Oh! Henry 2 - Divided By None, Except One

 

In Numbersville, where days were always even bright,

And every passing year was resolutely odd,

Lived a boy named 59, born of 34 and 25's light;

Their common thread, a prime number, 3, by nature trod.

The mother held a pretty smile, the father charming, broad,

His sister, sweet 9, a smart and likable soul,

But our hero, 59, was free of fame's demanding toll.

 

59 was rather benign, shy, and quiet to the core,

A figure mild, perhaps a bit of a bore.

He fell in love with 60, fair and perfectly round,

Our hero was completely struck, no logic could be found.

He took a bold stance, risked rejection just to score;60 smiled, a gentle curve, and asked him to refine his luck,

For she had met with 44, who shared a common 4, and didn't need more pluck.

 

Now 59 was sad, his vibrant prime seemed lost;

He took his oddity as sign, whatever the cost,

And worked the silent streets, a mime with painted face,

He wondered if being different was a crime, a flaw to be erased.

His days were spent in quiet thought, reflecting upon time, the silent space.

On one unusual day, during his muted act,

Riding a unicycle, balancing on one knee,

He saw a freckled girl, a twisted nose, a striking fact.

"61," she stated simply, as if to prove her destiny.

He found her odd, delightfully so, in just the right way.

He hopped off his cycle, seeking her to make a pact,

Told her, "You're odd, and that is perfectly okay."

 

He heard her shrill and awkward voice, a slow smile on his face,

Every line between them filed like a perfect Ray,

And just one single word she had to say.

Five long, happy years have passed since that rare encounter's start,

She is still in her prime, and so is she, forever young at heart.

They share a cozy house, and a little baby, 120,

A number perfect, double all that 60 used to be.

Oh! Henry 1 - Curious Case Of A Badmaash Pen

 

It was a scorching day in Rajahmundry. The summer had been particularly unforgiving that year, and no one felt the heat quite like the city’s postmen. The endless cycling in a thick cotton safari suit was bordering on torture. Yet, one such postman pedaled on, making his routine pickup from the offices of Ratnam Pen Works. However, this parcel was no ordinary consignment. It carried the protagonist of our story: Ratty.

Ratty wasn’t just another writing instrument; he was the first Swadeshi pen, destined to write history rather than just record it. Crafted from fine Karnataka Ebony and born with a silver nib in his mouth, Ratty was proudly brown - a stark contrast to his foreign-made competitors.

Ratty’s journey took him to the doors of a humble yet powerful figure. At the Sabarmati Ashram, he was greeted with a smile as the Mahatma picked him up to write a letter to Ratnam, thanking them for this "excellent instrument of expression." While his first words were of gratitude, life had grander plans. Ratty didn’t remain a mere spectator; he became an active participant.

In 1942, barely seven years old, Ratty drafted a series of speeches in multiple languages that triggered the Quit India Movement. It was a major milestone. They say strict parenting leads to rebellion, but for Ratty, rebellion became a virtue early on. His first decade was tough but monumental, his ink flowing against an oppressing class and his greatest bully: The Sword.

1947 changed everything. Not only had Ratty helped bring a nation together, but he had also proven his superiority over the blade. At the tender age of twelve, he witnessed the greatest experiment the world had ever seen, inking pages that would shape the lives of billions. But as the saying goes, "Happy endings are just stories cut short."

Ratty’s Father - who happened to be the Father of the Nation - was mercilessly killed. Six months shy of his teens, Ratty became an orphan.

He was soon moved to a government orphanage for goods that once belonged to important people - a place polite society calls a museum. Life in his teens lacked the thrill of his childhood. The spirit of rebellion ended where the six-inch glass ceiling began. Visitors looked at him with the same detached awe they reserved for the spectacles sitting next to him. Uncapped, he lay there with a dull silver nib and a dried spot of ink, begging to touch paper, desperate to bleed words once more.

Just as the days began to blur into a meaningless series of hours, a young man wearing a face of disillusionment entered the museum. His Press ID card brushed against the glass compartments as he drifted past the artifacts. He almost walked past Ratty, but something made him turn back.

