My Wanakbori Adventure

From Sulking to Smiling: My Wanakbori Adventure

If anyone tells you that promotions always bring happiness, don't believe him. Sometimes a promotion arrives wrapped in shiny paper but contains a problem inside.

The year was 1985. I was posted in Delhi, happily working as Stabilisation Manager in BHEL. My job was to stabilize the newly commissioned thermal power units after we had successfully completed the commissioning of five 200 MW units at Singrauli Super Thermal Power Station in record time. Those were the days when getting your first promotion was almost as difficult as finding a seat in a crowded Delhi bus during office hours.

Then came the promotion order. Senior Manager at last!

I looked at the order with great excitement.

Then I read the fine print.

Posting: Wanakbori, Gujarat.

My excitement immediately developed a leakage.

Now, let me introduce my boss, the late Mr. Rengarajan. May God bless his soul. Somehow that gentleman and I never seemed to vibrate at the same frequency. Around that time, Wanakbori project was running behind schedule and somebody had to be sent there.

One Mr. Thiruvenkatam had originally been earmarked for the job. Unfortunately, he had developed a sudden and deep attachment to Gandhinagar. His son's education, he argued, would suffer if he moved.

A perfectly valid argument.

The only problem was that I had exactly the same problem.

My son Anish's education would also suffer.

But management asked Mr. Rengarajan who should go.

With remarkable generosity he suggested my name.

After all, I had just completed a record-breaking assignment at Singrauli. Why waste such talent in Delhi?

It was a masterstroke.

He got rid of me from Delhi and saved poor Thiruvenkatam from displacement.

Everybody was happy.

Except me.

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On my way to Wanakbori, I landed in Baroda and met the late Mr. Raja to arrange transportation.

He calmly informed me that a jeep would come from Wanakbori in two days.

Two days!

I wanted to leave the very next day.

Already annoyed by my transfer, I became even more annoyed by the transport arrangement.

I conveyed my displeasure to Gururajrao, my local contact, and informed him in very diplomatic language that I would repay this treatment with interest at a later date.

Gururajrao wisely conveyed my message to Mr. Raja.

The effect was instantaneous.

Mr. Raja became more active than a boiler feed pump during peak load.

By next morning a hired car had magically appeared, and my family and I were dispatched to Wanakbori in style.

Sometimes diplomacy works best when lightly seasoned with threat.

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On reaching Wanakbori, we were accommodated in the Gujarat Electricity Board guest house.

So far, so good.

Then I met the site in-charge, Mr. Pathak.

In the course of conversation he casually informed me that an E-Type quarter had been allotted to me.

Now, for those unfamiliar with government housing classifications, E-Type quarters were generally meant for the lowest grades.

I was a newly promoted Senior Manager.

Mr. Pathak himself was staying in a B-Type quarter.

I nearly swallowed my tongue.

Immediately I contacted Mr. Rengarajan.

I informed him, in language that left little room for misunderstanding, that if proper accommodation was not arranged, I could not guarantee smooth progress of the project.

This message somehow reached senior officials of the Gujarat Electricity Board.

Suddenly everyone discovered that suitable accommodation was indeed available.

Miracles happen every day in India.

You simply need the correct pressure.

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Looking back, I am almost embarrassed at how negative I felt when I arrived at Wanakbori.

I was unhappy about the transfer.

I was unhappy about the schooling problem.

I was unhappy about transport.

I was unhappy about accommodation.

In short, I was professionally unhappy and personally miserable.

To ensure Anish received proper education, I eventually admitted him to the hostel of Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan in Baroda.

That was not easy for any parent.

But then something unexpected happened.

People happened.

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Many years later, this morning in fact, my old colleague Anand called me after reading my previous article on Gujarat.

He was delighted that I had mentioned him and his wife Meenaben.

During our conversation I told him something I had perhaps never expressed fully before.

I had arrived in Gujarat with a negative mindset.

But people like Anand, Meenaben, their son Chaka, Mr. Dharangdharia, P. C. Patel of GEB and many others gradually changed my outlook.

Their friendship made the transition smooth.

The work itself was challenging and exciting.

And then there were those legendary monthly gatherings at Anand's flat.

A few pegs of whisky.

Meenaben's outstanding chicken curry.

Mr. Dharangdharia's stories.

Laughter flowing more freely than the whisky.

