The smell of rain-dampened dust and old paper hung heavy in the lecture hall of Calcutta University. It was the afternoon of November 1, 2025, and though the formal session had ended, the high-ceilinged room remained packed.
Dr. Arindam Sen leaned against his heavy mahogany desk, the steam from his tea curling into the humid air. He watched his students—a generation born into the digital age but tethered to an aging infrastructure—and felt a familiar surge of restless energy.
"Alright," he said, his voice cutting through the low hum of whispers, "since you all seem determined to skip your evening tea elsewhere, let's continue. We've talked about the ghosts of dynasties. But let's talk about the ghosts in your own homes. What's bothering you, really?"
Priya Mukherjee, sitting in the third row, didn't hesitate. "Sir, we talk about a ten-trillion-dollar economy. We talk about 6G. But in my village in East Midnapore, the fans stop spinning at 6 PM and don't move again until midnight. After seventy-five years, why is light still a luxury for half the country?"
The Professor set his cup down with a sharp clack. He walked to the blackboard and, with a piece of yellowed chalk, wrote two words that seemed to vibrate against the dark slate: SYSTEMIC ROT.
"Electricity, Priya, is a metaphor for power—both literal and political," Sen said, turning back to the class. "It isn't just about coal or wires. It's about the fact that our distribution companies are bleeding billions because of 'leakages'—a polite word for theft and administrative apathy. We built a grid, but we forgot to build a conscience to manage it."
"It's the same with the harvest, Sir," Ravi, a tall boy from Burdwan, added from the back. "My father is watching five quintals of tomatoes rot because the local cold storage is 'under maintenance' for the third month this year. The middlemen offered him three rupees a kilo this morning. By the time I buy those same tomatoes at the Gariahat market tonight, I'll pay sixty. Where does that fifty-seven-rupee gap go?"
"That gap, Ravi, is the tax we pay for inefficiency," Sen replied, pacing the front of the room. "The broker, the contractor, the local strongman—they are the parasites that the state has failed to deworm. We've created a system where the producer starves and the consumer is fleeced, while the man in the middle buys a second SUV. We see this in every sector. Look at Singur. It's the ultimate paradox of our state."
Soumyajit, who usually remained skeptical, leaned forward. "But Sir, wasn't Singur about protecting the little guy? The farmers didn't want to lose their ancestral land for a car factory."
"A fair point, Soumyajit," Sen conceded, "but leadership is about mediation, not just agitation. In 2006, Singur could have been the catalyst for a new industrial Bengal. The Nano plant wasn't just a factory; it was a signal to the world. But we turned development into a battlefield. We chose the politics of 'no' over the economics of 'how.' Today, while Titagarh or Exide struggle to carry the weight of our industrial reputation, the ghost of Singur warns every major investor to stay away. And now, we see the same script being written in Bihar with their new power projects. We are addicted to the tragedy of the missed opportunity."
"Is that what's happening in Assam now?" Neha, a student from Guwahati, asked, her voice tinged with frustration. "The semiconductor plant is being protested before the first stone is even laid. They're using the same keywords: 'displacement,' 'ecology.' But without those chips, what jobs do we have? Are we destined to just be a land of service centers for foreign tech?"
Dr. Sen stopped pacing and looked Neha in the eye. "Semiconductors are the 'Silicon Steel' of the 21st century. If you don't build chips, you don't own your future. The world—Taiwan, the US, even Vietnam—is sprinting. Yet, in India, we treat industrialization like a political poison. We want the smartphone, but we don't want the factory. We want the salary, but we don't want the chimney. It is a fundamental dishonesty in our national character."
The room grew quiet as the shadows lengthened across the floor. Arjun, a student who had been silent all semester, finally spoke. His voice was low, trembling with a weight the others didn't quite share. "Sir, you talk about chips and factories. In Manipur, we just want to know if we can walk to the next village without being shot. We had peace, or at least the appearance of it. Now, there is a literal wall of mistrust. How does your 'systemic rot' explain a mother not being able to find her son because of an administrative line?"
The Professor's expression softened. He walked toward Arjun's desk. "Manipur is the most painful symptom of our centralizing fever, Arjun. We tried to manage diversity from a desk in Delhi. We thought unity could be enforced by a bureaucrat who has never tasted the air of the Northeast. Whether it's the militarization of Ladakh or the ethnic fracturing of Manipur, the mistake is the same: we value the territory more than the people. We've turned our frontiers into garrison states and our monks into protestors."
"So what's the common thread, Sir?" Priya asked, her voice small in the vast hall. "If the parties change but the darkness in my village stays the same, who is the real enemy?"
Dr. Sen turned back to the board. He erased the previous words and wrote a single sentence:
INDIA = A DEMOCRACY WITH A COLONIAL ENGINE.
"The British left in 1947, but they left the keys in the ignition," he said, the chalk dust settling on his sleeves. "We kept the same police acts, the same land acquisition laws, the same bureaucratic ivory towers. Whether the driver wears a khadi kurta or a designer suit, the engine is built for extraction, not empowerment. It is built to rule, not to serve. We keep changing the driver, but we refuse to look under the hood."
He looked at the clock—it was 5:15 PM. The golden hour was fading into a bruised purple twilight.
"We like to blame individual faces because it's easier than blaming the machine," Sen continued. "Tomorrow, we'll dive into how the great industrial houses—the Tatas, Birlas, and the newer titans like Adani ,Ambani,MEIL, Vedanta,GMK,GMR,Goenka,—learned to survive this machine. We'll discuss how business in India became a form of diplomacy, and how our democracy became a grand theater where the script is written by the highest bidder. But for tonight, walk home and look at the streetlights. If they're flickering, don't just blame the bulb. Blame the wire, the plant, and the man who sold the copper."
He gathered his papers, a thin smile playing on his lips.
"Class dismissed. The real exam is waiting for you at the exit gates."