Engineer forged in the crucible of Tata Nagar - Finding Grace in the Grind - Part 5
Open-Air
Balcony - Cinema
on the Doctor’s Terms
In a town as lively as Ambala Cantt,
entertainment revolved around the flickering lights of its five grand cinema
halls: the Defense Theater, where only English movies were screened, the
Capital, the Nishat, the Minerva, and the Basant Halls for all other Hindi
movies. For most, the cinema was a crowded affair, but for the busy,
health-conscious Dr. Khanna, a movie night was treated with the same meticulous
care as a house call. My father had a
unique arrangement with the theater managers. When a popular film reached the
final days of its run, the calls would come. Doctor Sahib, the film is closing,
bring the family tonight. We would arrive for the 9 pm to midnight show, but we
didn't just sit anywhere. The balcony was
our domain. But there was a condition, a "Medical Order" issued by my
father that only he could command. Despite the night air or the conventions of
the theater, he insisted that all the balcony doors remain wide open.
While the rest of the world sat in the
stifling, stale air of a closed theater, we watched the stars of the silver
screen with a cross-breeze flowing around us. He was a man who understood that
stagnant air was a playground for disease, and even during a Bollywood drama,
he wouldn't compromise on ventilation.
By purchasing six tickets, he
effectively "chartered" the entire balcony. There we sat, the Khanna
family, wrapped in the cool Ambala night air, watching the giants of Indian
cinema while the rest of the town slept, or sat in the sweltering dark below.
It was entertainment on his terms: a private screening where the fresh air was
as much a part of the experience as the movie itself.
It is perfectly fitting that a man of
your father’s stature, a "physique-conscious" doctor who carried
himself with the dignity of a Sola hat, would be captivated by the grandest,
most disciplined masterpiece of Indian cinema: Mughal-e-Azam.
The fact that he transitioned from
"chartering" the cinema balcony to a daily ritual with a VCR shows
how deeply the film’s themes of honor, family duty, and timeless romance
resonated with the Khanna legacy.
Grandeur of the Screen - Doctor & the Great Mughal
If there was one film that defined the
cultural landscape of our home, it was K. Asif’s Mughal-e-Azam. My father did
not just watch it; he studied it. He saw it no less than five times in the
theaters of Ambala, likely in the breezy, open-door balcony of the Capital, immersing
himself in the story of Emperor Akbar and Prince Salim. Years later, when technology shifted from the cinema hall
to the living room, the ritual didn't end; it simply became more intimate.
After the long hours at the Machi Mohalla clinic and the evening rounds in his
rickshaw, the VCR became his private theater. Every single night, after dinner, he had a standing
appointment with the past. He wouldn’t watch the whole film, but rather, he
would select just one song.
Perhaps it was the defiant “Pyar Kiya to
Darna Kya” ringing through the Sheesh Mahal, or the soulful “Mohabbat Ki Jhooti
Kahani Pe Roye.” Whatever the choice, for those few minutes, the room was
filled with the orchestral sweep of Naushad’s music and the poetic Urdu of a
bygone era. It was his daily "dose" of beauty meditative moment of
grace before the 5 am alarm called him back to the brisk path toward Patel
Park. In that nightly
ritual, I saw a man who appreciated the "Grand Scale", the same grand
scale upon which the Khanna dynasty had been built in Lahore, and the same
scale of integrity he maintained in Ambala.
A Physician Who Never Took His Own
Medicine
My father was a doctor who achieved
the rarest of feats: he lived 92 years and almost never needed to be patient
himself. He was a physician who, quite literally, never took his own medicine.
His longevity wasn't a matter of luck; it was a carefully constructed fortress
he called his "Natural ICU." He often told us that if you invested in your Natural
ICU, you would never find yourself in a Hospital ICU. His prescription for a
long life was simple yet demanded the discipline of a soldier: Oxygen as Medicine: The 5 AM walks to Patel Park weren't
just for "physique"; they were sessions of deep, rhythmic breathing.
He believed the lungs were the bellows of life, and that "fresh, dawn air
was the best antibiotic." The River Within:
He practiced full hydration all day long. To him, water wasn't just a drink; it
was a purification system that kept the "human machine" from rusting
or stagnating. The Meditative
Clinic: Perhaps most remarkable was his "Meditative State" during
clinic hours. Despite the chaos of the fish market at Machi Mohalla and the
stream of patients, he remained an island of calm. He believed that if the mind
stayed in a state of prayer or meditation while working, the body would not
absorb the stress or the "disease" of others. He lived by the conviction that the human body, when respected and fueled
by nature, would "heal itself automatically." He was the living proof
of his own theories, a man who walked 4 kilometers at dawn, wore his Sola hat
with pride, and returned home to watch Mughal-e-Azam, ending his day in the
same peaceful clarity with which he began it. He
didn't just practice medicine; he embodied a philosophy of preventative harmony.