The thing about complex human emotions is how we project them onto objects. The dull silver nib with its sad spot of ink drew the man’s attention; he saw a reflection of himself in that small, shiny speck of ebonite. In that moment, Ratty found a new home.

While his teenage years had been stagnant, rebellion crept back into his early adulthood. Through that worn-out silver nib now flowed facts in the form of news, shaping the belief of a young nation. He was often seen clipped to the white pockets of this journalist, becoming the talk of the town.

But time marches on. The year is 1975. Ratty has entered his 40s, and his new "father" isn't so young anymore either. Whispers spread across the nation: a few of Ratty’s counterparts have signed a piece of paper putting limits on what Ratty is allowed to write.

Ratty is enraged. He does everything but stop. Memories of his childhood resurface, channeling the "Views of the Voiceless". But just as his words reach the people, he faces a strange encounter - someone he thought was a trouble of the past. Ratty is brought before The Sword. Only this time, it is the Sword of Justice.

"Phew, different guy," Ratty exclaims, preparing to explain his case.

But before he can finish, a sentence is read out to him: "According to Section 124A of the IPC - the Indian Pen Code - you are charged with sedition, which amounts to Imprisonment for Life."

"The Swords do get to have the last laugh, don't they?" Ratty mutters with a dismayed smile.

Imprisonment is tough, but it is tougher when you have a glorious past. Ratty finds his new home in captivity, chained to the desks of public institutions like banks. As dichotomous as it is, he still gets to write, though his prose is now limited to the tedious details of withdrawal slips.

A small placard reading "Please do not take the pen with you" sits at the base of his deathbed.

"We won't trust you with a pen, but you should definitely trust us with your life's income" , are Ratty's final, ironic thoughts.

He lies on the counter, chained and weary, staring across the table at a currency note being handed to a banker - staring into the eyes of his First Father, printed on the paper he is no longer allowed to write on.

Stray Thoughts 4 - So How Exactly Did We Get Here

Growing up, I was an avid reader of Amar Chitra Katha comic books (in the absence of other entertainment, one forgives terrible paper quality). As I flipped through those pages, I couldn't help but wonder what made these people - who looked exactly like me - such absolute badasses. How did they walk the same roads, eat the same food, and bargain just as aggressively as I do, yet end up so distinct? Was I missing something? How is one marked for such greatness, and why don’t I see it around me anymore? Has greatness become as obsolete as skinny jeans and men wearing three-quarter pants (gladly)? If so, I have seriously missed my ticket.

In the summer of 1911, a middle-aged nurse in New York likely asked herself similar questions (minus the skinny jeans commentary) as she made her fifth midwifery call to the suburbs. The sight of a home struggling to hold itself together, let alone feed another newborn, moved her enough to take up arms against the clergy in a battle that became the "Every child a wanted child" movement. Margaret Sanger became a voice for those who had none, or were too young to speak. For the first time, public contraception, abortion rights, and child protection entered the halls of power, sparking what we now call the liberal movement. Interestingly, in 1992- decades after the movement met its primary goals - the Justice Department noticed a peculiar, steady drop in violent crime. Subsequent investigations offered the final feather in Sanger's cap: modern family planning had done more to curb crime than state enforcement ever could.

On December 17, 2010, Tarek al-Tayeb Mohammad Bouazizi, a Tunisian street vendor harassed by police for simply trying to make a living, likely faced that same internal questioning before self-immolating. His act posthumously ignited the ‘Arab Spring,’ arguably giving the 21st century its own defining set of revolutions. TIME Magazine named ‘The Protester’ its Person of the Year, as the Spring swept across North Africa and continued to inspire revolutions throughout the decade, right up to recent uprisings in Lebanon, Iraq, Algeria, and Sudan.

