Delhi-NCR Repeater: Hopes from the Tower

 Voices carry far across the city

Delhi’s airwaves recently got a taste of real power. High above Noida, the World Trade Tower repeater came alive and showed what happens when height, technology and timing meet. At nearly the level of a 45-storey building, the signals spilled effortlessly across the NCR. Delhi, Gurgaon, Faridabad, Noida and Ghaziabad stations jumped in with handheld radios, many surprised how easily they triggered it. Some even reported clean contacts from Meerut.

I had planned to write about this repeater long back. But speed breakers like the endless shift of ham licences to the DoT portal got in the way. I wrote about that ordeal in another piece, Lost in Saral Sanchar.

Delhi-NCR's repeater rises high at WTT

The repeater was first installed during Delhi’s mega disaster rehearsal with hams taking the air. It ran on VU2DLR’s frequency 145.60 MHz with a Motorola rig and a Diamond antenna. For hours, traffic was heavy yet stable, a rare delight. I described parts of that rehearsal in my earlier blog Sirens, Signals & Static Joy.

When hobby meets high-rise – Delhi NCR’s ham signals in style

When the rehearsal ended, the experiment began. Hams tried it with both handies and mobile base stations. Normally, most would use the full 25 to 50 watts of RF power. But with WTT, they could trigger it easily at just minimum settings – some even half a watt. The community was thrilled. One ham even joked, “Great, we’re not polluting the atmosphere with unnecessary RF.” It was a rare mix of humour and technical joy. Old handy talkies were dusted off, base stations fired up. Many whispered: “Our repeater has come back stronger.”

But the magic did not last. The repeater was soon pulled down with a promise it would return permanently at the same spot on WTT by Diwali.

Flashback: Vigyan Prasar’s VU2DLR days

For many years before this, the VU2DLR repeater had been Delhi’s lifeline. Run by Vigyan Prasar, it gave hams seamless contact across NCR. In winters, signals would travel farther and we had regular QSOs with Punjab, Agra and beyond. But by 2022, cracks showed. The repeater stayed on air but lacked care. After a few check-ins, it would develop a continuous knocking sound that made it useless. Soon, news of its decommissioning came, followed by a short WhatsApp message from its custodian. The community felt orphaned.

The closure of Vigyan Prasar in October 2023 added salt to the wound. For more than 30 years, it had promoted science and communication in India. And yet, the same government that talks of digital revolutions and science-based progress quietly shut it down, citing NITI Aayog’s cost-cutting advice. An institution that cost little, yet gave so much, was dismantled. Many in the scientific community still see it as a step backward.

Delhi does have other repeaters, like the advanced VHF VU2FUN and UHF VU2HUB, privately run by two enterprising brothers. They play globally via Echolink and DMR, and enjoy steady check-ins. But on the RF side, their reach has limits. Even high-gain antennas struggle to pick them up, unlike the Vigyan Prasar repeater which could be triggered almost effortlessly.

This is why so many Delhi hams keep their rigs idle. VHF and UHF radios are cheaper and easier to install than HF rigs, yet they remain unattractive without a strong repeater. The absence of one is the biggest reason why two meters often sounds like silence.

I have visited several cities, monitored repeaters during nets and casual ragchew. Delhi still has some of the best speakers I’ve heard on air. Their serious talk sprinkled with humour can make even a casual listener smile. But to hear them, we need an efficient repeater.

It is ironic that the national capital, with its tech hubs, top institutes, universities and political elite, cannot boast of a strong repeater network. India's young Prime Minister, Rajiv Gandhi,  VU2RG, once championed amateur radio and fought for lower import tariffs. Sadly, after him, his family, Sonia Gandhi (VU2SON), Priyanka Gandhi Vadra (VU2PGY) and even his friend Amitabh Bachchan (VU2AMY), did not pick up where he left. I only hope all three managed to migrate their licences to Saral Sanchar. If not, maybe someone should give them a reminder – it might even refresh their interest and give the ham world a boost.

The tower fades, but voices remain

As Diwali approaches, Delhi hams look once more towards the shining tower in Noida. The World Trade Tower repeater gave us a glimpse of what NCR can sound like when airwaves unite. One repeater, one signal, hundreds of voices carried across the city. May it return soon, stronger and brighter. That's all it takes to make the airwaves sing again.

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Shillong: Then and Now

Recollections & Tales from Days Gone By

Bright sunshine in the day, cool evenings, and those sudden September rains, that’s how the season greets Shillong. I may be in Delhi now, but memories of those days remain vivid. The kens grass, tall reeds that bloom every autumn, was already swaying in the breeze. Migratory birds had arrived, perched lazily on trees. Markets looked festive, vendors showing off their wares, and shoppers squeezing through the glowing streets. It felt as if nature itself was whispering a secret, waiting to be decoded. Festival season has been knocking – Pujas, Diwali, Christmas, and the New Year.