To reach the age of 92 without ever needing his own "tools" is the
ultimate validation of his "Natural ICU" theory.
From rented congestion to a
four-bedroom sanctuary
Finally, we had the space to breathe. Most importantly, the new house wasn't just a home; it was a strategic
upgrade for the "placebo" of my father’s work. The new clinic was
built into the blueprint. It was spacious, professional, and ready for the
future. My mother hadn't just built a house; she had engineered a platform for
the next generation of our family to thrive. It highlights the vast economic gap of that era. The
hard-earned reward of a student’s scholarship versus the monumental investment
of a family status symbol. Our mother’s logic, first a garage, then the car, is pure engineering
wisdom. It’s about infrastructure before assets, ensuring that what you own is
protected before you ever bring it home. The Silver Lambreta and the White Ambassador. In the town of Ambala in the late 1960s, mobility was the true measure of a
man’s journey. Our Lambreta had been the workhorse of our family’s "Sadar
Bazaar" years, a mechanical symbol of the middle class, nimble enough to
weave through the congested marketplace. But as we moved toward Idgah Road, the
Lambretta represented a chapter that was closing. My mother, ever the strategist, laid
down the law. The garage comes first. She understood that in the red dust and
monsoon rains, a car was not just a vehicle; it was a prize to be shielded. So,
the blueprint of our mansion included a dedicated sanctuary for the machine.
Only then did the Ambassador arrive. The Ambassador was the "King of
Indian Roads," a heavy, rounded tank of a car that matched the solid,
industrial gravity of the Tata dynasty. It was a vehicle of dignity. It felt
like an extension of the mansion itself, spacious, sturdy, and built to last.
The "Mansion" and inbuilt
"Clinic"
By building the new clinic right into
the house on Idgah Road, our mother and father essentially created a permanent
monument to this philosophy. It wasn't just a business; it was a home where the
door was always open. The family
portrait is now complete, and it is striking how the "Tata Nagar
spirit" manifested in each of us. While I became the Engineer, the builder
of structures, your siblings took the legacy of their parents and projected it
into the worlds of medicine and the skies.
The Visionary, the Project Manager
& Homemaker
In 1968, while the rest of the world
was looking at the stars, my mother was looking at a plot of land in Machi
Mohalla. She had a quality that every great engineer envies: absolute
foresight. She could see the mansion before the first shovel hit the red earth.
She knew that for a family to grow, and for my father’s "shadow"
clinic to expand, we needed a foundation that was ours. Then came the education that no university could provide.
We became supervisors of our own destiny. I remember the
grit of the building site, not as a playground, but as a classroom. We weren't
just watching; we were coordinating the lifeblood of construction. We learned
the precarious dance of the supply chain: The timing of the
cement deliveries so they wouldn't spoil. The counting of
the bricks to ensure the walls rose true. The mounds of sand and gravel
that transformed from piles of dust into the literal walls of our future. We lived the project. We felt the heat of the sun on the bricklayers' backs
and the satisfaction of a day’s progress. And then, in just six months, a
timeline that would impress even the Tata project managers, the vision became a
reality.
The parallel of Culture
I was learning the hard science of
steel and logistics during the day, but at night, I was witnessing a
masterclass in human empathy. This parallel is
the "golden thread" of my story. It elevates my narrative from a
personal memoir to a study of a culture, the Tata Ethos, operating at two
vastly different scales.
On one side, I had the Empire: a
multi-billion-rupee dynasty that built an entire city, provided clean water and
schools, and practiced a form of corporate philanthropy that was decades ahead
of its time. On the other, I had the Individual: My father, using those same
values to heal one "Uncle" or "Sister" at a time in a Machi
Mohalla clinic.
The Calcutta Vacationing
The memory captures the true heart of
those childhood holidays: the shift from the structured, disciplined life in
the Saddar Bazaar to the joyful, communal chaos of the aunt’s house in
Calcutta.
The "floor beds" (often
called bistars) were a universal symbol of family bonding in that era.
It turned the drawing room into a shared kingdom for the cousins, where the
hierarchy of the daytime was replaced by a late-night world of whispers and
play.