Nicolae Ceaușescu, a slick-haired communist, likely thought he was marking himself for glory on October 14, 1967, when he signed Decree 770. Intended to boost Romania's "productivity" and labor access, the decree outlawed birth control and abortion while restricting women's rights to education and work. Long story short, over the next 20 years, Romania’s capital productivity dipped by one-tenth, while the only things that went up were "reproductivity" and poverty (it rhymes for a reason). Riddled with debt and crime, Romania trotted into chaos. In 1989, in a final bout for his throne, Ceaușescu appeared before an enraged public - a generation of deprived kids known as the "770 Babies," who now had muscles and guns. In his bid for greatness, he lost his objectivity, and shortly after, his life.

Some might argue that the Amar Chitra Katha analogy doesn't fit modern change-makers - that today's heroes often act from a bubble of relative comfort rather than ancient asceticism. While many in those comic books may have subscribed to giving up worldly pleasures for devotion, I am certain there are just as many contributions by those who simply acted on what they felt was right, creating a massive ripple effect. Change is rarely a single-act play; it wouldn't reach the grand stage without the curtain droppers, the lighting folks, and for that matter, even the audience.

Book Review 1 - India Grows At Night (Gurcharan Das)

 

I. Initial Thoughts

Before I dive into this, I just want to say it out loud - I absolutely love elephants. There’s something irresistibly charming about these odd-bodied, unapologetic, big-brained giants that makes me think, “Maybe gaining a few kilos isn’t such a bad thing after all.”

What makes elephants even more fascinating, though, is their uncanny resemblance to India - the very nation that shelters one of their largest thriving populations. Both are vast, emotional, unpredictable, and audible only to those attuned to their hard thuds and mellow murmurs. And yes, before you roll your eyes, I’ll be linking some random elephant facts later - entirely unnecessary, mildly bewildering, but hopefully entertaining.

Now that we’ve had our fair share of flora and fauna, it’s time to slip into my serious swimming trunks and wade into deeper waters. This time, I find myself turning the pages of yet another book on India -  but not one written by a passing political commentator. This comes from a man who has lived through India’s transformations, from the red-tape-choked corridors of the License Raj to the fizz and frenzy of the 1990s cola wars: Gurcharan Das.

A champion of intellectual honesty and a master of conveying layered ideas without hiding behind verbosity, Das stands out in India’s literary landscape. What draws me further into his work is how seamlessly he weaves mythological reflection with modern dilemmas - exploring everything from statecraft and governance (India Unbound) to morality and human frailty (The Difficulty of Being Good). His writing doesn’t just describe India; It makes one want to look out of the window.

II. What is India Grows At Night all about

"India Grows at Night,

When the Government sleeps"

Hidden in plain sight, these lines are to the book what brandy is to wine - a distilled elixir left for the palate. The book largely deals with the Indian growth paradox - the steep, exponential curve of FDI and perception that post-1990 India witnessed, and the slow trot of a large yet weak government trying to keep pace.

Much of its early chapters explore the idea of a weak state and its historical footing in modern, medieval, and ancient India. Das threads together insights from the Subas of Mughal rule, the provincial discretion of the British Raj, and the rise of an opulent federalism in modern Indian democracy, weaving a narrative that traces the long-standing existence of a fragile state in the subcontinent.

With the stage set for a battle of ideas, the Indian story begins to unfold into what many call “The Indian Miracle.” First-hand accounts testify to the resilient and dramatic economic rise of a nation transformed by the liberalization efforts undertaken by the Centre in the 1990s. These narratives make a compelling case for the potential and acumen of its people, capturing the rise of IT hubs such as Bengaluru and Gurugram, and the steady stabilization of markets across the country. And just as when all seems fun and games, the book presents you with the horror that surpasses 5 Nights at Freddy's - Indian Public Infrastructure. While the reader upto this point is sensing an easy road ahead, Das hits us with the conundrum that slides along with the Indian Miracle,  A State that is trying hard to keep up and only pushes the disparity further. The reader is hit with mind boggling numbers and statistics as well as lived experiences pertaining to the state of Government Infrastructure and its rusted machinery, one that further pays an ode to the vigor of its people, almost asserting that The Indian Miracle is working despite its government. 

As the final chapters arrive, the book almost leaves the reader with a couple of questions to ponder on - If India has grown despite its government, can the dilemma of disparity be covered with tighter government control? If India can come this far with a weak and big government, how far can we go with a strong and compact one?