Left: An undated photo of Shillong residents on a joyful ride to Sohra (Cherrapunji), their smiles echoing the carefree charm of those days. Right: A quiet moment of a couple on the steps of their Shillong home.

With this mood in the air, I thought it best to give my rooms a good cleanup. My desk, especially, was a battlefield, stacks of papers, scribbled notepads, books, an audio mixer interface, microphones, headphones, pens, pencils. In the middle of this clutter, I stumbled upon an old clipping from The Hindu. It was about the infamous missing Indore couple who came to Meghalaya for their honeymoon. A case that had gripped headlines across the country.

The husband, Raja Raghuvanshi, was found dead in a gorge in Sohra (Cherrapunji). His wife, Sonam, at first went missing. Later, she was accused of plotting his murder with hired killers. For the first time in many years, Meghalaya Police earned nationwide applause for cracking a case.

That such a conspiracy was hatched just eleven days after marriage is unthinkable. If Sonam was already in love with someone else, she should have simply said no. Perhaps Raja would still be alive today. Sohra’s mists, valleys, pine forests and waterfalls seemed to echo this loss.

Shillong and its neighbouring hills had caught the attention of European settlers long ago. The British found the climate and landscapes so familiar that they named it the “Scotland of the East.”

Today, the capital of Meghalaya has climbed to the top of India’s travel charts. Skyscanner’s Travel Trends Report 2025 says Shillong is now the country’s most-searched destination,  ahead of Goa, Manali, Kerala, and the rest.

But a question nags the mind. Why did sections of mainstream media describe Meghalaya as crime-prone, as if murders and disappearances of visitors were common here? And why did state ministers, politicians, activists, and civil groups respond so sharply, demanding apologies? In the past, they were never this sensitive. To understand this reaction, we need to step back and see the background.

Meghalaya’s tourism industry had been growing since the early 2000s. But after 2017, the pace quickened. The government pushed hard to promote the state, through All India Radio (now Akashvani), television, and exhibitions in India and abroad. The efforts paid off. Homestays, food courts, and small ventures mushroomed. Tourism began boosting the local economy in ways never seen before.

I was born in Shillong, grew up there, studied for my Master’s, and later worked as a journalist with leading local and regional English dailies and magazines. With that experience, I feel I can speak with some authority on why these questions matter.

The truth is, Meghalaya was always known as a tourist spot, even back in the 1980s. But unlike Darjeeling, Kalimpong, Goa, Kerala, or Ooty, it was never really projected or marketed. Shillong, bluntly put, never created much buzz on India’s tourist map.

Between the late 1970s and early 1990s, whenever I went on vacation to other Indian cities, telling people I was from Shillong often created confusion. Most had never heard of it. Many thought I said “Ceylon”,  the famous Radio Sri Lanka that belted out Bollywood songs on shortwave. Sometimes, no matter how much I explained, they still nodded knowingly and said, “Ah, Ceylon, Binaca Geetmala!”

Shillong has long had a sizeable non-tribal population, especially in what was known as the “European Ward.” Families brought by the British settled here permanently and seemed to live in harmony with their Khasi hosts. Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims, and followers of traditional faiths coexisted in this small town with surprising ease.

The colonial era set the stage for Shillong’s mixed character. People from Assam, Bengal, Bihar, Punjab, Rajasthan, and even Nepal came as government servants, teachers, traders, doctors, washermen, transporters, and army men. English became the preferred language, along with Khasi and Hindi.

Top (1940s) Kelvin Cinema, Jail Road, Shillong's vintage charm with Willys Jeep, Landmaster, and a timeless street scene. Bottom (1970s) A rush at Kelvin's ticket counter, bellbottoms, long collars, and tense faces in the crowd. A blockbuster must have been playing. 

Even before television and satellite dishes arrived, Shillong was ahead in fashion. Hollywood films at Kelvin and Anjali cinemas set the tone. After watching a film, many young men would hurry to the tailor, quietly describing the cut they had seen on screen. Tailors in Shillong had a remarkable awareness of global fashion, without ever leaving town.

Kelvin and Singhania Talkies often screened Bengali classics in their morning or matinee shows, drawing a steady crowd. For Bollywood, people flocked to Biju, Dreamland, and Anjali cinema halls.

Meghalaya Governor Madhukar Dighe felicitating Laitumkhrah’s freedom fighter Mrs. Snehalata Deb, remembered for her fearless act of removing a sitting judge from his chair and occupying it herself. Also seen are her son Sukhan Deb and others. A moment from the early 1990s now part of Shillong’s history.

