The Borrowed Blazer and the Bombay Cabaret :A Students Night Out in 1964

 The Great Blazer Caper of 1964

It was during this year's Durga Puja in Delhi that Amu — my second brother and self-proclaimed "memory excavator" — and I sat reminiscing about our youth. The tea was hot, the samosas were crisp, and the stories, as always, got more colourful as the evening wore on.

Amu suddenly said, "Do you remember, I once borrowed Kutu's Delhi College blazer? The one with the crest? Oh, the swagger I had wearing that!"

That one comment sent me tumbling down memory lane straight to 1964 — the year of our epic study tour across Bombay, BHEL Bhopal, and Bhilai Steel Plant. Bombay, in particular, had left quite an imprint. Not because of the Gateway of India or Marine Drive — but because of *a blazer and a cabaret*.

 The Marine Engineering Connection

I was staying at the hostel of my late friend Adarsh Saxena, then a proud Marine Engineering student at Dufferin. Poor Adarsh — years later, duty would claim him in a tragic ship fire at some foreign dockyard. But in 1964, he was alive with mischief and stories.

That evening, over endless tea and stale samosas, we began recalling our childhood in Delhi's Chummeries — our old flats at 14 and 26 in Block 95, the endless cricket matches, and the mischief shared with Kutu,Saily, Subhash, Binder, Tej Bahadur, Sarupa, and Khokon.

"Remember how Kutu used to bowl those impossible spinners?" Adarsh chuckled.

"And you'd still manage to hit them for a six!" I replied. "My badminton skills were no match for your cricket wizardry."

Then Adarsh, his eyes twinkling with mischief, asked, "Ever been to a night club?"

I nearly choked on my tea. "Night club? Like... the ones in movies?"

He grinned. "Exactly. Like Howrah Bridge. Cabaret, music, dancing!"

"But don't they have dress codes? Suits and all that?"

"College blazers work perfectly," Adarsh said, producing a gleaming blazer like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "Tonight, you're a college gentleman."

The Taxi Ride of Nerves

Our mutual friend Vikram — another Marine Engineering student — joined us as we hailed a taxi. The moment we settled into the black-and-yellow cab, my anxiety kicked in.

"Adarsh, what if they ask us questions? What if they know I'm not from Bombay?" I whispered.

The taxi driver, overhearing, turned around with a grin. "First time, sahib?"

Vikram burst out laughing. "Uncle, how did you know?"

"Arre, thirty years driving in Bombay. I can spot a nervous first-timer from Marine Lines to Colaba!"

Adarsh patted my shoulder. "Relax, yaar. Just sit back, sip your drink, and enjoy the show. Don't stare too much, don't talk too loud, and whatever you do, don't look shocked when the dancer comes near our table."

"What if she talks to me?"

"She won't," Vikram chimed in. "One look at our student faces and empty pockets, she'll know we're here for the 'cultural experience' only."

The taxi driver chuckled. "Sahib, which club are you going to?"

"The one near Churchgate," Adarsh replied casually.

"Ah, very good place. Music, dance, cold drinks. But sahib," he looked at me in the rearview mirror, "don't look like you're attending a wedding. Smile a little!"

I tried to smile but felt like I was grimacing.

"Beta," the driver continued, "I dropped many boys like you. First time is always nervous. But remember — you're paying customer, not criminal!"

As we neared the club, Adarsh turned serious. "Listen, the entry fee is steep. After that, we'll have just enough for cold drinks and maybe some snacks. No fancy dinner tonight."

"That's fine," I said, adjusting the borrowed blazer. "I'm too nervous to eat anyway."

 The Great Cabaret Experience

The doorman glanced at our blazers and waved us in, perhaps thinking we were future captains of industry. We found a table at the back, clutched our cold drinks like lifelines, and tried to act casually sophisticated.

The lights dimmed. Music swelled. And *she* appeared — the cabaret dancer in shimmering attire, swirling and spinning like a human kaleidoscope. I nearly dropped my glass.

"Close your mouth," Vikram hissed. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I've never seen anything like this," I whispered back.

Adarsh was thoroughly enjoying my bewilderment. "This is nothing. Wait until she starts the table rounds."

And sure enough, she began moving from table to table, smiling, tossing her hair, collecting tips as gracefully as Helen herself. When she approached the businessmen near us, they stuffed notes into her sequined belt with practiced ease.

"She's coming our way," I panicked.

"Smile and nod," Adarsh instructed. "Act like you belong here."

She glided past our table, gave us a professional smile, realized we were broke students, and moved on without missing a beat.

"Did she just... ignore us?" I asked, not sure whether to be relieved or insulted.

Vikram snorted. "Welcome to Bombay economics, my friend. No tips, no special attention."

 The Morning After - Return to Reality

The next morning, I made my way back to Victoria Terminus where my IIT Kharagpur friends were staying in a railway bogey on a siding — our budget accommodation for the study tour. The contrast couldn't have been starker: from the glittering cabaret to a railway siding that smelled of coal smoke and morning tea.

My friend Rajesh was brushing his teeth with a mug of water when I climbed into the bogey.

"Where were you last night? We waited for dinner!"

"I was... exploring Bombay culture," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Kumar looked up from his engineering textbooks. "Culture? In that borrowed blazer?"