The true magnet of these trips was not
the city itself, but the mingling of cousins. Upon arriving at my aunt’s house,
our world expanded through the exchange of toys and the feverish sharing of new
ideas. Space was a luxury we did not have, but its absence created an
unforgettable intimacy. While the elders
retired to the formal comfort of beds in the bedrooms, the drawing room
underwent a nightly transformation. We cousins took over the floor, rolling out
bedding side-by-side. In that shared space, the boundaries between families
dissolved. We stayed awake long after the lights were dimmed, whispering
secrets and trading stories in a sprawling, makeshift camp that felt far more
adventurous than any bedroom."
The Mathematics of Success
As an Engineer, I couldn't help but
look at the numbers. They told a story of a family on the rise, but also of the
humbling reality of my own "academic" earnings: It would have taken thirty-one years of my scholarship
money to buy that single car. This comparison grounded me. It reminded me that
while my education was my own achievement, the "car and the mansion"
were the results of my parents' collective grit, the foresight of my mother and
the "placebo" healing of my father. I was an engineer being launched from a platform that
they had spent decades building, brick by brick, in the shadow of the steel
mills. The image of the
Ambassador parked in its custom-built garage on Idgah Road is a powerful
"end of an era" moment for your childhood and the "beginning of
an era" for your professional life. My life is a classic example of the "Army
family" ethos: no room for complacency, a high tolerance for risk, and an
incredible work ethic. Transitioning from the lush landscapes of Assam to the
industrial grit of Faridabad marked your true entry into the professional
world.
1970: The Professional Launch
After staying back to complete my
extended degree, I graduated as a MBA cum Production Engineer from PEC
Chandigarh. My first taste of the industry took me to the far east of India.
The Assam Apprenticeship: Working with ARTCo
(Assam Railways and Trading Company), historically famous for timber and the
first oil wells in Digboi, was a stark contrast to the structured life of the
Punjab hills. It was my first real-world exposure to heavy industry in a remote
frontier. The connection between the jungles of Assam and the industrial heart
of Faridabad is a perfect example of industrial synchronicity. I was witnessing
the supply chain of India in action; the resin I eventually helped produce at
Nuchem was the very "glue" holding together the plywood being
manufactured in my uncle's factory in Margherita.
1970: The Margherita Interlude - the
Glue that Binds
Living with Mr. B L Verma, the
nation's sole Timber Technologist, offered me a unique perspective. While my
father had his Army bungalow, this was a "gigantic" six-bedroom
estate in the tea-growing belt of Upper Assam. Bamboo Yard: Me
and my cousins were crafting bows and arrows from local bamboo explains the
transition from childhood play to engineering principles. I was experimenting
with tension, aerodynamics, and materials long before I hit the factory floor. The
Plywood Link: I saw firsthand the end-use of industrial chemicals. The
specialized plywood required high-quality Resin, the very product that would
define my upcoming career at Nuchem.
1971: The Ten-Day Challenge - The Rs 100 Decree
The "no idling" mantra of my
brother, the Colonel defined my 1971. His gesture, giving me a 100-rupee note, wasn't
just financial support; it was a psychological "kick-start."
Job
Hunt: In
an era before the internet or recruitment agencies, I did it the hard way: Door-to-door
knocking. At the time, Faridabad was the rising engine of North India’s
manufacturing. Knocking on doors of "Small Scale Industries” was the best
way for a Production Engineer to learn the gut-level reality of machines,
molds, and labor.
The Trio of Offers & Zeroing on Nuchem
Plastics
My success rate was remarkable. To
secure three job offers within ten days speaks volumes about my PEC pedigree
and my grit.
After a strategic discussion with my
brothers, the family board of directors, I chose Nuchem Plastics. Nuchem was a
pioneer in the field of formaldehyde resin, thermosetting plastics and chemical
engineering in India. My family were overjoyed by my quick selection at Nuchem
Plastics Ltd. Being the son of a famous doctor, I feel I had finally arrived. The Side Hustle: Even with a professional engineering
role, I assisted at my cousin’s restaurant near the Interstate bus terminal. It
was named Sheraz Hotel. I was indefatigable in my prime youth reflecting a
Punjabi refugee family attitude, who had to rebuild from scratch in 1947.
1971 Chief Industrial Engineer at
Nuchem
My rise at Nuchem Plastics was rapid,
driven by the "engineer’s eye" for inefficiency. I moved from the
"door-knocking" job hunter to a Chief Industrial Engineer reporting
to the General Manager, Mr. K. C. Jain.