Those evenings did more for my morale than any management seminar ever could.

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In fact, I often joked that I was the "SC of BHEL."

No, not Scheduled Caste.

Shit Cleaner.

Whenever there was a difficult project, a delayed commissioning, a troubled site, or a crisis nobody wanted to touch, somebody would inevitably remember Roy.

And off I would go with my broom.

Strangely enough, those difficult postings shaped my career.

Barauni had done it earlier.

Now Wanakbori was doing it again.

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What started as a punishment posting became one of the most rewarding phases of my life.

I got the opportunity to work closely with warm-hearted Gujaratis.

I visited Anand, the home of India's famous milk cooperative movement.

I travelled frequently to Ahmedabad and Baroda.

I sought blessings at the Ranchhodraiji Temple in Dakor.

I built friendships that have survived decades after retirement.

And somewhere along the way, the resentment disappeared.

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The Lesson

Life has a peculiar habit.

Many of the doors we enter reluctantly turn out to lead to our best experiences.

When I boarded that car from Baroda to Wanakbori, I was carrying irritation, resentment, and disappointment.

I had no idea that I was also travelling toward friendship, professional growth, unforgettable memories, and a lifelong affection for Gujarat.

That is perhaps the greatest lesson I learnt.

After every dark night there is sunshine.

The trick is to keep moving until sunrise.

And if the journey includes good friends, a few pegs of whisky, and Meenaben's chicken curry, the sunrise arrives much faster. 😊

“Before judging Gujarat from newspaper headlines, I had already lived there — danced Garba, flown kites, shared mangoes and discovered that cooperation can also be a culture.”

When I first came to Bengal after the Godhra riots and the Gujarat violence, I noticed a strange thing. A section of so-called intellectuals had almost converted “Gujarati” into a suspicious word. Political mileage was being extracted by creating an image that Gujarat was some kind of frightening land where humanity had gone on permanent leave. Even singers joined the orchestra with dramatic lyrics — “We will not allow Bengal to become another Gujarat.”

At that time, if you praised Gujaratis in certain drawing rooms of Kolkata, people would look at you as though you had openly declared love for karela juice.

But history has its own sense of humour.

Two Gujaratis — Narendra Modi and Amit Shah — ultimately became catalysts for many educated Bengalis to start speaking openly against political intimidation and organised hooliganism. Suddenly people again started discussing Syama Prasad Mukherjee, the man who played a major role in ensuring Kolkata remained in India when Jinnah and Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy had different plans during Partition days.

Of course for decades his name was carefully kept under layers of textbook dust because he was considered too Hindu for the comfort of the fashionable secular crowd.

Anyway, politics apart, my main purpose is to narrate my personal experience with Gujaratis and Gujarat.

From 1985 to 1988 I was posted at Wanakbori Thermal Power Plant in Gujarat. My son Anish was studying in boarding school at Baroda in Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan. I was staying with my family in a Gujarat Electricity Board township quarter beside the power station. Around 30 to 40 of us from BHEL were living there, scattered across different flats among GEB employees.

We were on the fourth floor of an apartment block where seven out of eight residents worked for GEB. The odd man out was yours truly.

One day there was a knock on the door. I opened it and found a delegation standing outside with papers in hand. They politely informed me they were from the GEB Cooperative Society and had come to collect our yearly requirement of wheat, rice, peanut oil and Valsad mangoes.

I immediately clarified, “But I am not a GEB employee.”

They laughed as though I had cracked a poor joke.

One gentleman replied, “But you are staying with us. So you are part of our family.”

Frankly, I was touched.

They handed me a form and told me to fill the annual household requirement. While filling it I jokingly asked, “Will you deliver ripe mangoes also?”

Again collective laughter.

“No no,” they said, “green mangoes. You keep them inside wheat bags. They will ripen beautifully.”

I learnt something important that day.

First — Gujaratis have a remarkable cooperative culture. Once you are inside their ecosystem, your company, caste, language or native place becomes secondary.

Second — they understand economics far better than many MBA graduates. Bulk purchase during the harvest season meant cheaper rates for everyone.

Suddenly I understood why every Gujarat house had a big storage room next to the kitchen. Bengalis store emotions and old magazines. Gujaratis store annual food supply.

After that it became routine.

