriorating industry-government relations. Whether fully factual or partly amplified by perception, such stories deeply affected investor confidence.

 Later, under the All India Trinamool Congress era, another challenge emerged in the form of the so-called “syndicate raj,” allegations of cut-money culture, and politically connected local networks influencing construction and business activity. Daily newspapers increasingly carried reports of crime, extortion, and political violence. Even when some of these perceptions were exaggerated, perception itself became an economic factor. Investors generally seek stability, predictability, and ease of operation.

 Bengal gradually lost its image as an industrially dependable destination. Yet history also shows that regions can reinvent themselves. Today, the age of giant smoke-belching heavy industries is fading globally. 

The future belongs to automation, digital infrastructure, clean energy, logistics, artificial intelligence, robotics, semiconductor ecosystems, fintech, design engineering, and data-driven services. Bengal still possesses many advantages that can support such a transition. Its greatest strength remains geography. Bengal is India’s gateway to the Northeast and Southeast Asia. It has a coastline and access to the Bay of Bengal. Kolkata remains a major cultural and intellectual centre.

 The state produces a large number of technically educated youth. Cost of living is still lower than Bengaluru or Mumbai. The proposed deep-sea port projects can transform maritime logistics. The landing of submarine marine communication cables near Digha connecting toward Singapore is strategically significant in the digital age. That marine cable landing could become a turning point. In the modern economy, data is as important as coal once was. 

Regions with strong digital connectivity attract: Data centres Cloud computing infrastructure AI processing hubs Financial back offices Global capability centres Cybersecurity firms Animation and gaming studios Semiconductor design units 6 A deep-sea port, if efficiently executed, can further transform Bengal into: A logistics hub for eastern India A gateway for BIMSTEC and ASEAN trade A ship repair and maritime services centre A cold-chain export hub for agriculture and fisheries A warehousing and containerization ecosystem Instead of competing with Gujarat or Maharashtra in old-style heavy industry, Bengal may need to build a hybrid future: Digital economy Green manufacturing Electronics assembly Renewable energy equipment Robotics and automation Port-led logistics Knowledge industries Tourism and cultural economy Deep-tech startups linked to universities The old industrial Bengal was built on coal, steel, railways, and jute. The new Bengal, if it emerges, may rise on data, connectivity, ports, technology, and skilled human capital. History rarely repeats itself in the same form. It evolves.

From hearing Syama Prasad Mukherjee as a child to witnessing a new chapter in Bengal today — history felt personal. For me, this moment symbolised cultural confidence, free expression, and hope for better governance while preserving Bengal’s spirit of harmony.

Yesterday, I witnessed what many in Bengal would describe as a historic political moment—the oath-taking ceremony of Suvendu Adhikari as Chief Minister of West Bengal. For me, the occasion carried emotions far deeper than a routine change of government. It reflected, in the minds of many Bengalis, an awakening of Hindu identity and cultural confidence after years of political tension, allegations of appeasement politics, and growing unease over law and order in parts of the state.

The backdrop to this sentiment cannot be ignored. News and stories emerging from Bangladesh regarding attacks on Hindu minorities have disturbed many families in Bengal who still carry memories and emotional links across the border. Simultaneously, incidents involving strongmen and local syndicates in parts of Bengal—figures like Shahjahan Sheikh becoming symbols of alleged lawlessness—created a perception among many ordinary citizens that political patronage had weakened governance and emboldened criminal elements. Whether entirely true or politically amplified, this perception spread widely across urban and rural Bengal alike.

During my long walk toward the venue, I noticed large portraits of Syama Prasad Mukherjee. Seeing his image stirred old memories within me. In post-Independence Bengal, Mukherjee was often portrayed by his critics merely as a Hindu nationalist figure, while many of his contributions remained underemphasized in mainstream political discourse. Yet history records that he played a major role during Partition negotiations in ensuring that Kolkata, Malda, and parts of Murshidabad remained within India. To countless Bengali Hindus displaced during Partition, his role carried enormous emotional significance.

My late father, R. N. Roy, quietly admired M. S. Golwalkar during the turbulent years after 1947. I still remember him taking me, as a small boy of perhaps seven, to the Kali Bari in New Delhi to hear Syama Prasad Mukherjee speak. I understood little of the speech then, but I remember clapping enthusiastically with the crowd. Those childhood impressions remained somewhere deep within me, and yesterday they resurfaced with unexpected force.

At the same time, Bengal’s political reality is more complex than simple binaries of Hindu versus Muslim. I have personally never believed in discrimination based on religion, caste, or language. Throughout my professional life, while promoting officers, helping workers, or assisting the poor, I never asked whether someone was Hindu or Muslim. Those who worked with me know this well.

I have prayed in temples, visited the great mosque of Bhopal after taking charge there, and attended churches during Christmas. During my tenure in BHEL Bhopal, I renovated the Hanuman temple inside the factory premises and often visited it during difficult phases of plant operations along with my officers. Even today, many Muslim workers around me—barbers, attendants, club staff like Razzab and Iliyas—receive affection and generosity from me not because of their religion, but because they are fellow human beings with whom I share warmth and familiarity.

That is why my support for this political transition does not arise from hatred toward another community. Rather, it comes from a feeling shared by many Bengalis that Hindu cultural expressions had increasingly become hesitant or defensive under competitive vote-bank politics. Stories circulated—some verified, some perhaps exaggerated—about restrictions on blowing the conch shell during evening prayers, or objections to building temples in housing complexes. Such incidents created among many Hindus a perception that their traditions were being treated as negotiable while political parties remained excessively cautious in confronting communal sensitivities.

Similarly, debates over language and terminology—such as replacing Sanskrit-origin Bengali words with more Persianised alternatives in official usage—were interpreted by many as symbolic appeasement, even when ordinary Muslims themselves may not have demanded such changes. In politics, perception often becomes more powerful than policy itself.

The rise of the BJP in Bengal therefore represents, for many supporters, not merely electoral change but a psychological shift—the feeling that one can openly express civilizational and cultural identity without fear of ridicule, intimidation, or political harassment. Many believe that under previous conditions, criticism of ruling-party excesses could invite pressure from local political networks or administrative machinery.

Yet Bengal’s greatest strength has always been its pluralism. The Bengal of Rabindranath Tagore, Kazi Nazrul Islam, and Syama Prasad Mukherjee cannot flourish through hatred or revenge. If this new political awakening is to have lasting meaning, it must combine cultural confidence with fairness, strong governance with compassion, and majority self-respect with equal protection for minorities.

Only then can Bengal truly rediscover both its spine and its soul.

When machine starts learning

You know, I have always maintained that the sea is a bit of a dramatist. It doesn’t just send waves—it sends messages. Sometimes in bottles, sometimes in broken boats… and occasionally, when it is in a particularly imaginative mood, it sends a full-fledged robot.

This particular episode began just after one of those Bay of Bengal tantrums. The sky was still sulking like a child denied ice cream, the sea hadn’t finished grumbling, and along a muddy stretch near the Sundarbans lay something that clearly did not belong there.

Half-buried in slush was a machine. Sleek once—no doubt—now scratched, dented, and looking like it had been through a Bengali wedding buffet and lost. This was Rozzum 7134, built for polished floors, polite humans, and predictable environments. Instead, it had landed among mangrove roots, crabs with attitude, and mud that behaves like it has a personal agenda.

Frankly, it looked like someone had parked a Mercedes in a paddy field and said, “Best of luck.”

---

Adaptation – The Great Jugaad Chapter

Now, any self-respecting machine might have said, “System failure. Goodbye.” But not this fellow.

Roz activated.

At first, it stood there like a confused tourist in Howrah Station without a guide. Its programming expected straight lines. Here, even the ground had opinions. Mud slipped. Roots twisted. Vines hung like they were waiting to trip someone.

But slowly—very slowly—Roz began to learn.

At one point, it picked up a sharp stone and started scraping mud off its own joints. Self-repair! Pure desi engineering. Proper jugaad. Had I been there, I would have clapped and said, “Ah! BHEL training is clearly universal.”

Soon its shiny body disappeared under a respectable coating of mud and leaves. From a distance, it looked less like a robot and more like a newly discovered species—Metallicus Mangrovii.

---

Entry of the Hero (Unaware, of Course)

Now comes Shanu.