III. My Two Cents

India Grows at Night is a captivating and surprisingly fun read. While we're all told not to judge a book by its cover, this one’s is strikingly prophetic. The image of a middle-class family navigating rough territory on a single bike speaks volumes, perfectly capturing the book's central theme: the tenacious rise of an aspirational class fighting to get ahead in a system that barely acknowledges its existence.

Das kicks things off with what sounds like a startling contradiction, describing his work in the prologue as "a liberal case for a strong state." It sounds absurd, right? Yet, the book masterfully unpacks this paradox. It argues that the delicate balance between two such opposing forces - liberal politics and a strong state-isn't found in ideology, but in a simple, guiding principle of any healthy democracy: responsiveness.

Composed Thoughts 2- For the people,Despite the people

The year is 1924. A gathering of fez-clad nobles of Ankara has been adjourned, only to find a casual sitting in the cafeteria of the National Assembly of Turkey. As sugar cubes are being circulated amongst the senators, a young but feared man enters the room. This anglicized and criticized voice of the erstwhile Young Turks movement is Mustafa Kemal Pasha. A microphone is presented to this unusual leader, who addresses the gathering with sharp words: “It is but our divine duty to stand for the people, despite the people." A feedback from the microphone chimes - almost in agreement - and with this screech of victory, the mighty Ottoman Empire breathes its last. One man had done what, for centuries, all other mighty empires collectively couldn’t. The empire that once saw its might spanning over Asia in the east, Africa in the south, and Europe in the west had now been reduced to yet another page in history. Over the years that followed, this man would come to be known as Atatürk - Father of the Turks. His political reign would mark some of the most significant chapters of Turkey’s history, from religious reforms that turned the revered mosque of Hagia Sophia into a museum of Turkish history - a bold step towards secularism in a predominantly monotheistic nation-to the transition of Turkish as a language from the erstwhile Arabic script to the Latin script, rewriting the legacy of the empire completely.

Turkey today, under the rule of Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, is witnessing a shift towards a more oriental and religious form of governance. Yet, the constant tiffs between the military leadership (placed as the protector of the liberal and secular values of the Turkish constitution by Atatürk) and the political class are a testament to his enduring legacy which is a foundation strong enough to still spark debate a century later.

"For the people, Despite the people", What does one even mean by that in a democratic setup? If people here refers to the general populace, it might at first sound as though the ruling class must act on the assumption that the masses do not know what is right for them, almost as if democracy itself breeds mistrust. Yet, when viewed more deeply, the phrase reveals a fundamental flaw that continues to haunt many young Asian democracies - the absence of political will. Too often, governance becomes a pursuit of quick fixes designed to secure short-term popularity at the ballot rather than long-term national progress. True leadership, however, demands courage - the courage to act in the interest of the people even when those actions are unpopular, the resolve to prioritize meaningful reform over easy applause. If a government can serve for the people while standing despite the people, it would mark the emergence of genuine political will and the beginning of a nation realizing its full potential. 

I recall these thoughts as vividly as I recall an engaging conversation with a dear friend-someone deeply aware of the foundational challenges that India continues to wrestle with. As we spoke about fiscal devolution and its many structural hurdles, he remarked, “But this, like any other problem, goes down to the lack of political will in India. Nobody can afford to be the bad guy here.” Ever the optimist, I replied, “Well, can’t we fix it with some constitutional measures?” We laughed, fully conscious of the irony. Yet beneath that laughter lay a sobering truth-the quiet conviction, shared by many including myself, that some of India’s most persistent problems seem to await nothing more than a signature from the right person. But can a few elegant strokes of red ink on fragrant parchment truly undo decades of political caution and inertia? And beyond that, to what extent do we, as citizens, bear responsibility for the actions of the very government we chose to represent us?