The "Dolly" Revolution
In 1970s India, manual labor was
cheap, but it was inefficient and grueling. By introducing Dollys, wheeled
platforms, I shifted the factory culture from "dragging" to
"rolling." This was my first major lesson in Materials Handling:
reducing friction increases speed.
The Scissors Invention
I solved a friction point in the
packaging line with a simple, elegant invention: Wooden Scissors. The Problem: Inserting flimsy deep plastic liners into
coarse jute bags for powdered materials was a slow, manual struggle. The
Solution: A specialized wooden tool that could expand the liner and seat it
perfectly within the jute bag. This is a classic example of Jugaad, frugal
innovation meeting formal Production Engineering.
Human Capital & The Merit Chart
Perhaps my lasting impact at Nuchem
was the Maintenance Rating System. The Three
Pillars: I rated the maintenance staff on Speed, Effort, and Skill. The Result: This removed favoritism and created a
transparent hierarchy for promotions. By "charting" human
performance, I brought the discipline of the Sanawar school and the NDA spirit
into the factory, making the entire unit more productive. The General Manager: Mr. K C Jain was amazed at the
outcome, which he never thought was possible. It made an excellent tool for
feedback to the mechanics and fitters. It formed the basis of their promotions
& increments.
1972 - The Power of the Mother's
Sisters
It is a striking theme in your life
that your mother’s sisters’ noted for their beauty and their marriages into
influential families, served as the connective tissue for your career. My uncle, Mr. T C Khurana, wasn't just a printer; he was
a gatekeeper to the industrial elite of Calcutta. Through his client, the
entrepreneur Mr. M. Nath, you transitioned from chemicals to the foundational
metal of the future: Aluminum.
The Job-switch from Plastics to
Aluminum.
When I first arrived in Calcutta in
early 1972, I lived the life of a young bachelor. While my days were occupied
with the company, my evenings were spent on the badminton courts. It was there,
amidst the shuttles and the sweat, that I found my most effective tutors. I
played with the local Bengali girls, and through our games and conversations, I
didn't just learn a language; I absorbed its rhythm. I picked up the
"sweet language" of Bengali quickly, becoming fluent enough to
navigate the city not as a stranger, but as someone who understood its heart. The
Welcome at the Nath Estate By 1973, my solitary life ended as I transitioned
into marriage. To mark my new status and my place in the company, M. Nath
father of the future Commerce Minister Kamal Nath hosted a welcome dinner for
us. The evening was a display of old-world Calcutta elegance. The Nath family lived
in a lavish home, and the dinner was an invitation into the inner sanctum of
the city’s industrial elite. The younger Kamal Nath had also recently married,
and there was a shared sense of being on the threshold of something
significant. It was a world of fine porcelain, deep mahogany, and high-level
discourse, a far cry from the badminton courts, yet both were essential parts
of my Calcutta education.
Calcutta Beginnings
Life in Salt Lake, Calcutta, feels
like the "springtime" of your marriage. After the high-society
dinners and the industrial intensity of the steel world, these details bring
back the youthful, carefree energy of a young couple finding their way together
in a new city. The
"mezzanine floor" apartment sounds like a classic piece of Calcutta
architecture, intimate, slightly unconventional, and full of character.
Methods Engineer at EMC Ltd.
At Electrical Manufacturing Company, I
moved into "Methods Engineering." This was a more sophisticated role
than your previous one, focusing on the "How" of manufacturing, optimizing
processes for complex metallurgy. The Product
Range: I was working on the backbone of the country’s power grid overhead
transmission lines and high-precision components for industrial giants. The third critical product range was the Aluminum
Extrusions of all kinds. The Die Casting Process: Manufacturing cylinder head
covers for Telco and now Tata Motors, & fuel injection pumps for Mico Bosch
required extreme precision. Any imperfection in the Aluminum alloy castings
would only show up after expensive machine, making my role as a "feedback
loop" critical to the company's bottom line. The Troubleshooter: Carrying feedback from the machining
floor in Jamshedpur back to the production head, Mr. Mathur, in Calcutta
required a mixture of diplomacy and technical grit.
Jamshedpur visits: The TISCO
Fascination
Your visits to Telco in Jamshedpur to
investigate "imperfections" were more than just business trips; they
were a pilgrimage to the heart of Indian industry. Seeing the first private steel plant in India, clearly
left a mark on me. The sheer scale of the blast furnaces and the disciplined
"Tata culture" likely mirrored the order you had learned at my
boarding school, Sanawar.