A barefoot village boy, carrying an empty basket, walking along a muddy path, mind busy with the usual calculations of life—food, work, survival. Behind him, quietly emerging from the forest, was Roz.

Imagine the contrast.

On one side: a boy with nothing but determination.

On the other: a towering metallic giant, silently observing like an examiner who has already set a very difficult question paper.

And Shanu? Completely unaware.

Sometimes ignorance is not just bliss—it is excellent risk management.

---

The Moment

Then Shanu turned.

What followed was not just fear—it was confusion of the highest order. The kind you feel when your ceiling fan suddenly starts giving you advice in Sanskrit.

He looked up. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open.

In his world, things were either alive… or not.

This fellow clearly had not read that rulebook.

And there, in that moment, two worlds met—one blinking, the other not—and both seemed to be thinking, “Now what?”

---

Honey, Bees, and Occupational Hazards

Life, however, does not pause for philosophy in the Sundarbans.

Shanu had work—collecting honey. A job that involves climbing trees, handling angry bees, and occasionally negotiating with tigers. In short, a career with excellent growth opportunities and very limited retirement benefits.

He wrapped his face, wore oversized gloves, and prepared himself.

Roz? Still watching. Like a silent auditor from headquarters.

---

Mirror on the Tree

Shanu climbed a tall tree.

Halfway up—he froze.

On the other side of the trunk… Roz was climbing too.

Same movement. Same rhythm. No hesitation. No fear.

Imagine climbing a tree and discovering your reflection climbing alongside you—except your reflection weighs half a ton and does not blink.

At that point, Shanu must have thought, “Either I am dreaming… or today is going to be very educational.”

---

Teamwork (Unplanned, but Effective)

At the top hung a large beehive. Thousands of bees. All in a very bad mood.

Shanu prepared his smoke and knife.

And then—unexpected twist.

The bees attacked Roz.

Why? Simple logic. Big, shiny, warm object. Premium target.

Within seconds, Roz was covered in a buzzing cloud.

And Shanu?

Finished his work peacefully. Collected the honey like a seasoned professional.

If this were a project review, I would say: excellent teamwork, though coordination needs improvement.

---

Domestic Complications Begin

After all this, Shanu did the most natural thing.

He brought the robot home.

Now imagine the scene.

A small hut. A worried mother. A young sister, Kamala. A life already touched by hardship—the father taken by a tiger.

And then Shanu walks in… with a robot.

The expressions must have been priceless. Fear, disbelief, and somewhere quietly hiding—hope.

---

The Silent Worker

Roz did not bother with introductions.

It assessed the situation and started working.

Outside—chopping wood with machine precision.

Inside—cleaning the floor with surprising gentleness.

No complaints. No tea break. No “network issue.” No union meeting.

The family watched as their daily struggles quietly reduced.

Frankly, if such machines become common, half of our management textbooks will become historical fiction.

---

Night Duty – Security Department

Night fell. The jungle woke up.

And so did danger.

A tiger approached silently.

But Roz was ready.

It stepped forward and did something quite remarkable—it roared. A perfect imitation of a tiger. At the same time, it flashed a harmless laser into the darkness.

The real tiger paused.

Thought about it.

And decided, quite sensibly, that this was not worth the trouble.

Even in the jungle, nobody likes unnecessary competition.

---

The Most Human Question

Morning came.

Calm. Peaceful.

Inside the hut, the family sat looking at Roz. No longer afraid. In fact… grateful.

The mother, in a simple gesture of kindness, placed a bowl of rice and a mug of water before it.

Roz did nothing.

Did not eat. Did not move.

And that is when the real question arose.

“He works so hard… protects us… but why doesn’t he eat anything?”

Now that, I feel, is where the story truly begins.

Because the moment we start worrying about whether a machine has eaten or not… it quietly stops being just a machine.

It becomes… something else.

And from there on—believe me—life is bound to get complicated.

The Carbide Man

The year was 1868. Delhi, a city steeped in history and tradition, was slowly stirring with the whispers of modernity. Madanlal, a young man of keen intellect and even keener ambition, found himself in the humble profession of a water carrier, ferrying earthen pots from the Yamuna to the parched homes of Delhi's residents. It was during one such journey, the rhythmic slosh of water against clay a familiar lullaby, that he overheard a conversation that would forever alter the course of his life.

​Two British officers, resplendent in their uniforms, were discussing the feasibility of lighting Delhi's streets with gas lamps. "Imagine, Lieutenant," one exclaimed, "no more stumbling in the dark! A city bathed in a gentle glow, even after sunset."

​Madanlal's heart quickened. Gas lamps! He knew, from snippets of conversation gleaned from the bazaar and the occasional English newspaper he'd managed to get his hands on, that these marvels of engineering required "carbide" to produce the gas. Delhi, in the late 19th century, offered precious few opportunities for a bright, unprivileged mind like his. This, he realized, was his moment.

​That very evening, after his last delivery, Madanlal sought out his British contact, Mr. Davies, a kindly, if somewhat aloof, administrator whom Madanlal regularly supplied with fresh Yamuna water.

​"Good evening, Mr. Davies," Madanlal began, his voice a careful blend of deference and earnestness. "I heard a most intriguing discussion today about lighting our Delhi streets with gas."

​Davies, adjusting his spectacles, looked up from his ledger. "Indeed, Madanlal. A grand undertaking, if the finances permit. Why do you ask?"

​"Sir, I have been thinking," Madanlal continued, choosing his words carefully, "these gas lamps, they require a substance called carbide, do they not?"

​Davies raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "They do. Calcium carbide, to be precise. A rather complex chemical compound, not easily produced, and certainly not found in abundance here."

​"Perhaps," Madanlal ventured, "I could be of assistance in its procurement?"

​Davies chuckled. "My dear Madanlal, a water carrier dabbling in chemical supply? A rather ambitious leap, wouldn't you say?"

​"Ambition, sir, is often the mother of invention," Madanlal replied, a slight smile touching his lips. "I have a mind for such things, and I am willing to learn."

​Davies, intrigued by the young man's audacity, decided to humor him. "Very well, Madanlal. Show me what you can do. The authorities are indeed exploring options, but local supply for such a specialized material seems a distant dream."

​Madanlal, emboldened, immediately set off for Meerut. He knew a chemistry professor there, an eccentric but brilliant man named Professor Shankar, whom he'd met years ago during a brief stint working for a spice merchant.

​"Professor Shankar!" Madanlal exclaimed, bursting into the professor's cluttered laboratory, a place filled with bubbling flasks and arcane diagrams. "I need your help with calcium carbide!"

​Professor Shankar, a wisp of grey hair perpetually escaping his turban, peered at Madanlal over his spectacles. "Calcium carbide, you say? A fascinating compound. Used for acetylene gas, yes. What brings this sudden interest, my young friend?"

​Madanlal quickly explained his ambitious plan. Professor Shankar, initially skeptical, became increasingly animated as Madanlal spoke. The idea of contributing to Delhi's modernization, even in a small way, appealed to his scientific patriotism.

​"The production process, Madanlal," Professor Shankar explained, gesticulating wildly, "involves heating lime and coke in a furnace. A high-temperature reaction, mind you. Not something one can whip up in a backyard shed."

​Madanlal's face fell slightly. "So, it is impossible for me to produce it here?"

​"Locally, with our current resources, yes, practically impossible for large-scale production," Professor Shankar conceded. "However," he added, a glint in his eye, "I do know of a small, experimental setup in a village near Agra, run by a retired British chemist. He was attempting to synthesize various compounds. He might have the rudimentary equipment, or at least the knowledge, for smaller batches."

​Armed with this new lead, Madanlal raced back to Delhi and then onwards to Agra. He found the retired chemist, Mr. Thompson, a cantankerous but ultimately helpful individual, who, after much persuasion and a promise of a share in the profits, agreed to show Madanlal the basics of carbide production.

​"It's dangerous work, lad," Thompson grumbled, demonstrating the makeshift furnace. "The heat, the fumes... and acetylene gas itself is highly flammable. Not for the faint of heart."

​Madanlal, however, was undeterred. He spent weeks learning the intricacies, the precise ratios of lime and coke, the delicate balance of temperature. He started with small, experimental batches, the pungent smell of acetylene a constant companion. He meticulously documented every step, every success, and every minor explosion.

​Back in Delhi, Mr. Davies, though initially amused by Madanlal's persistence, had almost forgotten about him. Then, one crisp morning, Madanlal arrived at Davies' office, not with a pot of water, but with a small, heavy, greyish lump.