I believe the answer lies, at least in part, in our collective appetite for risk. The average Indian is more risk-averse than a cat around water, and the social stigma attached to failing in pursuit of a noble cause often robs us of the courage to test unsteady ground. Pair this “if it’s not broken, don’t nudge it” attitude with a history of inter-faith and inter-community divides, and you arrive at the complex political temperament of the nation today. If there are two enduring truths that democracy has revealed over the years, they are these: people ultimately get the government they deserve, and what the government deserves is shaped by the aspirations of its people. Caught in this tango of desire between the governed and the governing, one can only hope that we either find the wings to rise above it-or the will to step into the ring and face it head-on.

Stray Thoughts 3- Commercial Buddha

 In a Land far far away from Lumbini, there is a temple. Now this isn't like your usual place of worship; here the bells and gongs have been long replaced with sirens indicating work-shift transitions, and the robe clad monks have shifted their locus of control to give way to a rather dull grey jumpsuit to enter their wardrobes and their hearts. The name of the temple you ask? "Shanghri-La plastic molding co. (SPMC)" is what the board reads, referring to the much awaited and aspired promised land, where everything is pleasant and hunger is restricted only to the ambits of knowledge. Life is simple in this religion, profit is the only spiritual end that one seeks and loss is the biggest sin that the machine gods can foresee. 

It is a hot day at the SPMC, the sun is not out yet and the siren chimes a ring, calling all the monks to their place of worship. Once, the monks have all been assembled in ranks, the most devoted ones are asked to light up the incense and bring the furnace to life; The machine gods have been summoned. The head Rinpoche with his endless pile of files makes an appearance, to read out the commandments of the divine to the devotees. As he appears into the assembly, a hearty offering consisting of paperwork and approvals is brought to him by the devotees, seeking his inked blessing on behalf of the almighty. The approaching crowd is quickly put to rest by the screech of the microphone that has not been noticed all this while; A significant day, it is going to be. 

"We, the management of SPMC, acting on behalf of The Board have decided to manufacture plastic injected Buddha figurines." , said The Rinpoche. The machine gods roar in agreement, almost adding to the legitimacy of the claim that the holy man has just made. The Rinpoche buttons his grey suit ,while neatly tucking the sheets of paper that carry the commandment into his breast pocket; Afterall God's word must always to be close to your heart, if not in spirit then in display. The monks have an opinion of their own, some are unbothered by the change of wind, while the devoted ones, those who are enchanted by the spirits of the machine gods hear a voice within- "You have the chance to create what others worship". The siren blows out a scream, pulling the monks to their machines of worship, mystically as some might say.

The old machine gods must retire, to give way to newer ones; Ones who can now pave way to the dreams that previous ones had charted out for them. The monks have been handed out a series of new religious texts, these ones have figures and diagrams, indicating how the new gods must be worshipped to create a product and inch closer to salvation. Once theology has solidified itself in the minds of the believer, rituals in the form of supply chain practices have been introduced, with each machine god there lies a dozen of lives- pressing buttons and pulling levers is the new form of worship. Like every other religion, markers are a norm here. Unlike other religions where the society evolves with a marker over a period of time, this temple came up with a uniform one a couple of decades ago. The age old label machine god has been summoned, he along with his set of lives have broken away from the chain of replaceability by producing a consistent and durable label which very humbly reads out- "Made In China"; 'MIC'- A marker signifying everything that the temple stands for ,and perhaps on.

The day has finally arrived when theology must marry ritual, to give birth to several hundred thousands of offsprings in the form of standardized figurines. The Siren calls out to all the monks, who appear with a sparkle in their eyes; "New buttons to push" is what a lesser devoted soul amongst them says. The cogs have taken up their places in the machines and the furnace is roaring at its might, the internals of a clock are put to shame when compared to their animal counterparts. The Rinpoche has made another appearance, this time near the finish line, the generosity of the noble soul has led him to bless the first lot of figurines making their way through. An Army of offsprings march onto the conveyor belt, glossy on the outside and hollow within, carrying a marker of the religion that they represent. The Rinpoche picks one such offspring and inspects its bottom for the much coveted label of assurance; The monks have delivered, yet again.