Festivals lit up the town. During Durga Puja and Diwali, we hopped from Harisabha to the Namghar in Laban, then to Rilbong, Jail Road Mandab, Matri Mandir at Polo, and many more. By evening, we circled back to Laitumkhrah, visited the Bihari committee’s puja near the bus stop, then dropped into Lal Villa and Ramakrishna Mission. After dinner, woollens on, we returned to Lal Villa for the cultural shows that went on past 2 am. Our Khasi friends were always there too, adding to the laughter. Lal Villa was the highlight, especially for its lively cultural nights.

Christmas and New Year carried the same warmth. The non-tribals joined the celebrations wholeheartedly, and the feelings were always mutual. I still remember when my Khasi friends wanted me to spend the night at their homes. They would actually come to my parents, politely ask for permission, and only then drag me along. Thinking of those days, it feels as if it all happened just yesterday.

But then, this peace between the two communities was suddenly shattered by a freak incident on October 22, 1979. It could have been contained early, but it wasn't. A Kali idol from Lal Villa, near Laitumkhrah Police Beat House, was being taken for immersion when a Khasi boy allegedly stepped over it, causing damage. What began as a scuffle soon spiraled into clashes, idols were vandalised, and Shillong was suddenly in turmoil.

The police first detained two Khasi men. After protests, they picked up two Bengalis as well, but soon released everyone. What could have ended there spread like wildfire. The government imposed an indefinite curfew as houses of Bengalis were set ablaze, attacks and stone pelting broke out, and lives were lost. From our locality we could see homes burning on the hill slopes and sometimes faint cries for help. The violence grew so grave that the Centre imposed President’s Rule and issued shoot-at-sight orders.

A letter from my father, with the Laitumkhrah post office stamp.

During those cold and uncertain days, my mother and I stayed alone in our large Laitumkhrah house. My siblings were away, and my father was stuck in Calcutta on work, unable to return because of the violence. From there, he sent us an inland letter, half of which was addressed to me. I still have it, and I’m sharing it in this blog. Dated 24 December 1979, it read:

"My dear Potu, How do you find the curfew-bound Shillong in the winter evenings? The air must be surcharged with the thick smoke of hatred, isn’t it? Here I have been trying to do something, but until the efforts bear fruit, it’s no use telling you. Even in this respect too my work is being disturbed by the happenings in Meghalaya and Assam. Often I spend hours together thinking of you. Bad, indeed, but I can’t help it either…”

In the midst of all this, we kids tried to make the best of the situation. We had set up a small badminton court in our compound with electric bulbs for evening play. We had no idea that stepping out into the compound during curfew hours was technically illegal.

One evening, as we played, a CRPF patrol stopped at our gate. Four of us continued, determined not to let the shuttlecock drop. Finally, when it did fall, one of the men barked, “Kya khel rahe ho ghar ke bahar? (What are you playing outside the house?) Curfew ke waqt bahar nikalna dandaniya aparadh hai!” (Being out of the house during curfew hours is a serious offence) Another added, “Ek-do danda padne se samajh aa jayega…” (One-two cane beating will then make you understand) Hearing this, one of them slowly stepped into the compound. We didn’t wait for the next move. All four of us sprinted in different directions, hiding in spots where we could see them, but they couldn’t see us. Needless to say, the game ended abruptly that evening.

As curfew hours slowly eased and people could step out for essentials, my father finally returned from Calcutta. One afternoon, some elders from the locality called a meeting. They wanted my father to attend. I knew if I asked him directly, he would refuse. So I asked my mother to pass on the request, adding that my friends’ fathers would also be there. With much reluctance, he went.

At the meeting, the elders announced a strange plan. They wanted an “economic boycott” of fish. Bengalis were asked not to buy fish from Khasi sellers as a form of protest. Punitive action was threatened against anyone caught violating this rule. My father was the only one to oppose the move outright. He argued that such measures would only worsen the tension. He suggested more constructive steps to bring peace back to Shillong. His words were not well received. Frustrated, he stood up and walked out before the meeting ended.

Later that evening, a middle-aged Bengali man from our locality was spotted carrying fish the typical Shillong way, dangling from a bamboo strip held between his fingers. He was forced to throw it in the dustbin. A few others met the same fate in the days that followed.

That evening, when I came home through the back door, I overheard my father narrating the whole episode to my mother. As I stepped into the kitchen, I was startled to see two varieties of fresh fish laid out on the table. “How did you manage this? Didn’t anyone stop you?” I asked. My mother, without a trace of worry, replied, “Who listens to such foolish people?” Her calmness matched my father’s conviction.

The 1979 violence was not accidental but orchestrated. Politicians seeking power used the Khasi Students Union to stoke unrest, unleashing violence on Bengalis. Professionals, teachers, and government employees fled overnight, their homes burned, families pushed into relief camps. Nearly 20,000 left Shillong for cities across India. The state gave no protection, and the police looked away. For many, it marked the end of their Shillong story.