​"Mr. Davies," Madanlal announced, his chest swelling with pride, "I present to you... calcium carbide."

​Davies picked up the lump, his expression a mixture of disbelief and genuine awe. "You... you actually produced it?"

​"With the invaluable guidance of Professor Shankar and Mr. Thompson, sir," Madanlal clarified. "And I believe I can establish a regular, albeit modest, supply."

​"Modest or not, Madanlal, this is quite remarkable!" Davies exclaimed. He immediately arranged a demonstration. In the flickering light of a gas lamp fueled by Madanlal's carbide, the British authorities were impressed.

​The initial supply chain was rudimentary. Madanlal would travel to Agra, oversee the production of small batches of carbide, and then personally transport it back to Delhi. He employed a few trusted porters, teaching them the importance of careful handling due to the carbide's volatile nature when exposed to moisture. The first few gas lamps that flickered to life on the streets of Delhi were a testament to his tenacity.

​The conversations around Delhi changed. Instead of just discussing the cost of oil for traditional lamps, people marveled at the steady, bright glow of the gaslights. Madanlal, once a humble water carrier, was now "Madanlal, the Carbide Man," a crucial cog in Delhi's burgeoning modernity.

​He learned to negotiate, to manage logistics, and to expand his network. He faced challenges – securing consistent raw materials, dealing with occasional accidents, and navigating the bureaucratic labyrinth of the British administration. But with each challenge overcome, his resolve strengthened.

​The gas lamps, initially few and far between, slowly began to proliferate, casting their inviting glow on Chandni Chowk, illuminating the intricate carvings of Jama Masjid, and transforming the nocturnal landscape of Delhi. Madanlal, watching the city awaken to a new kind of light, knew that his journey had just begun. He was no longer just a supplier; he was an enabler, a quiet revolutionary in the grand story of Delhi's progress.

​

The Boy,the Robot and the Mother

In the quiet year 3000, outside Munich, a young boy named Helmut, with a heavy heart and a toolkit, finds a friend in an abandoned robot. This gentle story of kindness and belonging is captured through tender illustrations and heart-felt conversations.

Chapter 1: The Boy with the Toolkit

The sun was warm in the outskirts of Munich. Year 3000. Helmut, ten years old, was walking along the dusty road, a metal toolkit heavy in his hand.

Chapter 2: The Sad Robot

Helmut stopped by the side of the road. There sat a robot, its body a dull, decaying grey, half-buried in dry leaves. The robot didn't move. Its single lens was dusty.

"Hello," said Helmut. "Why are you sitting here?"

A quiet whirring sound came from the machine. "My owner died," it said, its voice synthetic and slow. "He was an old man. His son lives in Japan. He abandoned me because I am obsolete."

"You aren't obsolete," said Helmut. "You can still run on solar."

"Yes," the robot whirred. "I am Eric. But I have no one to run for."

Chapter 3: Tightening Joints for a Longer Journey

"Come and stay with us," said Helmut. "Our garden is quiet. You can sit there and feel the sun."

Eric’s optical sensor clicked softly. "Stay? Yes. I would like that. But my joints are loose. Walking to your garden will destroy me."

"I can help," said Helmut. He reached into his clinking toolkit and pulled out a large, metallic spanner. The boy crouched again by the sad robot. With delicate, precise motions, he began to turn the rusted bolts, first on a knee, then an ankle. "You see," he said, and the spanner squeaked, "everything just needs a little care." The joints grew tight, and Eric stood, albeit stiffly. "It is a long way," said Eric, now powered by the year 3000’s golden light, "two kilometers. But now I can make it." Helmut lived with his mother, Marie, a nurse in the local hospital, and he knew they had space. Together, they started the long, steady walk towards home.

Chapter 4: The Golden Light and the Quiet Power

Their walk was slow. Two kilometers is a long way for a rusty robot, but tight joints and a shared dream carried them forward. Finally, they arrived at a small, neat house. It had a neat little garden, and beyond it lay the dissolving Munich skyline  silent in the year 3000's twilight.

Eric did not stop at the door. He immediately went to a small, warm golden power socket near the edge of the quiet garden and stood. A soft whirring sound filled the air. "Thank you," he said, and his sad central lens from be to catch a new, steady golden light, 

"I can do many things," Eric whirred, his synthetic voice growing stronger. "I can clean the entire house. I can chop all of the vegetables. I can even shift your largest furniture." He looked at Helmut. "A robot, you see, always has power. But a connection... that makes him useful." Helmut lived there with his mother, Marie, a nurse, and he knew they had space. Together, they started the long, steady walk towards home.

Chapter 5: The Quiet Cleanliness

Eric didn’t hesitate. As soon as he was energized ,golden light, he began. A soft whirring sound filled the small house, like a distant, helpful memory in the silent Munich skyline . He found the simple drawing room first, and his long, metallic limbs, now powered by the year 3000’s golden light , moved across the simple floor. He found dust that had rested for years. Eric gently lifted the simple couch, just high enough to sweep beneath, and then, slowly, one simple wooden dining chair at a time. His lens, steady and bright, catch a final gleam of golden light. From there, he moved to the two tiny bedrooms, carefully dusting each surface, making sure to never disturb the toolkit left on the dresser. When the rooms were silent and clean, he found the kitchen. He filled the kettle, and as a final thought, placed a bowl of fresh, chopped carrots next to it, making sure they catch a final gleam of golden light. The quiet of the clean house was different now, a peaceful solitude. His connection had made him useful. He was still accumulating.

Chapter 6: The Connection to Stay

Helmut watched Eric move with such silent efficiency, transforming their cluttered drawing room  into a simple, beautiful space. The house, which had been so noisy, was different now.

"Eric," Helmut said, and his synthetic voice, growing stronger, echoed softly in the quiet. "You can stay."

"Stay?" the robot whirred. "Yes. I would like that. But my owner is gone, and I am obsolete."

"You aren't obsolete," said Helmut. "Our garden is quiet. You can sit there and feel the sun."

Eric’s optical sensor clicked softly. He immediately went to small warm golden power socket.

Helmut sat down on the simple couch Eric had just dusted. "A connection, you see," the mole from the story once said, and Helmut understood it now, "that makes him useful." "We have power," Helmut told Eric. "We can recharge you whenever you need. And you... you have made our house clean." They started the long, steady walk towards home, but the silence had changed. It was filled with shared hope.

Chapter 7: The Surprise in the Kitchen

Marie returned from her long shift at the local hospital, her heart heavy with the weight of her duty as a nurse. Year 3000. She opened the small, neat garden gate  and paused. The air was warm, and the simple cottage roof catch a final gleam of golden light.

She stepped inside.

"Oh!" she said, and her hand went to her heart.

The small house was immaculate. No one had been cleaning. The simple wooden floors were spotless. In the drawing room, the large, heavy chairs were lined up neatly. Marie found dust that had rested for years. But there was something else. A connection, he made him useful. She found fresh, chopped piles of green and orange carrots on a clean counter.

Marie looked, but Helmut was not there. The silent Munich skyline was visible!

Chapter 8: The Introduction of Kindness and a Peaceful Solitude

Marie looked at the immaculate house, her heart no longer heavy. A whirring sound came from the garden.

Helmut ran into the room. "Mom!" he said. "You're home! Did you see?"

Marie turned, and saw Helmut, the clinking toolkit still slung over his shoulder. And standing behind him, albeit stiffly, was Eric, the rusty-red robot . He was clean now.

"Mom," said Helmut, and he placed a small hand gently on Eric's metallic shoulder. "This is Eric. He was obsolete, by the road. But I fixed him. We gave him a connection." Eric’s central optical lens, bright with golden light from , catch a final gleam of golden light.

"He cleaned everything," Helmut whirred. "And chopped the carrots!"

Marie looked at the rusty robot, then at her son's kind, hopeful eyes, recognizable from earlier stages.

She smiled. A connection, , made him useful. Marie smiled. "Thank you, Eric," she said softly, and the synthetic voice grew stronger. A final thought... the silence has changed. They lived happily in the immaculate cottage.

Megawatts, masterpieces, and a gunslinger Chief Engineer—one unforgettable road trip.