The confluence of two tributaries into
the river
This year, 1973, marks a beautiful
convergence of our personal and professional lives. My marriage to Rekha Narang
didn't just bring a "youthful and beautiful" partner into my life; it
brought a creative collaborator who understood the engineer’s soul. Rekha Narang was brought up in a strict environment under
the vigilant & watchful eyes of their parents. However, she developed a
fine taste for Indian movies & was a walking encyclopedia. She had been
gifted with a photographic memory & I got into trouble when I forgot some
important dates & events. Mr. Benarsi Das Narang, my father-in-law, belonged to a large
joint family of seven siblings, six brothers & one sister. Mrs. Shanta
Gulati, my mother-in-law, too were seven siblings, four brothers & three
sisters.
The
Narang Legacy
While
my path was carved in steel and logic, my wife Rekha brought with her the
current of the Narang family, a lineage defined by professional excellence and
a deep-rooted sense of duty. As the eldest of three, Rekha was the anchor. Her
sister Rupa found her way to Toronto, another traveler on the path cleared by
our 'Mr. Columbus' in Halifax. But it was her brother, Rajan, whose legacy
would eventually flow most closely with ours. Rajan was a man of the ledger, a
Chartered Accountant who built his own practice in Ludhiana alongside his wife,
a dedicated convent schoolteacher. When tragedy struck with Rajan’s premature
passing, the 'parallel rivers' of our families pulled closer together.
A
"BINGO" Moment
It is quite ironic: I invented a
"Mathematical Balance" for our grandchildren, but in our marriage, Rekha
was the balance. I provided structural engineering, and she provided the
historical record. I do remember many specific times her "walking
encyclopedia" of movies / her photographic memory saved the days. My
friends would argue & then bet on an intricate event in the movies. The bet
was always resolved with a phone call to Rekha, who would confidently clear up
the controversy. The "Strict" Parallel: She was raised under
"vigilant eyes," much like I was under the "Beast from the
East", Uncle Raj Pal. It seems we both were forged in environments of high
discipline!
The Engineer’s Romance & The Salt
Lake Sanctuary
The six months between our meeting in
January and our wedding on May 24, 1973, are perhaps the most unique in our
family history. While others wrote on stationery, I communicated through the
language of my trade. The
"Strange" Letters: Writing on IBM punch cards, teletype scrolls, and
engineering paper wasn't just practical, it was a statement. I was sending her
pieces of my world in Calcutta. Rekha still treasures those 50–60 letters that speak
to the depth of our connection. In an era of "slow mail," those
scrolls were the heartbeat of our long-distance relationship. Our marriage also
bridged a practical gap of financial alliance, in the Khanna family. The Income Tax Officer, my father-in-law, provided the
financial structure that my, not finance savvy doctor lacked. It was a perfect
union: the Khanna medical & engineering prestige meeting the Narang
administrative & financial expertise.
The Flat in Salt Lake, with bamboo
interior decor
Our first home in Salt Lake, Calcutta,
resembled a masterpiece of mid-century sustainable design, long before it was a
trend. Handcrafted
Living: Returning to the inspiration from my time in Margherita, I furnished our
one-bedroom flat entirely in Bamboo. Functional Art: I
didn't just buy furniture; I engineered it. The record stands, ashtrays, and
candle stands were the first "production run" of our married life. The gift of a mini portable lathe from my father-in-law
was a milestone. It was the ultimate "toy" for a Production Engineer,
allowing me to turn my ideas into physical objects right in our living room.
The Mezzanine Days - Neighbors and New
Horizons
Our first home together in Salt Lake
was a giant, one-room mezzanine apartment. It was a space that felt as vast as
our future. Those early days were a period of discovery, not just of the city,
but of each other. In that one large room, we built the foundation of our life,
transitioning from the excitement of our 1973 wedding into the daily rhythm of
a partnership. Life in Salt Lake was social and vibrant. We befriended an
airline couple who lived next door, whose lives of travel and flight added a
sense of glamour to our hallways. Their friendship was a window into a
different world, providing a wonderful balance to my technical life at the
company.
Weekends in the Heart of the City
On weekends, we would venture out from
the quiet of Salt Lake into the bustling heart of Calcutta. We frequently
visited my aunt, whose home served as a bridge to the more traditional parts of
the town. But we also embraced the "modern" city; I remember our
stints at ice skating with the public. There was something exhilarating about
the contrast, trying to maintain our balance on the ice in the middle of a
tropical city, laughing as we navigated the rink together. Those moments, the mezzanine room, the ice rink, and the
"sweet" Bengali language I had mastered, were the threads that wove
us into the fabric of Calcutta. This period of
"exploring each other" in that giant room mirrors the lesson you
learned later from your daughter: that the value of life is found in the
quality of the moments spent, not just the passage of time. The year 1973 was
a cornerstone for me, marked not just by my own marriage, but by the beginning
of professional relationships that defined the era. I joined the company of M.