From 1980, the state government and the local Dorbar stopped giving permission for the Lal Villa Durga Puja. Between 1980 and 1986, many prominent people tried to revive the old celebration and its cultural programmes, which had once brought all communities together. But it never returned. Instead, relations grew more polarised. For non-tribals, even walking down a lonely street could mean trouble. A shoulder push from a group of boys could quickly turn into a fight, leaving the lone walker bruised. Tensions simmered, and non-tribals were often at the receiving end.

The 1980s saw even darker violence. On December 22, 1980, a bus heading to Shillong was stopped at Laitlyngkot. Khasi passengers were asked to step down, while five Bengali boys remained onboard. The bus was then taken to a bridge, where the boys were dragged out, brutally assaulted with machetes and firewood, and killed. Their bodies were pushed into the stream below.

Even then, some of us held on to old friendships. Many Khasi families in Laitumkhrah privately regretted the new anti non-tribal mood. But few spoke out openly, fearing the KSU and the lumpen groups. I continued visiting my Khasi friends. At Danny’s place, hours would pass in the company of his Gerard record changer stacked with vinyl LPs. We would listen to western classics until sundown, or sometimes switch to the 13-metre band to catch Radio Australia. If it got too late, his mother, Auntie Shylla, would fuss over my safety and insist I return home quickly.

1986 – With my family and our pet Dicky in our Shillong home.

The Jones sisters always made sure we were at their parties. Barith would be sent to fetch us if needed. One late evening, after a party, Danny, Lambok and I were heading back when I saw my dad at Laitumkhrah Police Point, out looking for me. At the same time, Auntie Shylla, worried about Danny, bumped into him. We panicked and quickly spun a tale about attending Leonard’s wedding. Both seemed relieved, and we escaped a scolding.

Bavlang’s home in Laban was another favourite spot. He had a big Akai two-in-one system, sleek and powerful, that filled the house with music. He taught me few guitar chords there, swapped strumming patterns, and wasted many happy hours. His father was friendly too. I remember him taking both of us to the Shillong Club one New Year’s Eve. For us, it was a real treat.

A rare vintage photograph of Shillong’s Rajbari, featuring Maharaja Bodhchandra Singh of Manipur with his associates, taken in the late 1940s.

But in June 1987, trouble returned. A fresh round of communal tension broke out, this time targeting the Nepalese, who had been living in Shillong for generations. To my dismay, even some classmates joined in blocking students from attending classes. Curfew returned, educational institutions shut down, and the violence carried on for months. Arson, stone pelting, even crude petrol bombs marked that ugly period. Reports said around 2,700 Nepalese were displaced from Meghalaya.

The Nepalis had been in Shillong since colonial times. Many came with the Sylhet Light Infantry and the 8th Gorkha Rifles. In fact, the Gorkha Patshala School, founded in 1876, was one of the oldest in Shillong, set up for the children of army men.

That year, as fear spread, vehicles with tinted glass and “A/F” (Applied For) plates began moving suspiciously around our neighbourhood. To be safe, our elders set up two watch-points – one at Chaudhury Mansion, and the other at the lower end of the locality. I even set up a “hotline” between the two, stringing up a crude phone line over 300 metres. It actually worked, and reports of every vehicle or stranger were instantly passed on. Looking back, it was a serious matter, but for us youngsters, it felt more like an adventure.

By October, my parents left for Calcutta. I stayed back in Shillong, waiting for our university exams to be rescheduled. The city was tense, but life had to go on.

Curfew was lifted for a few hours in the afternoon so people could buy essentials. If I missed that window, I would slip through shortcuts across jungles to avoid the main roads, just to reach Shillong Manipur Rajbari. Inside that vast fortified compound, life felt safe and carefree.

Entrance to the Manipur Rajbari, lined with pine trees.

We played table tennis under the open sky, badminton, cricket, and when rain poured, we stayed indoors tuning in to distant radio stations or listening to our favourite cassettes on a two-in-one stereo cassette recorder. Breakfast might be at Durjoy Singh’s house, lunch at Chandam Debabrata Singh’s place, and tea at Laishram Dhiraj Singh’s home. At every stop, good food and western classics were waiting. Life was simple, straight, and innocent, yes, indeed.

If I stayed late after curfew hours, my Rajbari friends would insist on accompanying me back home. On days I didn’t show up, they would ride their motorbikes to my house, pick me up, and we’d take a joy ride through Laitumkhrah main road. 

One November afternoon, Rishikumar Singh from Rajbari dropped by my house. Rishi was stylish, good at artwork, and heavily inspired by Jon Bon Jovi, hair, attitude and all. With Sam, William, Lung, and others gone to Jowai due to the unrest, the two of us decided to walk down to Laitumkhrah main road during curfew relaxation time for a glass of tea and some samosas.