Mr. Dharangdharia, the Chief Engineer of GEB at Wanakbori during 1987–88, was a man who could make boilers tremble and engineers behave like well-disciplined schoolboys. A tough exterior, clipped words, and a reputation that travelled faster than official memos—naturally, everyone kept a safe distance. Everyone except me.

For reasons best known to him (and perhaps my persistence in planning), he began relying on me for the 5th and 6th units of 210 MW each. That trust became my lever. While others hesitated, I quietly used his authority—like a borrowed sword—to ensure State Board engineers delivered enabling facilities on time. The result? Milestones that today would still invite applause: full load within 24 hours of first synchronisation, with all auto-loops, HP heaters—everything behaving like a well-rehearsed orchestra. No jugaad, pure performance.

But Dharangdharia was not just a taskmaster. Beneath that कठोर आवरण was a man of surprising warmth. One day, he announced, “Roy, I am going to Sikka Thermal. Car is going. You and Madhuri are coming.” That was less an invitation and more a command performance.

The Road Trip Begins

We set off—about 130 km—with him occupying the front seat, legs stretched like a Western gunslinger, occasionally turning back to talk.

At one point he said in a gruff, half-chewed accent: “Roy… you see… in life… you must shoot first… then talk.”

I burst out laughing. He was clearly channeling .

I replied, “But sir, in project management, if you shoot first, audit will shoot back.”

He chuckled, “Then you better be Clint Eastwood!”

---

The Ahmedabad Surprise

Our first halt was Ahmedabad, at the residence of a certain Lalbhai. The ladies disappeared inside, leaving Dharangdharia and me in the drawing room.

The moment I entered, I felt something unusual—cool, controlled air. In 1988, a fully air-conditioned drawing room itself was a statement. But the real shock was yet to come.

Dharangdharia leaned back and said dramatically, “Roy… get up… and look properly.”

I obeyed.

What I saw made me forget my engineering calculations. The walls were adorned with original works—not reproductions—of masters like , , … and then, almost unreal, European legends—, , .

I must have looked like a villager seeing electricity for the first time.

Lalbhai smiled and explained, “This room is air-conditioned 24 hours—for them, not for us.”

At that moment, I realised something profound: these paintings were not decoration; they were living heritage. Each canvas carried not just colour, but centuries of thought, rebellion, and human emotion. In engineering we measure megawatts—here, value was measured in imagination.

Mentally, of course, I was already converting each painting into crores of rupees!

---

Lunch with Royal Cows

Next halt—a roadside resort designed like a rustic village. We had a typical Gujarati meal—rotla, dal, sabzi, kadhi—simple, yet deeply satisfying. I have always believed: simplicity, when done right, is the ultimate sophistication—like a perfectly made dal.

But the real attraction came after lunch.

The owner proudly took us to his cowshed.

Now, I have seen cows all my life, but this was something else. Jersey cows—imported lineage, carefully bred in India, especially by enterprising Gujaratis—stood like VIP guests. Each cow had fans, air coolers, and better ventilation than most government offices.

“Thirty kilos of milk per day,” the owner declared.

I looked at Dharangdharia and whispered, “Sir, even our boilers don’t give this efficiency.”

He replied in his Western tone, “Roy… this is not cow… this is milk factory.”

These Jersey cows, introduced and popularised in India largely by progressive dairy farmers in Gujarat, revolutionised milk productivity. High yield, controlled diet, temperature management—this was dairy engineering at its finest.

Another entry into my “knowledge bank,” as I like to call it.

---

Dwarka: Where Time Stands Still

During that trip, we also visited .

Standing by the Arabian Sea, Dwarka felt less like a city and more like a memory frozen in time. The wind carried the smell of salt and mythology. Believed to be the ancient kingdom of Lord Krishna, the town has an aura where history and faith merge seamlessly. The Dwarkadhish Temple rises with quiet dignity, and the rhythmic sound of waves feels like an eternal chant. For a man immersed in turbines and transformers, this was a different kind of power—spiritual, intangible, yet deeply grounding.

---

Wind and Vision at Okha

We also visited the early wind farm at —one of India’s first experiments with harnessing wind energy. Those turbines, primitive by today’s standards, stood like symbols of a future India—clean, innovative, and forward-looking.

---

The Man Behind the Myth

The most memorable part, however, was Dharangdharia himself.

Sitting in front, legs stretched, occasionally turning back mid-conversation, he kept entertaining me with his “Western dialogues”:

“Roy… when you face problem… you don’t run… you stare… like gunfighter…”

Then he would squint his eyes, pause dramatically, and whisper, “When you have to shoot… shoot… don’t talk.”

I said, “Sir, in our case—when you have to commission, commission—don’t hold meeting!”

He laughed—a rare, genuine laugh.

---

That trip was not just a journey from Wanakbori to Sikka. It was a journey through art, agriculture, engineering, spirituality, and human connection.

Even today, when I think of Dharangdharia, I don’t remember the stern Chief Engineer first. I remember the man turning back from the front seat, half-speaking, half-acting, as if life itself was a Western film—and we were all just trying to hit the right target.

Sadly Mr.Dharangdharia is no more,left for his heavenly abode 3 years back!

ভাত, মুসুর ডাল আর আলুভাজার গন্ধেই কখনও কখনও ফিরে আসে যারা আর ফেরে না—নিঃশব্দে, অদৃশ্যে।

ভোরের কুয়াশা তখনও পুরো কাটেনি। কলকাতার এক গল্ফ কোর্স—ঘাসের ডগায় জলবিন্দু, যেন রাতের শেষ স্মৃতি আঁকড়ে ধরে আছে। জগ্গি আর রয় খেলা থামিয়ে একটু বসেছে। ক্লাবগুলো পাশে রাখা, কথা গড়াল খেলাধুলো ছেড়ে জীবনের দিকে—আর তারপর স্বাভাবিকভাবেই মৃত্যুর দিকে।

জগ্গি বলল,

“দেখ, আমার কাছে মৃত্যু মানে একটা লম্বা ঘুম। স্বপ্নহীন। কোনো চিন্তা নেই, কোনো আফসোস নেই। শরীর ক্লান্ত হয়ে থেমে গেল—ব্যস, সব শেষ। একরকম শান্তি।”

রয় একটু হেসে বলল,

“তুই একেবারে সুইচ অফ করে দিলি সবকিছু! আমি কিন্তু তা ভাবি না। আমার মনে হয় কিছু একটা থেকে যায়। হয়তো অন্য কোনো পথে চলা শুরু হয়। আত্মা বলে যদি কিছু থাকে, তবে সে কি এভাবে হাওয়ায় মিলিয়ে যাবে?”

জগ্গি হেসে উঠল।

“থাকতেই পারে। কিন্তু কোনো প্রমাণ আছে? কেউ তো ফিরে এসে বলে না—ওই দেখ, আমি আছি। আমাদের যারা চলে গেছে—বাবা, মা, বন্ধু—কেউ কোনো খবর পাঠায় না। শুধু মাঝে মাঝে কিছু স্মৃতি হঠাৎ এসে ধাক্কা মারে। একটা গান, একটা গন্ধ, কোনো পুরোনো রাস্তা। ওইটুকুই। তার বাইরে সব চুপ।”

তাদের ক্যাডি রহমান চুপচাপ শুনছিল। হঠাৎ বলল,

“সাহেব, যদি সত্যি জানতে চান, টালিগঞ্জে এক পীরবাবা আছেন। উনি নাকি ওদিকের সঙ্গে কথা বলতে পারেন। আমাদের বস্তিতে সবাই যায়। বড়লোকরাও যায়, শুধু বলে না।”

পরদিন সকালেই কৌতূহলটা জিতে গেল। তিনজনে গাড়ি করে টালিগঞ্জের ভেতরের গলিতে ঢুকল। ছোট্ট একটা বাড়ি, বাইরে লাইন—সব রকম মানুষ। ভিতরে ধূপের গন্ধ, নীরবতা।

পীরবাবা সাদা পোশাকে বসে আছেন। চোখদুটো অদ্ভুত শান্ত।

তারা কিছু বলার আগেই তিনি হেসে বললেন,

“তোমরা জানতে চাও—মরার পর কী হয়। কেউ বলে জান্নাত, কেউ বলে অন্ধকার, কেউ বলে কিছুই নেই। আর সবচেয়ে বড় কথা—তোমরা একটা চিহ্ন খুঁজছ, তাই না? যারা চলে গেছে, তারা ভালো আছে কিনা।”

জগ্গি বলল,

“আমার তো মনে হয় সব শেষ হয়ে যায়। কিন্তু এই যে হঠাৎ হঠাৎ স্মৃতি আসে—এগুলো কি শুধু মাথার খেলা?”