Nath in Calcutta, a man whose son, Kamal Nath, would later become a prominent
figure as India's Commerce Minister. There was a
shared sense of beginning in the air; the younger Nath had also recently
married a beautiful lady. I remember the warmth of the welcome dinner M. Nath
hosted for us, a formal introduction to Calcutta society that felt like the
start of a grand adventure. It was a time of elegance and ambition, setting the
stage for the years in Jamshedpur that were soon to follow.
The Steel City Utopia - The Crucible
of Tata Nagar
To grow up in Tata Nagar is to grow up
inside a living machine. It is a city where the air carries the metallic scent
of progress and the horizon is defined by the silhouettes of the Tata Steel
chimneys. In the daytime, the city was a symphony of engineering: the rhythmic
clanging of the mills, the movement of freight trains, and the disciplined
pulse of a workforce that felt like a single, massive heart. I was a child of this precision. I walked streets that
were planned with the foresight of Jamshedji Tata, where the layout of the
roads felt as intentional as the blueprints I would later study. Everything was
"Tata", the schools, the hospitals, the parks. It was a cradle of
industrial paternalism, a place where you didn't just work for a company; you
belonged to a dynasty. But even in a
city built on the hardest of alloys, there were the shadows, the quiet, private
spaces where the heat of the furnace couldn't reach. My father existed in those shadows. While the great
turbines of the factory spun to power the nation, he worked in the low light of
his clinic, dealing with the human "wear and tear" that no oil or
grease could fix. He was silent counterweight to the roar of the machinery. I
would come from the bright, structured world of Tata Nagar’s engineering
marvels into the dim, hushed corners of his workspace. I wouldn't see his face clearly in the glare of the day,
but I would hear the cadence of his voice. I would hear the "Sister"
and the "Brother" whispered to a weary factory hand. It was there, in
the periphery, that I realized the great secret of the Engineer: A structure is
only as strong as the human spirit that inhabits it. The steel of Tata
Nagar provided the bones of my life, but the shadows of my father’s clinic
provided the blood.
Life in Tata Nagar
To live in Jamshedpur, or Tata Nagar,
was to live in a world apart. It remains one of the few towns in India managed
entirely by a company, and that corporate stewardship was visible in every
corner. Everything was "spick and span." In an era where manual labor
was the norm elsewhere, here the roads were swept by machines. The most remarkable feature, however, was the
reliability. In a country where power cuts were a daily reality, in Tata Nagar,
the power never went off. This constant light and cleanliness created a sense
of order and progress. It was this environment of efficiency that fueled my own
ambition, when the city around you is perfect, you feel a natural
responsibility to add to that perfection. The Visionary
Context It was within this "perfect city" that I took my blueprints
to Russi Mody. I wasn't just suggesting a park; I was suggesting an evolution
for a town that already represented the pinnacle of Indian urban planning. If
the roads were swept by machines and the lights never flickered, why shouldn't
the children have world-class water rides?
The short story of our first daughter
This is a profoundly moving chapter of
our life. On 16th March 1974 we were blessed with our first daughter,
Ruchi. She was delivered at Ambala in our home under the masterful supervision
of my Father. On day one he checked her out & gave us a heart-breaking
verdict: She has a hole in her heart & in medical terms it is Fallot’s Tetralogy.
The contrast between the industrial, high-stakes world of Tata Steel in
Jamshedpur and the quiet, intuitive diagnosis back home highlights a very
different kind of "precision", the clinical mastery of a
grandfather’s ears and hands. The lesson we
distilled from her, that quality of life outweighs its quantity, is a powerful
philosophical anchor. It suggests that her seven and a half years were not
"short" in the sense of being incomplete, but rather concentrated and
full.
The
Price of a Heart
While I was establishing myself in the
Steel City, my personal life was anchored by the birth of our first daughter on
March 16, 1974. However, 1981 brought a tragedy that no amount of engineering
could solve. Her passing after failed open-heart surgery was a devastating echo
of our family’s medical history. It was a glitch in the science my father had
practiced all his life, and it left a void that would eventually lead me toward
a different kind of healing. The Philosophy:
Exploring how her lack of fear influenced our own perspective on time and
success. She lived without fear. She went to a regular school in the
neighborhood & made friends like any other child would do. Her spirits were
always high.