As we walked past the old Ambrosia restaurant, a black Ambassador car with tinted windows and “A/F” plates brushed dangerously close to us. Loud bass thumped inside the closed car. I recognised it, it belonged to a group from Malki. Rishi, annoyed, muttered, “So much space in the middle of the road, and still this fellow drives like this?” We laughed it off and continued walking.

But just near the Laitumkhrah bus stop, the same Ambassador stopped in front of us. Seven Khasi youths jumped out and specifically called Rishi for a fight. Rishi, puzzled, said, “The car nearly ran over my friend, what’s the matter now?” He demanded a fair fight, but there was no fairness. Within moments, seven to eight of them dragged him to a narrow lane near the old SBI evening branch and the big round water tank.

What followed was horrific. They beat Rishi mercilessly, kicking him in the face and private areas with boots, pushing him into a dry drain. Blood poured out. His teeth were broken. I screamed for help, pleaded with folded hands, but nobody came, not the police pickets nearby, not even passersby. No one reported the matter to the Laitumkhrah Beat House.

When Rishi lay unconscious, they finally left. I fetched some water and sprinkled it on his face. Slowly, he woke and tried to stand. His face was swollen, bleeding, teeth shattered. He could barely speak.

It later emerged that these boys were linked with a local student body.

That brutal assault on Rishi has never left my memory. For years, it gave me sleepless nights. Panic would grip me whenever the thought returned.

Chowdhury Mansion, a Shillong residence close to my growing-up years.

After a few relatively quiet years, Shillong saw another flare-up in August 1990. It was short but nasty. Some Khasi miscreants threw Molotov cocktails at a non-tribal trader’s shop in Police Bazar. The shop owner suffered 70% burn injuries.

I was a reporter then with an English daily. I rushed with my camera to Nazareth Hospital, photographed the injured man, and filed my story. By next day, the city was tense. Sporadic arson, stone-pelting, and attacks on pedestrians were reported from different parts of Shillong. By late afternoon, the district administration clamped curfew across the city.

The same decade, brutality struck again. In 1990, Jyotish Ghosh, a sweet vendor, was subjected to a horrific attack. Miscreants immersed him in boiling syrup used for rasogollas, then set him on fire, leading to his death.

In 1991, another shocking incident shook us. Prakash Hotel in Laitumkhrah, owned by the Saigal family, was well known. Their eldest sibling was running Saigal Automobiles in the same arcade. One afternoon he was gunned down in broad daylight by the militant group Hynniewtrep National Liberation Front (HNLF) for refusing to pay ransom. The message was clear: even non-Bengali speaking citizens had become targets now.

In August 1992, Shillong plunged into yet another major communal riot. Arson, killings, and assaults went on for months. Indefinite curfew was declared. Non-tribal traders, particularly Marwaris and Biharis, faced the worst. Many were beaten, their shops destroyed, and families forced to leave for Assam, Rajasthan, and elsewhere.

The city’s fabric had been woven by these very communities. Marwaris, Sindhis, and Punjabis ran businesses. Biharis played a big role in the service sector, milk vendors, barbers, cobblers, butchers, laundry men, even the humble loaf-sellers. Shillong’s so-called cosmopolitan flavour owed much to them.

I clearly remember one day in the last week of August 1992. A non-tribal businessman, badly assaulted the previous evening, died. The next morning I went to Civil Hospital around 10:30 a.m. The premises were tense. Family members and traders had gathered. By 1 p.m. the crowd swelled, demanding justice and protection.

Around 2 p.m., the East Khasi Hills DC, Mrs. Margaret Mawlong, arrived in her royal blue Ambassador car with two police escorts. The crowd rushed to her car, surrounded it. She stayed locked inside, windows up. Section 144 was imposed. Armed police escorted her inside the hospital. The gates shut, the hospital grounds fell silent. The crowd, however, gathered outside on the road.

I sat quietly on a low tree branch inside the hospital campus, watching. A truck stood nearby, and some men climbed on it, shouting for security and justice. At around 2:30 p.m., a lady magistrate arrived with armed police. Guns, tear gas, lathis, shields, everything was ready. She shouted (without even a megaphone) for people to leave. Police fired blanks in the air. Tear gas shells were about to be lobbed. I quickly climbed down and ran to a side door of the hospital.

The hospital staff refused to let me in. I showed my press card and threatened: “If you don’t let me in, you’ll be tomorrow’s story.” Nervously, he opened the door.

An hour later, when I came out, the road was empty. Only hundreds of scattered footwear told the story of a fleeing crowd. From Barik Point onwards, the streets were deserted. Through loudspeakers, the DIPR announced: curfew from 4 p.m., Section 144 in force across Shillong.