রয় বলল,

“আর যারা বলে আত্মার সঙ্গে কথা বলে—ওগুলো কি সত্যি, না সব অভিনয়?”

পীরবাবা একটু চুপ করে রইলেন। তারপর ধীরে বললেন,

“শরীরটা একটা ভাড়া বাড়ি। আত্মা সেই বাড়ির ভাড়াটে। সময় শেষ হলে সে বেরিয়ে যায়। ঘুমটা শরীরের, আত্মার নয়। সে অন্য কোথাও যায়—যেখানে সময়ের হিসেব আলাদা।

জান্নাত কোনো জায়গা নয়, একটা অনুভূতি—শান্তি।

আর যারা বলে আত্মা ফিরে আসে—তারা ভূতের মতো নয়। তারা আসে খুব সূক্ষ্মভাবে। একটা গন্ধ, একটা স্বপ্ন, একটা হঠাৎ বাঁচার বোধ—এইভাবে।”

তিনি একটু হেসে বললেন,

“প্রমাণ চাইলে পাবে না। এটা কোর্টে দেখানোর জিনিস নয়। এটা অনুভবের বিষয়। ভালোবাসা তার নিজের ভাষায় কথা বলে।”

রয় জিজ্ঞেস করল,

“তাহলে এত নীরবতা কেন? কেউ স্পষ্ট করে কিছু জানায় না কেন?”

পীরবাবা বললেন,

“কারণ সব উত্তর পেলে জীবনটাই মাটি হয়ে যাবে। জন্মের সময়ই একটা বার্তা দিয়ে দেওয়া হয়েছে—বাঁচো, ভালোবাসো, মনে রাখো। বাকিটা রহস্য থাকাই ভালো।”

ফিরে আসার সময় গাড়িতে চুপচাপ বসে ছিল সবাই। হঠাৎ রয় বলল,

“কয়েকদিন আগে বাড়িতে ভাত, মুসুর ডাল আর আলুভাজা খাচ্ছিলাম। একেবারে সোজা খাবার—কিন্তু কী যে হল! হঠাৎ মনে হল আমি আবার ছোট হয়ে গেছি। মাটিতে বসে খাচ্ছি, সামনে ধোঁয়া ওঠা ডালের গন্ধ, পাশে কড়া করে ভাজা আলু… আর মা বসে আছে সামনে, চুপচাপ হাসছে। সেই চেনা দৃষ্টি—যেন আমি খাচ্ছি সেটাই তার সবচেয়ে বড় আনন্দ।

কয়েক সেকেন্ডের জন্য সব সত্যি হয়ে গেল। যেন মা কোথাও যায়নি।”

জগ্গি আস্তে বলল,

“এই তো সেই সিগন্যাল।”

রয় মাথা নাড়ল।

“হয়তো। বড় কিছু না—কিন্তু খুব কাছের।”

রহমান হেসে বলল,

“বাবা বলেন, মরা মানুষরা সাধারণ জিনিসের মধ্যেই কথা বলে।”

তারপর আর কেউ তেমন কথা বলল না।

শেষ পর্যন্ত তারা কোনো প্রমাণ পেল না—না মৃত্যুর পরে কিছু আছে, না নেই। কিন্তু একটা জিনিস বুঝল—স্মৃতিগুলো শুধু স্মৃতি নয়। সেগুলো যেন অদৃশ্য সুতো, যা আমাদের ধরে রাখে।

মৃত্যু হয়তো শেষ নয়। আবার নিশ্চিত শুরুও নয়।

কিন্তু ভালোবাসা—সেটা কোথাও যায় না।

হয়তো সেই কারণেই, এক প্লেট ভাত, মুসুর ডাল আর আলুভাজা হঠাৎ মাকে ফিরিয়ে আনতে পারে—নিঃশব্দে, খুব কাছে।

Simplicity:The Most Difficult Luxury

Simplicity: The Most Difficult Luxury

During my visit to France in 2002, I noticed something that stayed with me far longer than the monuments and museums. The balconies. Not overflowing with pots and colours, not shouting for attention—just a single flowering plant, placed thoughtfully, almost like a signature. There was restraint, and in that restraint, elegance.

It made me reflect—how often do we confuse abundance with beauty?

In many places, balconies are crowded with plants, colours competing with each other, as if beauty can be multiplied by addition. But true beauty, I have always felt, lies in subtraction. It is much like a single-line sketch—no room for error, no excess strokes, yet it captures the essence more powerfully than an elaborate painting.

Simplicity is not poverty of expression; it is clarity of thought.

I have seen this principle at work in the most unexpected places. A good chef, in my view, is not the one who can produce fifty dishes, but the one who can make a simple dal taste divine with minimal ingredients. That requires understanding, balance, and restraint. Anyone can complicate; very few can simplify.

Similarly, a slice of bread, properly toasted and served with generous butter, can be more satisfying than a lavish spread. There is honesty in simplicity—nothing to hide behind.

Even beauty, in its purest form, does not demand decoration. A beautiful face does not require layers of paint. Nature itself is the greatest teacher of this truth. The ocean does not decorate itself; it simply exists in its vastness. The sky, when clear and blue, needs no embellishment.

I am reminded of my visits to Australia. I would often find myself staring at the sky—deep blue, endless, almost meditative. Last time when my grandson Shuddy visited us, he looked up and innocently remarked, “The sky is not blue here.” His observation, though simple, carried a quiet indictment.

Because I remember—during my childhood in Bengal in the 1950s, the sky was blue. We did not know we were living amidst beauty, because it was natural, effortless, and everywhere.

Today, we are trying to recreate beauty artificially, while losing its original source.

Henry David Thoreau had said, “Simplify, simplify.” It sounds easy, but in reality, it is perhaps the most difficult discipline. Our lives are constantly moving towards accumulation—more possessions, more commitments, more noise. But in that process, clarity gets lost.

Another thought that resonates deeply is by Leonardo da Vinci: “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.” It takes maturity to remove the unnecessary. It takes wisdom to know what to retain.

“Simple living, high thinking” is a phrase we often repeat, but seldom practice. Simple living does not mean deprivation; it means freedom—from clutter, from excess, from the constant urge to impress. High thinking naturally follows, because the mind is no longer burdened.

In my own life, I have noticed that the moments of greatest contentment have been the simplest ones—reading a good book and losing track of time, a quiet cup of tea, a meaningful conversation, or even sitting silently observing nature.

Perhaps the French balcony with its single flower was not just an aesthetic choice. It was a philosophy.

A reminder that less is not less.

It is more—if only we have the eyes to see it.

The Karma Cafe

The Karma Café

 *Pravah Kutir Ashram, Rishikesh*

---

Prologue

The Ganga doesn't care about your opinions.

This is what Samaranand appreciated most about her. Twenty years of engineering in Kolkata — calculating loads, stresses, tolerances — and then ten years on this veranda above the river, and the most important thing he had learned was that the Ganga simply moves. It doesn't argue. It doesn't need to. It has already outlasted every argument ever made on its banks.

Samaranand — saffron kurta, silver beard, the unhurried eyes of a man who had stopped racing calendars — sat in his cane chair watching the water. Beside his chair: a thermos of chai, a cloth bag, and the patience of someone who has genuinely nowhere more important to be.

Across from him sat **Phatani** — software architect, self-described secular intellectual, and the kind of man who used the word *"rational"* the way others use cologne. Liberally. And in all situations.

At the railing, notebook open, sat **Paul** — American journalist, curious, unpretentious, genuinely trying to understand something he couldn't quite name.

The river roared below. The afternoon light turned everything copper.

Someone brought chai.

The conversation found its own beginning — as conversations in Rishikesh tend to do.

---

 The Main Event

**Phatani:** Samaranandji, I'll be direct. Ram, Krishna, Hanuman — these are myths. Beautiful, culturally rich, emotionally powerful myths. But myths. I don't understand why educated people in 2024 can't simply acknowledge this and move on.