Before Diwali, cooperative members would arrive asking our requirement for decorative lights, crackers, sparklers and other festival items. Everything came home-delivered long before modern app-based delivery companies were born. Gujarat had already invented Amazon without computers.

During those three years I hardly missed Durga Puja emotionally, although physically I often did not return to Bengal because my son’s school had limited holidays. Instead, for nine nights I immersed myself in Garba celebrations.

And what evenings those were!

The giant ground would transform into a colourful sea of swirling dresses, clapping rhythms and dandia sticks. One day some GEB employees practically dragged me into participation. Their hidden motive was clever. They knew that if I joined, then Chief Engineer Dharangdharia might also come because he had developed a special affection for me due to my professional sincerity.

Now Mr. Dharangdharia was feared by almost everyone in the power station. But in Garba grounds hierarchy melted faster than ice cream in May.

So there I was — one Bengali engineer from Allahabad origin — moving in circles with hundreds of Gujaratis till midnight. Outer male circle clockwise, inner ladies’ circle anticlockwise, then sudden dandia exchanges. After a few rounds even my engineering brain lost track of rotational dynamics.

One incident from those Navaratri days still remains deeply etched in my mind.

We were returning late at night from Baroda to Wanakbori by road. It must have been around 1 am. As our vehicle crossed villages, I noticed groups of young girls in colourful ghagra-cholis walking cheerfully from one village to another to participate in Garba.

No fear.

No nervousness.

No protective convoy around them.

They were laughing, chatting and moving freely under the night sky as though it was early evening.

Coming from North India and having worked extensively in the Eastern belt, the sight appeared almost unreal to me. In many places there, even grown men hesitate before travelling alone late at night, forget about young girls walking fearlessly after midnight during festivals.

I remember telling my wife, “Either Gujaratis are exceptionally community-minded people or criminals here are on Navaratri vacation.”

That scene left a lasting impression on me.

The whole society appeared to become one extended family during those nine nights. Villages vibrated with music and celebration, yet underneath there was discipline, social trust and a sense of collective responsibility.

I must honestly admit: during those days I never felt I was an outsider in Gujarat.

We were allowed to watch movies screened on giant outdoor screens for township residents. Festivals were collective. Celebrations were collective. Even happiness appeared cooperative in nature.

No wonder the Anand milk movement became successful there. Gujaratis instinctively know how to organise community participation.

Then came Uttarayan — the famous kite festival.

Before Gujarat, my experience with kites was mostly theoretical. In Wanakbori it became practical training under battlefield conditions.

My dear colleague A.K. Anand organised rooftop kite-flying sessions. Chief Engineer Dharangdharia, my BHEL colleague Pathak and many others would gather on terraces from morning onwards. The January sky looked like Parliament after election season — colourful objects flying in all directions while people shouted aggressively.

Beer bottles, chicken, hot rotis prepared by Meenabehen — Anand’s wife — and endless kite warfare.

Since the kite strings were coated with powdered glass, we wore gloves like surgeons preparing for operation. Every successful cutting of opponent’s kite was celebrated as though India had won a cricket match against Pakistan.

After leaving Wanakbori, I never again experienced such joyous madness.

Ironically, whenever skeptical Bengalis questioned Gujaratis, their entire knowledge came from newspaper headlines and political narratives. My own lived experience was exactly the opposite.

In fact, GEB once selected a badminton team for an inter-department tournament and Chief Engineer Dharangdharia included me as one of the selectors — despite my not being a GEB employee. My friend P.C. Patel had probably informed him about my weakness for badminton.

When my transfer order to Vizag arrived, several GEB colleagues urged me to stay back. Some even offered to use political influence to cancel the transfer.

But throughout my career I never used political connections for personal benefit. So with a heavy heart we left Wanakbori.

Even after retirement I remained in touch with Dharangdharia through Anand. Sadly he is no more.

Yet even today, when people casually stereotype Gujaratis sitting in Kolkata drawing rooms with intellectual seriousness and fish fry in hand, my mind quietly travels back to Wanakbori.

To cooperative societies.

To mangoes ripening inside wheat bags.

To midnight Garba circles.

To fearless girls walking under village skies at 1 am.

To rooftop kite battles.

To a Bengali engineer who was treated not as an outsider but as one among them.

And then I smile to myself.

Sometimes real experience is a far better teacher than politically manufactured wisdom.

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!”

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!