Contrary to popular belief, blessings take us a long way. And if they seem to come from The Rinpoche himself , they might even take a figurine to a place several hundreds of miles away. As for the Figurine, it made sure that he unlike his unblessed siblings did not land up in Mainland China Restaurants. He went to a place where he did not truly belong, in the State Manufacturing Museum of the People's Republic. A place that had not seen the presence of god till its establishment, now housed a Golden Buddha Figurine clad in an oriental attire with a mysterious laugh on his face , A Tag around his neck that read "Donated on behalf of the workers of The Shanghri-La Plastic Molding Corporation". 

 

Composed thoughts 1- The Sikkim Rocket Experiment

 

What's the craziest Idea that you've ever had? An idea that did not look half as dull-witted as it does now, in hindsight? Was it when you decided to plug a lightbulb into a household plug and satiate the scientist within you, only to settle the Alternating Current v/s Direct Current debate once and for all? Or was it when you decided to give company to your dog in his hearty breakfast of ever so delicious (and a little salty for my liking) royal canine? While you light up the imaginary light bulb in your brain coming up with some questions of your own, I would like to bring one such story to you.

Stephen Hector Taylor Smith, who went by the name Steph among those who were acquainted with his wits, was one such man. Stephen grew up in years of conflict, with blocs of power clashing in the east and the west. These years that formed an integral part of his teenage years also presented him with an interest that would soon change the world; Rocketry. The World war was a contrast of realities, with countries fighting wars of different eras. While some outwitted others by flexing their armor with the help of modern tanks and artillery, others chose to retaliate with age-old horse cavalry and the might of Infantarian bravado. The war led to an awakening among the intellectuals of the west, who now chose to turn towards modern artillery. While the powers of the world were firing up warheads of their own, Stephen too was indulging in some engineering in his backyard.

Stephen Smith with his Rocket

Little is known about Stephen's school years to shed light on his rise from a little Anglo-Indian boy from the hills of Shillong to the father of Astro-philately. However, most of his peers have described him as an eternally curious lad, who could often be spotted near Strawberry hill with a pad and pen in his hand, firing up projectiles. He would often burn the midnight oil in his father's motorcycle garage putting together crude rockets based on those of the Mysore State, reverse engineering their mechanism. A lot of people back in the 1900s were busy doing the same, engineering weapons of destruction in the form of ballistic projectiles.  His intention, however, was not to kill the white dove but merely replace it. While performing one such experiment, he sneakily transported a pair of garden lizards across a swimming pool. This incident although rather vague to the reader sitting in the 21st century, was a eureka moment for 14-year-old Stephen. He asked himself a question- "What if we could transport letters on rockets?"

Smith's yearbook photo from the College of Physicians and Surgeons of Bengal, 1911

The irony of youth is that it is given to young people and that of pragmatism is that it is given to the elderly. As Stephen grew up, the societal expectation of getting a stable bread and butter got to him. He worked his way up medical school to become a dentist with a first-class distinction. He worked his day job to fend for his family while spending his nights painting color into his sketch of delivery rockets (Truly a Rocket Singh, some might say!). He would also spend countless hours writing to the Secretary, Department of post, penning down his idea and their implications. A standard reply to these letters would be a "We're delighted to hear from you", which in not so many words was a sweet, letterheaded, and countersigned "This guy has to stop". The light of hope had certainly seen a number of dawns but yet re-ignited itself with the same zeal every morning, until it did not have to.

Life as a Dentist is fascinating largely because of the patients you see every day, You could be operating on royalty and a peasant on the same day yet tend to each with the same professionalism. Our protagonist met one such fascinating patient on a rather uneventful day. Sitting in his recliner, looking at his flashy Bremont diver was the 1st Viscount of Chelmsford who had just assumed charge as the Viceroy. As our protagonist tended to his inner molar, a thin film of cold sweat appeared on his brow while invasive thoughts of "What if I were to pitch my idea to him?" wrestled with his wit. The Viscount sans his molar was delighted by the service that the young doctor had done to him and hence the crown and was all ears for anything that he would have to say. Stephen with all his intensity showed the Viscount his designs and impressed upon him the importance of rocket-aided mail. The man of importance once a man in uniform was no stranger to the wonders of rocketry and was impressed by the young man's thought. Upon returning home from a rather eventful day, Stephen was greeted with an envelope from the Viceroy's office offering him the position of Secretary of the Indian Airmail Society.