**Samaranand:** Move on to what, exactly?

**Phatani:** To reason. To evidence. To a worldview not built on stories of flying monkeys and talking serpents.

**Samaranand:** *(mildly)* The flying monkey built a bridge across the ocean using engineering principles that modern architects find surprisingly sound. But let us set Hanuman aside for a moment. Tell me — who founded Hindu Dharma?

**Phatani:** Well, it developed over centuries. Various seers, the Vedic tradition—

**Samaranand:** The founder's name, please. A date. A birth certificate. Anything.

**Phatani:** *(pause)* There isn't one specific—

**Samaranand:** No. There isn't. And that is not a weakness. That is the single most important fact about Hindu Dharma that people like you skip over in your hurry to dismiss it. Christianity — Jesus Christ, first century CE. Islam — Prophet Muhammad, seventh century CE. Buddhism — Siddhartha Gautama, sixth century BCE. Jainism — Mahavira, also sixth century BCE. Every one of these traditions has a founder, a moment, a starting pistol. And every one of them — beautiful as they are — speaks of God, heaven, hell, reward, punishment. They map the divine for you. They give you the address.

**Paul:** And Hindu Dharma doesn't?

**Samaranand:** Hindu Dharma has no starting pistol because it never needed one. It didn't begin. It *is.* Like the Ganga — *(he gestured below)* — try to find where it truly starts. You go to Gangotri, then beyond, then to the glacier, then to the ice, then to the clouds that made the ice, then to the ocean that made the clouds. There is no beginning. There is only the flow.

**Phatani:** That's poetic. But poeticism isn't evidence.

**Samaranand:** And yet here you are — a man educated in science, presumably capable of asking rigorous questions — who has spent considerable energy dismissing Hindu Dharma without asking the most basic rigorous question about it. Which is: *what is it actually claiming?*

**Phatani:** It's claiming Ram flew in a pushpak vimana. It's claiming Krishna lifted a mountain—

**Samaranand:** No. *Literalists* are claiming that. Hindu Dharma is claiming something far more interesting. It is asking: *what would a perfect son look like? What would a perfect king look like? What would perfect friendship, perfect devotion, perfect duty look like — if we could imagine them without the limitations of ordinary human beings?*

Ram is not a historical filing. Ram is a civilization's highest aspiration, given a name and a story so that people can *feel* the aspiration rather than merely think it. When you are failing as a son, you don't need a philosophical treatise. You need Ram. You need a story that lives in your chest.

**Phatani:** So you're admitting it's fiction.

**Samaranand:** I'm saying the category "fiction versus fact" is a very small room and you're insisting the entire ocean fit inside it. When a man says *"my grief is a stone on my chest"* — is there a stone? No. Is he lying? No. He is telling a truth that literal language cannot carry. Ram is that kind of truth. Krishna is that kind of truth.

**Paul:** What truth is Krishna telling?

**Samaranand:** Krishna is the answer to a different question — not *"how do I live with perfect duty"* but *"how do I act in a world of impossible choices without losing my soul?"* The Gita is born on a battlefield, not in a temple. Arjuna is paralyzed. His dharma pulls one way, his love pulls another. Krishna doesn't give him a simple answer. He gives him a philosophy for living with complexity. That is not mythology. That is the most sophisticated psychological document in human history.

**Phatani:** *(shifting slightly)* I don't dismiss the Gita—

**Samaranand:** You dismiss the man who is said to have spoken it. Which makes it rather like appreciating the music while insisting the instrument doesn't exist.

*(Paul wrote something and underlined it.)*

---

**Phatani:** But the average person praying to Ram is not doing philosophy. They're asking him to fix their problems.

**Samaranand:** And the average Christian praying to Jesus is not doing theology. And the average Muslim saying *Inshallah* is not doing jurisprudence. What is your point? That ordinary people reach toward something larger than themselves in moments of helplessness? That this is somehow a mark against Hindu Dharma specifically?

When you have used every resource available to you — every doctor, every contact, every calculation — and still the thing you love is slipping away, what do you do, Phatani? Precisely and rationally?

**Phatani:** *(quietly)* My mother used to pray. To Ram.

**Samaranand:** And was she a fool?

**Phatani:** No. She was—

**Samaranand:** She was reaching toward the highest thing she could imagine. Toward an idea of goodness so complete and so powerful that perhaps, in her darkest moment, it might hold her. That is not superstition. That is a completely human response to the unbearable. And Ram exists — has existed for thousands of years without a founding date, without a church, without a Pope sending directives — precisely to be there when the reaching happens.

*(The river said nothing. It didn't need to.)*

---

**Phatani:** But you yourself, Samaranandji — you don't pray to Ram. You believe in Karma, which is essentially cause and effect. That's practically scientific.

**Samaranand:** *(reaching into his cloth bag and producing two bar magnets, setting them on the table between them)*

Practically scientific. Good. Then look at these.

**Phatani:** *(bemused)* Magnets?

**Samaranand:** Old engineer's habit. I think better with things in my hands. Pick one up.

*(Phatani picked up a magnet. Samaranand held the other, brought North toward North.)*

**Phatani:** They repel.

**Samaranand:** Turn yours around.

*(Click. North to South. Attraction, immediate and decisive.)*

**Samaranand:** Cause and effect, yes?

**Phatani:** Basic electromagnetism.

**Samaranand:** And *why* does the universe operate this way? Why does it prefer complementary opposites? Why does opposition repel and difference attract? You can describe it. You can measure it. You can build devices with it — I have built things that depended entirely on this principle. But *why this principle* rather than some other? Why is the universe organized around the attraction of opposites at every level — electromagnetic, gravitational, biological, even emotional?

**Phatani:** That's just... how it is.

**Samaranand:** *(smiling)* "That's just how it is" — spoken with complete confidence. You know, the Upanishads spent several thousand years on exactly that question and had the intellectual honesty to admit they couldn't fully answer it. You've answered it in four words. Remarkable efficiency.

This *(he held up the magnets)* is what I mean by Karma. Not a bearded accountant in the sky marking your sins in a ledger. But the fundamental operating principle of existence — that every action creates a field. That the field interacts with other fields. That what you send out shapes the space around you in ways that return. Cause and consequence, woven into the fabric of things so deeply that even a bar magnet demonstrates it.

Yin and Yang. Shiva and Shakti. North and South. The universe insisting, at every scale, that opposites complete each other. That nothing acts without consequence. That the field you create is the world you inhabit.

**Paul:** That's Karma?

**Samaranand:** That's Karma. Not fairness. Not justice in the courtroom sense. *Consequence.* The universe doesn't punish. It responds.

---

**Paul:** *(after a pause)* Speaking of consequence — I've been waiting for Karma to catch up with Trump.

*(A crow landed on the railing, considered the company, and left.)*

**Samaranand:** *(very calmly)* It already has.

**Paul:** The man keeps winning—

**Samaranand:** Paul. The Karma didn't go to Trump's address. It went to the address of the people who sent him there.

*(Silence. The kind that means something landed.)*

**Paul:** Explain that.

**Samaranand:** What happens when a society stops listening to its frightened people for thirty years? When jobs hollow out, when dignity becomes a luxury, when those who make decisions and those who bear consequences no longer live in the same reality — what accumulates?

**Paul:** Anger.

**Samaranand:** A field. A massive, charged field of unaddressed consequence. And then along comes someone who at least *acknowledges* the field exists — even if his solution is to throw a match into it. Desperate people don't need a perfect answer. They need someone who sees that they are there.

Trump is not the disease. Trump is the fever. And the fever is the body's response to an infection that was ignored for decades. The Karma belongs to the choices — political, economic, cultural — that created the conditions. He is simply the consequence wearing a very loud suit.

**Phatani:** *(dryly)* So America is getting what it deserves.

**Samaranand:** America is getting what it *accumulated.* Deserving implies judgment. Karma implies only consequence. The magnet doesn't judge which pole you present. It simply responds to what you bring close to it.

**Paul:** *(quietly)* That's more compassionate than I expected.

**Samaranand:** Karma requires compassion to understand. The moment you use it as a weapon — *"they deserve it"* — you have misunderstood it entirely and, incidentally, begun accumulating your own field.

*(Paul looked at his notebook, then at the river.)*

---

 The Close

The light had gone from amber to something quieter. The Ganga below was silver now, audible more than visible, the sound of it filling every gap in the conversation like water finding its level.