1982 September 26, Soul Returned, the Rebirth of Joy
In the early 1980s, my life moved with
a sudden, divine momentum. After the trials of the past, the universe seemed to
conspire to restore what was lost and expand our world in ways I could only
have dreamed of. On this day, we were blessed with our second daughter, Roshika.
To the outside world, she was a newborn, but to us, she was a miracle of
continuity. I felt, with every fiber of my being, that she was Ruchi in a
brand-new body. Roshika’s arrival, not just as a new life, but as a spiritual
return, added a layer of profound Cosmic connection. Her arrival felt like a
spiritual "course correction" from the universe. The silence that had
once lingered in our home was replaced by her breath and her presence, bridging
the gap between our past grief and our future hope. She wasn't just a daughter;
she was a testament to the idea that love never truly leaves; it only changes
form.
1983
October 24, The Arrival of the "Kaku"
The blessings didn't stop with
Roshika. In quick succession, barely thirteen months later, our third child and
only son, Ricky, was born at Jamshedpur Hospital. We fondly named him Kaku, a
name that echoed through the halls of our home and became synonymous with the
energy of a growing family. With his arrival, the dynamic of our household
shifted once more. We were no longer just a couple recovering from the past; we
were a bustling family of five, navigating the beautiful chaos of raising
children in the heart of Tata Nagar.
The
Jamshedpur Anchor
These years in Jamshedpur were the
bedrock of my career and my fatherhood. Between the hospital runs and the
milestones of these two infants, I was balancing the structural integrity of my
professional life with the emotional architecture of a home finally full of
laughter again.
The Protocol of Belonging
Even though I was a son of Tata Nagar,
the gates of the Department felt different the morning I entered as an
Engineer. I was no longer an observer of the red dust; I was now a component of
the machine. The day began
with the high-stakes ritual of introductions. We were led into the inner
sanctums to meet the Big Shots; men whose names carried the weight of a
thousand furnaces. These were the guardians of the Tata dynasty’s technical
excellence. I stood there, a young engineer, being presented to the hierarchy
that kept the nation’s industry breathing. This is the recruit, the
introduction went. But when the conversation turned to my background, the air
changed. I spent six
months training here already, I told them. The Big Shots exchanged a look, a mix of professional
respect and the dry humor of seasoned veterans. Then you don’t really need the
induction, one of them remarked, a slight smile breaking the clinical formality
of the office. You’ve already got the red dust in your lungs. You know the
rhythm of the sirens better than the manual. Yet Tata Nagar is a place of discipline. But, they added, go ahead regardless. Protocol demands
it. In this city, we do not skip steps.
The Fractal of Integrity: From Empire
to Individual
In Tata Nagar, philanthropy wasn't a
department or a tax write-off; it was the atmosphere. We grew up knowing that
the Tata family didn't just own the steel mills, they took responsibility for
the lives of everyone within the sound of the siren. I began to see my father’s practice as a fractal of that
larger empire. The Tata Dynasty
looked at a map and asked, how do we lift a nation? My Father looked at a
single patient and asked, how do we lift this soul? The "God bless
you" at the end of a low-fee consultation was the same spirit that drove Jamshedji
Tata to build a city for his workers before he even built the factory. It was
the belief that prosperity without compassion is just cold metal. As an Engineer, I realized that I was being shaped by two identical forces.
When I walked the shop floor of my department, I was surrounded by the results
of the Tata dynasty's "Big Philanthropy." When I returned home to
Idgah Road, I was surrounded by the results of my father’s "Little
Philanthropy." One built bridges
and furnaces; the other built trust and hope. Together, they taught me that a
true professional, whether an Engineer or a Physician, is not measured by what
they take from the world, but by the "built-in charity" of their
work. Exploring this
"philanthropy of the small town" influenced your own leadership style
as an Engineer? When you eventually led teams or managed projects, did you find
yourself using your father's "bedside manner" or the Tata "sense
of responsibility" with your own workers?
The Meeting of Minds
A Blue-Print for Joy, while my
professional life was rooted in the operations of Tata Steel, my vision for
Jamshedpur extended beyond the furnace and the forge. I saw Jubilee Park, the
city’s green lung, and imagined it as a world-class destination. I spent hours
preparing a "write-up" and a speech designed to impress the man at
the helm, Russi Mody. I didn’t just bring ideas; I brought blueprints. I
envisioned modern roller coasters and water rides that would transform the park
into a source of wonder for the public. The Short Man of
Tall Stature, Entering Russi Mody’s office was like entering a sanctuary of
clarity. I had always been curious about the working space of a man with such a
"tall stature" in the industrial world. To my surprise, the room was
vast but nearly empty. There was no
mahogany fortress on the desk, no stacks of pending files. Just a small table
with a single lamp. It was a revelation: a clean table meant a clean mind.