"Wait, wait," said Prasad, sensing a story. "Sit down and tell us everything. And don't skip details."

So I sat on the wooden bench of our railway bogey and began my tale. "Well, you see, Adarsh suggested we visit a night club..."

"Night club!" Rajesh nearly choked on his toothpaste. "Our innocent badminton champion went to a night club?"

"There was a cabaret dancer," I continued, "and she was spinning around like in the movies..."

"Like Helen in Howrah Bridge?" Kumar asked, eyes wide.

"Exactly! But here's the thing — she completely ignored us because we looked like broke students."

Prasad was laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. "So you paid all that money to be ignored by a dancer?"

"But the experience, yaar! The lights, the music, the... the glamour!"

"And here we were eating dal-chawal in a railway bogey while our friend was living it up in Bombay nightlife," Rajesh shook his head in mock disappointment.

 The Retelling at IIT Kharagpur

Weeks later, back at IIT Kharagpur, the story had gained legendary status in our hostel. During one of our evening adda sessions, someone inevitably brought it up.

"Tell them about the cabaret, yaar," Prasad would say, and I'd have to repeat the tale.

"The best part," I'd always conclude, "was the taxi driver. He said, 'First time is always nervous, but remember — you're paying customer, not criminal!' I think that was the wisest thing anyone said that entire evening."

My hostel mates would roar with laughter, especially when I described how the dancer gave us one look and decided we weren't worth her time.

"From cabaret in Bombay to coal smoke in railway bogey," Rajesh would summarize. "That's the true engineering student experience!"

Years later, standing in Paris at the famous Lido — all glitter and sophistication — I couldn't help but chuckle. "Ah," I thought, "this is grand, but my first cabaret in Bombay — with a borrowed blazer, a pounding heart, and friends who laughed at my expense — now *that* was an education."

The borrowed blazer had opened doors I never knew existed, and closed them just as quickly. But the memory? That was mine to keep forever.

The Half-Life of Knowledge in Engineering: A Personal Reflection

The Half-Life of Knowledge in Engineering: A Personal Reflection

When I graduated from IIT Kharagpur in 1965 in Electrical Engineering, the landscape of engineering was vastly different from what it is today. The fundamental principles we learned, such as Ohm’s Law, Kirchhoff’s Law, and Fleming’s Thumb Rule, remain constants in the field. However, the applications and technologies built on these principles have undergone a sea change. Reflecting on this evolution, I realize that the half-life of our technical knowledge—the period after which half of what we have learned becomes obsolete—is a critical concept to grasp in our ever-advancing field.

During my college days, much of what we studied served to broaden our vision rather than prepare us for the specific technologies we would encounter in our careers. In the 1960s, materials science was in its nascent stage, and many of the high-strength, lightweight metals we take for granted today were still under development. The equipment we used—motors, switchgears, and generators—have since evolved dramatically, driven by innovations in materials and manufacturing processes.

The rapid pace of technological advancement, particularly with the advent of computers and artificial intelligence, means that the knowledge acquired by today’s engineering graduates will have a much shorter half-life than mine did. The only viable solution is continuous learning and knowledge upgrading. Alvin Toffler, in the 1960s, foresaw this acceleration, predicting that the time from concept to production would shrink dramatically in his best selling book "The future shock". His prediction has come true, with product development cycles now measured in months rather than years.

A striking example of this rapid obsolescence can be seen in the automotive industry. Australia, once a car manufacturing hub, ceased its car production when it couldn't compete with cheaper, more efficient Japanese models. I once met an Australian industrialist who manufactured windshields and rear-view mirrors. His business, once thriving, went bust under the onslaught of cheaper Chinese imports. This stark reality highlights the risks associated with setting up a manufacturing plant in today’s competitive global market. The danger of obsolescence is ever-present, as competitors can quickly emerge with cheaper or more efficient alternatives.

In my career, I have seen the transformative impact of these technological advancements firsthand. Working at the Barauni Refinery of Indian Oil, I witnessed the transition from an old Russian-built refinery to a new digital process. This change was so profound that it required a complete overhaul of the workforce, with older employees taking voluntary retirement and new, tech-savvy staff being brought in. It was a hard decision, but one that was necessary to keep up with the rapid pace of technological change.

At BHEL, I had to adopt a policy of continuous learning and adaptation. When my juniors came to me with problems, I encouraged them to propose at least two solutions. This approach not only fostered innovative thinking but also prepared us to handle the inevitable technological changes that lay ahead. 

Reflecting on my experiences, I see the importance of root cause analysis in navigating these changes. Tools like the fishbone diagram help us identify the underlying issues, enabling us to adapt and find solutions. However, even with these tools, the key takeaway is that in today’s world, staying static is not an option. Continuous learning and adaptability are crucial to staying relevant and competitive.

In conclusion, the half-life of knowledge in engineering is shortening, driven by rapid technological advancements. To navigate this ever-changing landscape, we must commit to lifelong learning and be prepared to adapt quickly. The story of Australia’s automotive industry and my own experiences underscore the challenges and opportunities that come with this fast-paced evolution. By embracing change and continuously upgrading our skills, we can stay ahead in this dynamic field.