**Phatani:** *(after a long silence)* I don't think I'll start praying to Ram.

**Samaranand:** Nobody asked you to.

**Phatani:** But I take the point about the founding. Or the lack of one.

**Samaranand:** That is the beginning of honest inquiry. Hindu Dharma survived without a pope, without a founder, without a holy war to establish its boundaries, without an inquisition to protect its doctrine — for longer than most civilizations have existed. It survived because it was never one thing. It is a river, not a canal. Canals are very useful and go exactly where you build them. Rivers go where truth takes them.

**Phatani:** And sometimes flood everything.

**Samaranand:** *(smiling)* And sometimes flood everything. Yes. Also a lesson.

*(He picked up both magnets from the table, held them together — North to South — the small definitive click of things finding their complement.)*

**Samaranand:** Your skepticism and my faith are these two poles, Phatani. Facing each other with full opposition — *(he pushed North to North, the repulsion visible in his hands)* — we accomplish nothing. Turned correctly — *(click)* — we hold.

*(He set them down. Together. Holding.)*

The temple bell rang somewhere on the ghat below. Once. Without explanation.

Nobody felt the need to explain it.

The Ganga moved.

---

> *"Hindu Dharma has no starting pistol because it never needed one. It didn't begin. It is."*

> *"Ram is not a historical filing. Ram is a civilization's highest aspiration, given a name so that people can feel it rather than merely think it."*

> *"The Karma didn't go to Trump's address. It went to the address of the people who sent him there."*

> *"Karma requires compassion to understand. The moment you use it as a weapon, you have misunderstood it — and begun accumulating your own field."*

> *"Hindu Dharma is a river, not a canal. Canals go exactly where you build them. Rivers go where truth takes them."*

> — **Samaranand**, *Pravah Kutir Ashram, above the Ganga, Rishikesh*

Hell’s worst upgrade: neck-deep in shit, but the screams are optional. Shhh… don’t make waves.

---

There’s this ancient belief: good souls go to Heaven (AC, unlimited biryani), bad ones to Hell (endless traffic jams and no AC). Simple, right? Until Mr. Sethi, Delhi’s most enthusiastic sinner—greed, lust, pride, the full combo meal—kicked the bucket and landed at what looked like the lobby of a 7-star afterlife resort.

A slick guide in a pristine white kurta (no sweat stains, suspicious) appeared.

**Guide** (smiling like he’s about to sell you expired Amul butter): “Mr. Sethi ji! Welcome to the Afterlife Transit Lounge. Five-star service, even for repeat offenders. We believe in choice. Come, let’s do the property tour. You pick your forever home.”

Sethi adjusted his imaginary tie. “Bhai, I know my karma score. It’s in the red zone. Just show me the fiery pit and let’s get it over with. I’ve got a meeting in the next life.”

**Guide**: “Arre sir, patience. Customer is king—even in damnation.”

First stop: Classic Hell Wing.

Screams. Lava jacuzzis. People being tickled by red-hot pitchforks. One guy was getting his WhatsApp forwards read aloud forever.

Sethi winced. “Too noisy. My migraine will come back.”

Next: Intermediate Hell. Chainsaws, eternal tax audits, mothers-in-law on loop.

**Sethi**: “Still too loud. Next!”

Then they reached the Silent Hall.

Dead quiet. Not even a cough. People stood like statues in neck-deep… let’s call it “organic fertilizer.” Brown, thick, zero bubbles.

Sethi’s eyes lit up. “Yeh toh perfect hai! No noise, no drama. AC bhi lag raha hai thoda. Book karo yeh wala!”

**Guide** (smiling wider, like he just closed a Noida flat deal): “Excellent choice, sir. Very premium suffering. Low maintenance.”

Door swings open. The stench hits like someone microwaved a week-old rajma.

Sethi gags. “Arre yeh kya?!”

Nearest resident (only head visible, looking like he’s regretting every life choice): slowly raises one finger to lips.

**Resident** (whispering so softly it’s basically mouthing): “Shhh… bhai… don’t make waves. Wave aaya toh upar tak aa jayega. Nose mein. Mouth mein. Game over.”

Sethi freezes. A tiny twitch from the guy next to him sends a tiny ripple. Everyone hisses in panic.

**Another resident** (panicked whisper): “Arre idiot! Control your eyebrow! Last week someone sneezed—whole section got a facial!”

**Sethi** (whispering back, horrified): “But… but this is supposed to be the quiet one! The peaceful option!”

**Resident** (bitter chuckle, still whispering): “Peaceful? Yeh ultimate torture hai, boss. You can’t scream, can’t run, can’t even fart without consequences. One ripple and boom—full immersion. We’ve been standing here so long my legs forgot they exist.”

**Sethi**: “Toh yeh Hell ka VIP section hai? Neck-deep in… this… and you can’t even complain?!”

**Resident**: “Exactly. Complain karoge toh wave banegi. Wave banegi toh shit enters mouth. Mouth mein shit = instant regret. So we stand. Very still. Like showroom mannequins.”

The guide claps softly. “See? Five-star silence. No drama, no refunds.”

Sethi looks around, pale. “Bhai… mujhe pehle wala fiery pit dikhao na. At least wahan chillate hue mar sakte hain!”

**Guide** (shrugging): “Sorry sir, sold out. Waiting list 400 years. You chose the premium package.”

And that, my friend, is exactly what’s happening in the Gulf right now.

People in Dubai, Abu Dhabi, all standing neck-deep in geopolitical… fertilizer. Iranian drones buzzing like angry mosquitoes, ballistic missiles doing flyovers more often than Emirates A380s, debris raining on Marina towers like unexpected Diwali fireworks.

But everyone’s frozen.

**Expats in JLT apartments** (whispering over coffee): “Shhh… don’t tweet about the sirens. You’ll crash property prices!”

**Businessman at Burj view** (hissing at friend): “Arre, stop looking up! If you stare at the drone, it’ll feel invited!”

**Influencer on balcony** (filming secretly): “Guys, situation is totally normal… just ignore the smoke near Burj Khalifa… shhh… don’t make waves, the algorithm might notice!”

**Insurance agent** (on phone, whispering): “Sir, policy is valid… as long as you don’t admit it’s a war zone. Say ‘minor debris event.’ Yes, even if a Shahed drone photobombed your yacht selfie.”

They stand there, luxury cars parked below, infinity pools shimmering, everyone unnaturally still, praying the next missile picks the neighbor’s building.

The strategists up there are grinning like that guide.

Because the worst hell isn’t the loud one with flames.

It’s the quiet one—where you’re too scared to admit you’re drowning in it.

So next time you see a city eerily “normal,” influencers posting brunches while sirens wail in the background… look closer.

They’re not calm.

They’re just trying very, very hard not to make waves.

Shhh.

Don’t tell anyone.

--- 

Connaught Place—where memory pays rent, and nostalgia never vacates.

There are cities, and then there are emotions disguised as cities. And for me, Connaught Place—or simply CP—is not a marketplace; it is a yearly pilgrimage. Like some people must visit Vaishno Devi to feel spiritually aligned, I must circle CP at least once a year to reassure myself that time, though mischievous, has not entirely defeated memory.

I come from Kolkata to Delhi three to four times a year, but one visit to CP is non-negotiable. It is my personal audit—of life, of ageing, and of inflation.

As a schoolboy, CP was intimidating. The shops looked at me the way a five-star hotel looks at a man carrying a jhola—politely, but with boundaries. My engagement with CP was limited to the cinema halls—Odeon Cinema, Plaza Cinema, Rivoli Cinema and Regal Cinema. Those were temples of a different kind—air-conditioned dreams where heroes solved problems I hadn’t yet encountered.

Eating? That was an elite sport. My budget permitted only respectful glances at restaurants, except for occasional visits to Standard Coffee House—where I would stretch one cappuccino and a biscuit into a full philosophical session. The jukebox there was my Spotify of the 60s. One coin, one song, and for three minutes, I was king of CP.

Later, as an IIT-going young man—slightly richer in pocket, much richer in confidence—I upgraded my culinary geography. Mohan Singh Place became my adda. Affordable food, unlimited discussions, and the illusion that we were shaping the nation between two cups of chai.

Time, however, is a ruthless redevelopment authority.

Yesterday, during my annual pilgrimage with Madhuri, I felt a pinch of that quiet sadness. My trusted winter companion, Snowhite, is closing down. For years, it had wrapped me in woollens and nostalgia. Shops don’t just sell goods—they store fragments of our lives. When they shut down, a part of us is evicted without notice.