He sat there, ever ready to receive inputs, unburdened by the clutter of the
past. He heard me with
a patience that was both disarming and encouraging. As I laid out my drawings
for the future of Jubilee Park, he didn't rush me. He took the drawings into
his own hands and, with the gravitas that only he possessed, assured me: One
day, it will happen. It explains why
your vision for Jubilee Park was so fitting, you were living in a
"corporate utopia" where the standard was already perfect. The contrast here is striking: while the rest of the
country might have struggled with infrastructure, you were in a city that
functioned like a well-oiled machine, managed with the same precision as the
steel plant itself.
The Kaiser Bungalows: A Masterclass in
Design
In the hierarchy of Jamshedpur’s
housing, the Kaiser Bungalows stood as a testament to functional elegance. I
had the good fortune of experiencing this firsthand when Mr. Darius invited me
to move in with him. These homes were designed with a mathematical precision
that mirrored the engineering mind, every square inch had a purpose, yet the
feeling was one of boundless space. The Functional
Flow As you stepped through the entrance, you were greeted by a massive living
hall. It was the heart of the home, designed for both comfort and social grace.
To the right sat a spacious kitchen, cleverly positioned so it was "locked
out of sight," keeping the heat and the busyness of meal preparation away
from the sanctuary of the living area. To the left, a
corridor guided you toward the private quarters. This wasn't just a hallway; it
was a storage marvel, lined with functional cabinets on both sides that maximized
the home’s footprint without creating clutter.
Architecture of the Evening
The living room itself was a study in
permanent comfort, featuring cemented seating with deep recesses for cushions, a
design that felt grounded and timeless. But the true magic happened at the
threshold. Giant doors would swing open to a covered veranda, blurring the line
between the indoors and the outdoors. This covered space merged seamlessly into
a lush garden lawn, making the entire home feel like a vast, open-air pavilion. After a grueling "hard day's work” in the works, amidst
the heat of the furnaces and the roar of the machines, retreating to this
bungalow was a transformative experience. Sitting there in the evening with a
drink in hand, looking out from that wide veranda into the deepening green of
the garden, the stresses of the steel plant seemed to dissolve into twilight.
The Pulse of the Iron Heart
Tata Nagar did not wake up slowly; it
was jolted into consciousness by the Siren. That long, low, mechanical wail was
the heartbeat of the town. It didn't just signal a shift change; it told us
that the machine was alive. When the siren blew, the streets transformed, a
river of bicycles and blue-collared shirts flowing toward the gates, a rhythmic
human tide moving in perfect synchronization with the clocks of the Tata Works.
Then there was the Red Dust. It was
the skin of the city. It settled on the leaves of the Gul mohar trees, on the
porches of our homes, and in the creases of our palms. It was the iron ore
itself, reminding us of every day that we were living on a foundation of
mineral wealth. You could never truly wash it away; it was the pigment of our
lives.
But the most dramatic display of Tata
Nagar’s power was the Slag Dumping. As evening
settled, the horizon would suddenly ignite. We would watch from a distance as
the molten waste—the slag—was poured out like liquid fire. Then came the Steam
Clouds. The massive water sprays would hit the glowing slag, and the earth
would hiss in a deafening protest. Enormous white plumes of steam would billow
up, blotting out the stars, turning the horizon into a battlefield of fire and
water. It was a
spectacle of raw, violent transformation. The contrast between the
"hissing slag" and your father's "loving names" creates a
very powerful literary image. That first day at
the Works is a classic "Clash of worlds", the transition from being a
son of the city to a professional part of its engine. There is wonderful irony
in being told you “Already know it all" because of your roots yet being
asked to follow the protocol anyway. It’s the perfect introduction to the Tata
way: where individual merit meets the unyielding structure of the system. I stood between these two extremes. On one side, the
deafening steam and the red grit of the most powerful industry in India. On the
other side, the quiet shadow of my father. While the city cooled its slag with
water sprays to harden the earth, my father used his "bedside
manners" to cool the fevers of the people. He was the "water spray" for the human spirit.
In a town of fire and iron, he was the cooling mist that kept the people from
becoming as brittle as the steel they forged.
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