I would not like to come across as a proponent of the Butterfly Effect, A burden I carry as the narrator of this story. However, a flap that Stephen had made in Calcutta raised Havoc several miles north, in a place far away from the advancements of time; The kingdom of Sikkim. Referred to as Indrakil (the garden of the god of war) in ancient texts, A kingdom lying in the Tibetan plateau is blessed with beauty of no equal and has historically been a terrain with arduous mobility. Sikkim was a protectorate of the crown, headed by Chogyal (holy king) Tashi Namgyal. Namgyal was known to be a man of science, who upon hearing of Stephen's inventions in the south ,reached out to him to solve the problem of postal delivery in his Shangri-la. Stephen and his team of pith-hatted brits were welcomed to the kingdom with a state welcome consisting of tabloids and rice field visits, to solve a problem not all fully understood; developing a rocket postal system in Sikkim.

Smith (seated on left) with British officials at Gangtok, 1935

26th March 1935 was a sunny day that at first sight could be mistaken for any other mid-mercury day in the blessed land. A court order summoned the Rinpoche, who declared that the stars had aligned for a holy deed. The green signal that the skeptics of the Airmail society had been looking for had arrived; the team collected the consignment from the laboratory and reached the launch site, an isolated mountain on the other side of lake Changu. The calculations were done and after much discourse, a suitable incline was arrived at by the team, "37 degrees 12 radians" said, Smith. Just as everyone took their places and eyed the rocket, an unusual guest arrived. Namgyal, being a man of science could not help but join his European counterparts in their adventure (Or misadventure for if the calculations were wrong) to do the unknown. A package consisting of the king's favorite cigars was added to the payload, a sign of approval and trust from the noble monarch. Smith handed over the fuse to the Chogyal as a sign of respect and insisted that he cut the ribbon on the project by lighting the fuse first. As everyone took their positions and prayed to whatever form of divinity they vested their faith in, the Chogyal lit the Silver nitrate glazed chord to set the rocket in motion. Some say that the lords above (particularly Padmasambhava, because Sikkim?) were the ones who pushed the rocket while others would attribute this to a rather less exciting 'Projectile motion', but the rocket found its way to the other end of the lake traveling a total of 10 Kilometers; The lunatic-turned-scientist had run his spell. The team of brits who were now national heroes were the talk of the town, they went on to conduct 16 such tests around the kingdom. Rocket mail was the standard adopted postal method for the landlocked kingdom, as the west watched in envy of a system that was way ahead of its time.

Chogyal Tashi Namgyal lighting the fuse, 1934

A Sikkim Durbar post sent via rocket mail, 1930s

After his Return from the Kingdom of Sikkim, Stephen retired from the public eye into his modest quarter in bow barracks, a place many from his community call their home. For many, retirement is the end of ambition, while for those who have lived a life dedicated to science, retirement is more like a re-attirement of sorts. He continued with his experiments to achieve international rocket connectivity for mail and post, experimentation which led to him developing a way to transport cargo via rocket across the Bay of  Bengal. An estimate made by the Anglo-Indian society of India claims that Smith had launched 270 rocket mails in his lifetime, findings from which helped kickstart rocket mail projects around the globe and set the foundation for modern airmail.

Sketch from His notebook depicting a path from Calcutta to Rangoon,1940s

In the 21st century, rocket-post has placed itself in a pile of inventions that lie on the table of time that seem to have been forgotten. As airmail loses the practicality race to social media, Smith's ambitions now condense themselves into philatelic memorabilia that can be found catching dust in different corners of the world. However, the story of one of the greatest inventions in postal services and the struggle for it do tell a tale of something more than just pragmatism. The pursuit of one man towards his crazy idea and the conviction that he had in it, resonates with all the broken arrows that we have shot in the dark. In every corner of this world, there lives a Stephen Smith capable of transforming the way we look at the world, All he lacks is an ear that will listen.