I walked back to office, then home for a meal. Shops were shut. Later, as I rode back from Malki, a big stone, at least 300 grams, missed my head by an inch. Luckily, I was wearing a helmet.

A well-known astrologer’s family in Malki was assaulted by mobs. One evening during curfew, I saw them sitting outside the Laitumkhrah Police Beat House. Their son’s face was swollen with bruises. I stopped to check, and he told me how the mob had tortured him and how unsafe they felt to return home.

But some incidents were far worse. One of them I can never forget. In 1992, a young Bengali woman from Malki, Gauri Dey, six months pregnant, was brutally attacked. She was raped, and a bamboo stick shoved inside her. Witnesses existed, but no one was ever convicted. Justice never came.

Back in 1995, a tragedy struck. Lawrence, the owner of Riche’s Restaurant at Laitumkhrah Police Point, was shot dead by HNLF militants at his residence in Umpling (Rynjah). He had grown up in Shillong, a plains tribal from Assam married to a Khasi lady, and was living with his mother-in-law’s family. His death showed how the violence of that period touched even the places and people we knew well.

In November 1999, a shocking incident shook Shillong. At Laban, Dipankar Bhattacharjee, younger brother of the well-known Aristo TV showroom owner, was gunned down inside his residence by HNLF militants. He also ran a cable TV network. The assailants looted his shop before escaping, leaving the community in disbelief.

Barely two months later, on 1st January 2000, militants again struck at the Aristo TV shop in Dhankheti. Five innocent lives were lost in broad daylight, three employees (two Bengalis and a Nepali), and two Khasis, including a customer and a betel nut vendor. The scene was ghastly, blood splattered across the floor and glass shards everywhere. Though the police and ambulances arrived quickly, the culprits vanished unhindered.

The next major communal flare-up came in 2018, this time targeting the Sikh residents of Punjabi Lane (Harijan Colony). Descendants of sanitation workers brought by the British in the 19th century, the community had lived there for generations. A minor altercation over access to water on 31st May spiraled into violence. Rumours spread on WhatsApp claiming Khasi boys had died, fuelling mobs to attack with stones and petrol bombs. The KSU soon demanded the eviction of the entire colony, once again reviving bitter divides.

On 6 August 1988, our family left Shillong. It was an emotional day with neighbours and friends gathering at our home. A few months later, I returned alone and began my journey into journalism, carrying Shillong in my heart in a new way.

These grim episodes, stretching across decades, highlight the pain Shillong has endured. From 1979 onwards, non-tribals were repeatedly targeted, yet murders went unsolved and no convictions ever followed. The government’s response was slow and passive, often clouded by political transitions and elections around the corner. Traders were urged by the police to report extortion notes from militant groups, but seldom received any assurance of safety. Religious institutions and community bodies, despite their influence, did little to calm the tensions. Families like those of Saigal Automobiles and Aristo TV even regretted informing the police about extortion threats, as protection never came. Even familiar landmarks of daily life, like Lawrence (Riche’s Restaurant) near Laitumkhrah Police Point, quietly bore witness to these years of unease. Amidst these inhuman treatments, many locals carried on with life as though unrest had become normal.

The August 2021 cold-blooded killing of surrendered HNLF activist Chesterfield Thankhiew at his home, in front of his family, further deepened public anger.

Shillong today – a city of clouds, still whispering stories of the past

And yet, years later, the handling of the Indore missing couple case suddenly brought a wave of appreciation. For once, the police, civil bodies, and politicians acted swiftly and in unison. Solving the Raja Raghuvanshi murder mystery even put Meghalaya Police back into the spotlight for the right reasons.

It leaves one wondering: if the same spirit of urgency and unity had been shown during the first sparks of communal tension in 1979, perhaps the long trail of horror, murders, assaults, extortions, and hatreds, might never have happened. Tribals and non-tribals could have continued their shared life in harmony, with Durga Puja at Lal Villa still glowing like old times.

Today, Shillong wears a different face. Tourism, education, and music have given a global identity. People are far more conscious of how unrest affects livelihoods. When the Indore case made headlines, civil societies and politicians marched together, not to divide but preserve the city's image and peace. 

Shillong has seen its darkest nights, but it has also shown gleamers of healing. I carry those memories, both bitter and sweet, wherever I go. And like many who once called it home, I still pray Shillong never repeats its past, but instead continues to stand for coexistence, dignity and peace.

Disclaimer This article is based on true events I witnessed. It is written with respect, and some descriptions may feel strong. The closing thoughts reflect hope that such days never return.

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Lost in Saral Sanchar

Licence Migration or A Bureaucratic Trap?