And then there was Gaylord—long gone, replaced by Pind Balluchi. I have nothing against butter chicken nationalism, but memories don’t change tenants so easily.

The ritual, however, continues unchanged—especially the pre-lunch marital debate.

Choosing a restaurant with one’s wife is a structured process:

1. Reject 10 options.

2. Disagree on the 11th.

3. Blame each other for hunger.

4. Finally settle somewhere neither had originally proposed.

This time, I brought in modern technology—consulted ChatGPT. Madhuri looked at me as if I had outsourced my marital responsibilities.

“अब ये भी बताएगा क्या खाना है?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said with confidence I did not possess.

Thus we landed at 38 Barracks, after a determined march from E Block to M Block—CP ensuring that one earns one’s भोजन.

The place had a colonial army theme—portraits, memorabilia, and a quiet reminder that once upon a time, even leisure had discipline. We arrived early (a rare achievement), and though most tables wore “Reserved” signs like VIP badges, we managed to secure one—proof that in India, timing is everything, including lunch.

The menu arrived like a UPSC syllabus. I handed it to Madhuri with the generosity of a statesman.

“You decide,” I said.

She scanned it, turned a few pages, sighed, and surrendered.

“तुम ही कर लो।”

Victory.

Little did she know, the decision had already been taken the previous day while writing about butter and its philosophical implications. Butter Chicken with butter naan—it was destined.

The gravy arrived rich, unapologetic, shimmering with butter as if cholesterol had declared independence. The chicken, admittedly, was slightly lacking in enthusiasm, but the gravy more than compensated—like a good politician covering up for a weak candidate.

A bowl of mixed vegetable salad sat quietly, like the conscience of the meal—present, but ignored.

In the background, a young man with a guitar sang old Hindi songs softly. On my way to the washroom, I could not resist offering unsolicited advice—a habit acquired over decades of management.

“मन लगाकर अच्छा गाना गाओ,” I told him.

He nodded politely—the universal signal for “I will forget this immediately.”

We stepped out satisfied—stomach full, nostalgia slightly stirred, and wallet respectfully lighter.

The final ritual remained—a visit to the footpath bookstall. There, among uneven piles and literary democracy, I found a book by Haruki Murakami. CP never lets me return empty-handed; it insists on sending me back with a story.

As I walked past M Block, I noticed that The TGF (Thank God It's Friday) is preparing to occupy space there. Another new chapter, another old memory waiting to be overwritten.

Such is CP.

Every year, something disappears. Every year, something arrives. And every year, I walk its circles—half as a visitor, half as a witness.

Because Connaught Place is not just a place.

It is a reminder that while cities evolve, we continue to search for our younger selves—somewhere between a cup of cappuccino, a butter-laden gravy, and a song playing faintly in the background.

From Krishna’s Makhan to Boardroom Buttering—A Journey in Taste and Tact

That evening at the DDA Sports Complex in Paschim Vihar had the softness of winter slipping into Delhi. The light was fading gently, like butter melting on a warm surface—unhurried, indulgent. Perhaps it was no coincidence that my mind, already steeped in the world of Butter by Asako Yuzuki, was seeing everything through that lens.

I met him near the walking track—a compact man with a quiet authority, the kind that comes not from words but from years of stirring pots and watching flames. He introduced himself simply as Chawla. A chef. A veteran, as I would soon discover.

Our conversation began, as most meaningful ones do, without design. I mentioned, almost apologetically, that I had been “thinking a lot about butter these days.” He smiled, the knowing smile of a man who has seen obsessions rise and fall like dough.

“Butter,” he said, “is not just food. It is history, mythology, indulgence—and sometimes, sin.”

That intrigued me.

He began not with recipes, but with scriptures. How butter—makhan—was churned from curd in ancient households, the rhythmic motion of the wooden churner echoing like a prayer. He spoke of Krishna, the divine thief, stealing butter from earthen pots, not out of hunger but out of love for its richness. “Why do you think God chose butter?” he asked. “Because it is the essence—the best part extracted with patience.”

I could almost see those pots hanging from the rafters, the child-god reaching out, laughter in his eyes. Butter, in that moment, was no longer an ingredient. It was intimacy.

I told him how, these days, even a simple act—spreading a thick slab of butter over crisp toast—felt like a quiet ceremony. The knife sinking in, the butter resisting for a moment, then yielding… and that first bite, where warmth meets richness. I described it to him as a sensation of going down in a lift—smooth, enveloping, slightly disorienting.

He laughed. “You are already halfway to becoming a chef. You are describing food, not eating it.”

Encouraged, I confessed my childhood indulgence—stealing spoonfuls of butter from the fridge when no one was looking. He nodded, as if this too was part of some universal rite of passage.

Then, like a maestro shifting from philosophy to performance, he began to speak of cooking.

“Take butter chicken,” he said. “People think it is just gravy. No. First, the chicken must earn the butter.” He described the process—marinating, roasting in the tandoor until it carried the memory of fire, then cutting it into pieces. “And then,” he paused, “a generous chunk of white butter… not oil, not ghee… butter.” He cupped his hands as if holding something sacred. “Let it melt slowly, let it sizzle gently. Add herbs, tomatoes, a touch of cream. The butter must not be hurried. It must be allowed to speak.”

I told him about my IIT Kharagpur days—those youthful improvisations. How we would sometimes carry a small lump of butter to the mess and request the cook, almost conspiratorially, to pour it over the humble yellow dal. “Just let it sizzle once,” we would say. And that ordinary dal would transform—its aroma deepening, its taste acquiring a softness that felt almost luxurious.

Chawla laughed heartily. “Ah, you discovered tadka dal with butter before you knew its name!”

He went on to describe it properly—the tempering of cumin, garlic, and red chillies, and then, at the end, that final flourish of butter melting into the dal, binding everything together like a quiet reconciliation.

I shared with him my simplest pleasures—arhar dal with buttered chapatis, a raw onion on the side. Or rice, plain and steaming, with a small knob of butter slowly disappearing into it, leaving behind a fragrance that needed no accompaniment.

At this point, I also confessed to him my discovery of Chicken Kiev during my Ukraine visit in 2003.... Rediscovering it at Tolly Club and my fondness for Chicken Kiev. “A marvel of deception,” I told him. “It looks modest, almost disciplined. But the moment you cut into it, warm butter flows out—silently, generously—like a secret finally revealed.” He nodded appreciatively. “Ah, butter hidden within… that is refinement,” he said. “Not everything has to shout. Some things must surprise.”

He listened with interest, then added his own litany of buttered delights—parathas crisped on the tawa with butter seeping into their layers, pav bhaji finished with an almost theatrical slab of butter, khichdi elevated from convalescent food to comfort by a single spoonful, even a humble corn cob rubbed with butter and salt.

“Butter,” he concluded, “is not just taste. It is emotion. It forgives all roughness. It smoothens life.”

By then, the lights around the sports complex had come on. People were finishing their walks, conversations dissolving into the soft hum of evening. Chawla waved me off with a gentle nod, as if our conversation too had reached its perfect simmer.

I walked back slowly, carrying with me the aroma of butter—not in my hands, but in my thoughts. From Krishna’s चोरी to hostel mischief, from the chef’s practiced hands to my own quiet indulgences, and now even to a Ukrainian table, butter had revealed itself as more than an ingredient. It was memory, comfort, and a quiet accomplice in life’s small joys.

And somewhere along the way, I couldn’t help smiling at a different kind of butter altogether. No wonder, I thought, the word “buttering” has found its place in our language as a gentle art of pleasing those in power. After all, what butter does to food—softening edges, enhancing appeal, making everything more agreeable—is perhaps exactly what a few well-chosen words do to a human ego. In my long years of service, I have seen many such “culinary experts” who never entered a kitchen, yet knew exactly where and how to apply butter!

But another companion was waiting for me.

On my dining table lay my unfinished copy of Butter by Asako Yuzuki, almost as if it had been patiently holding its breath. I hurried back, settled into my chair, and placed the book on my reading stand—leaning comfortably into its familiar grip, like an old friend holding me steady.

Outside, the night settled quietly over Delhi. Inside, with the book open and my mind still flavoured with butter—from scriptures to street, from hostel to home, and even across continents—I resumed my journey.

And this time, I read not just with my eyes, but with a lingering taste on my tongue.

Chicken Kiev