All my regular work collapsed the moment I saw that Department of Telecommunication Office Memorandum. It landed like a brick on my desk two weeks ago. I had my deadlines set, my plans neat and clear, but this notice pulled the plug. Suddenly my life was not about writing or work, but about surviving the Saral Sanchar portal.

The memorandum, dated 11 March 2025, ordered all licensed ham operators to migrate their certificates to this sparkling new online system before 15 September 2025. A clean digital push, they said. In reality, it was like asking us to wade through a swamp with leeches tied to our legs.

I saw the circular in a WhatsApp ham group. Oddly enough, the discussions there were muted. Maybe people were already too tired to rant.

Ham radio is no joke. It has been a lifeline in floods, quakes, cyclones. When phones die and networks collapse, ham operators keep authorities connected. No money, no perks. Pure service. And now, the very community that serves in crisis is itself in crisis,  thanks to a half-baked portal.

I logged in. Made an account. Took a quick glance at the migration tab. It looked like a puzzle dumped on a child. I still tried. Failed. Then flagged my frustration to fellow hams. Messages poured in. Some confused, some angry, some downright hilarious. “Why migrate at all?” one asked. “It’s tedious, I won't migrate,” groaned another. Someone said they managed to upload but were told to resubmit. Another gem: “Only Aadhaar needs attestation by a gazetted officer.”

Then came the manuals. One was 20 pages, the other 39. So apparently, to move my licence from one digital shelf to another, I must first pass an exam in patience and eyesight.

It wasn’t just me. Many were shaken, stuck, lost. Some tried helping others through remote screen-sharing. Some behaved like self-appointed WPC officers, flaunting their “cheat sheets” on WhatsApp. They were helpful until arrogance starts. A comedy show, but with more tears than laughs.

I reached out to the help desk. Their replies were slower than snail mail. And useless. Templates copied and pasted. Nothing addressed my problem. The portal itself was clunky, cryptic, allergic to common sense. No tooltips, no guidance, just endless trial and error. At one point, I begged them to delete my account so I could restart.

And then came the monster called attestation. Out of nowhere, hams were told to run behind gazetted officers to stamp Aadhaar cards. When the government itself says self-attestation is fine, why this madness? Why drag us back to the days of stamps and seals? To prove we exist, again and again?

Anyone who has tried approaching a gazetted officer knows the drill. Excuses, delays, smirks. I even recalled an old story. Years ago, when MTNL asked for attested IDs, I approached my uncle, a senior government officer. His reply? “How do I know you’re not a criminal?” I shot back: “I didn’t come for a character certificate. Your job is to match photocopy with the original and sign.” He finally did, after the drama. That’s what attestation culture looks like. Power, not purpose.

Meanwhile, other government services are years ahead. When I renewed my driving licence in Delhi, Aadhaar OTP was enough. Fast, simple, painless. Yet for ham radio migration, we are forced to perform clerical duties that WPC staff should be doing.

Office Memorandum: Typically meant for internal govt communication, not public dissemination. Yet, used here to coerce compliance via WhatsApp groups.

There’s also the strange legal twist. The 11 March 2025 note was an Office Memorandum, meant as an internal instruction. Not even a circular for public circulation. Yet hams are being coerced into compliance. And not a single direct email or SMS to licence holders, even though WPC has our details. Instead, whispers in WhatsApp groups. A mess created out of thin air.

At one point, I almost thought of quitting amateur radio altogether. The frustration was that heavy. A hobby rooted in freedom and service is now buried under paperwork, passwords, and pointless hurdles.

Saral Sanchar was supposed to make life easier. It has only made life smaller. A portal where time dies, humour struggles to stay alive, and passion for radio drowns in bureaucracy.

I’ll keep documenting this circus. Maybe one day someone in power will read, laugh nervously, and fix it. Until then, migration feels less like a system update and more like punishment for being a ham in India.

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Smartphones: The Upgrade Trap

 Disposable tech fuels e-waste epidemic!

Apple's iPhone 17 is yet to launch, but they are already teasing iPhone 18 and beyond since the past many months. It's like they are trying to keep us hooked with promises of future upgrades. Meanwhile, our current iPhones become obsolete after a few years, and we are left with devices that no longer receive software updates or security patches. And to make matters worse, e-commerce giants like Amazon and Flipkart are fueling this cycle with glossy advertorials and "super discounts" on older iPhone models like iPhone 14, 15, and 16. But the reality is, these phones are already nearing the end of their software update and security patch lifecycle. That means you are not just paying the upfront cost, but also hidden costs down the line, like compromised security and outdated features. It's a clever marketing tactic, but not exactly a great deal for consumers.

Android manufacturers like Samsung aren't much better. Their premium phones are expensive, and they often abandon support after a few years. Samsung even tried to develop its own operating system, Bada OS and later Tizen OS, but did not gain much traction. Microsoft also had its own mobile ambition with Windows Mobile, but despite initial market presence, it ultimately failed to sustain itself. Ubuntu, the popular open-source operating system, also attempted to enter the smartphone market with Ubuntu Touch, but unfortunately, it's no longer a viable player in the space. It's frustrating that we are stuck with these two giants - Apple's iOS and Google's Android. No other company has been able to challenge their dominance.

Huawei, the Chinese Tech giant often pitched against Apple's iPhone, has been working on its own operating system, Harmony OS, in an attempt to break free from Android. While it's still in development, it's a step in the right direction. However, the result of this dominance is that we are forced to upgrade our phones every few years, generating massive amounts of e-waste and draining our wallets. Joy!

It's time for legislation to step in and ensure that smartphones are built to last. We need phones that can receive software updates and security patches for atleast a decade. This would not only benefit users but also reduce e-waste. Take Fairphone, for example, a Dutch social enterprise that designs modular, repairable, and upgradable smartphones made from responsibly sourced materials. They prioritise sustainability, fair labour practices, and long-term support, showing that a more responsible approach to smartphone manufacturing is possible. Until then, it's clear that some tech giants' sustainability claims might be more about PR than actual impact, and that's just green-washing. We need real change, not just clever marketing.

We need industry forums like the Mobile World Congress and tech-savvy groups to push for change. Governments must also play a role in regulating tech giants and ensuring that they prioritise user needs over profits. Can we make it happen? It's possible, but it will take effort and determination from all stakeholders involved. And maybe, just maybe, we will be able to keep our phones and our wallets intact.

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India’s Quiet Strength – Not Media Noise

Hype vs Reality & Multipolar Path Forward

I write this on the eve of Independence Day. I write it out of love for India. I do not wish to tear my country down. I want truth, so India can truly rise.

Our media loves big headlines about manufacturing. Newspapers, TV channels, and even NITI Aayog echo slogans like “India will lead electronics,” “5G self-reliance,” and “world leader in mobile phone production.” But much of the heavy lifting still comes from China. We import key parts, modules, and even the machines that make them, then assemble them here. Many finished goods with Indian brands are really built from imported components. Our so-called “5G network” rests largely on knock-down imports. Our space and defence agencies too are not immune to the charm of Chinese stuff. We even cheered when the US blocked Huawei, yet we still lack strong domestic research and development to fill that gap.

The same pattern shows in medicines. India still buys vital drug ingredients from abroad. Active pharmaceutical ingredients come largely from Chinese makers. That leaves our drug supply chain fragile if geopolitics or trade lines break.

Electric vehicles (EV) sound like a new India story. But our EV push depends on imported battery cells, magnets and other parts. Millions of rupees flow outward to buy things we do not yet fully make. That is not an industrial revolution. It is a supply-chain gap. 

The government’s production linked incentive (PLI) and similar schemes have pushed smartphone assembly upwards. Production numbers look good. But assembly can hide dependence. Much of the high-value kit still arrives from overseas. We must be honest about that difference. 

Why does this matter? Because slogans and PR cannot replace raw capability. If we call assembling a factory “manufacturing independence,” we sleepwalk into strategic risk. We should ask hard questions. Where are the chip fabs? Where are our own battery plants at scale? Who builds the machines that make the machines?

Instead of noisy headlines and puffed-up narratives, India should make real things quietly. True prestige follows real achievement, not empty cheers.

Foreign policy matters here. Recent U.S. pressure, including new tariffs tied to energy and trade has shaken the optimistic optics of India-US closeness. Trump slapped a 50% tariff on India over our oil imports from Russia. Reports say tariffs and trade coercion have even put some U.S. defence and Boeing aircraft purchases under review. New Delhi is watching options. This is a wake-up call: alliances shift when trade and power collide.

Recently, the US sent back 104 Indians in a military plane. Their hands and legs were chained for 40 hours, including women and children. The flight reached Amritsar. Opposition MPs called the treatment “degrading” and held protests. The foreign minister engaged Washington over the treatment. But the wounds remain. These actions frighten the diaspora and raise doubts about the “friendship” with America. This is not easy to swallow. It hurts, and many Indians now think twice before going abroad. Our friendly ties seem fragile when dignity is sacrificed.

Worse still, in early 2025 the U.S. moved to end birthright citizenship through an executive order. Children born in the U.S. to non-citizen or temporary visa holders, like many Indians, would no longer be guaranteed automatic citizenship. Courts stepped in. Multiple judges nationwide, including in Maryland, issued injunctions halting the policy, with the latest ruling reaffirming that birthright citizenship remains protected under the 14th Amendment. The worldwide backlash shows how deeply the issue touches immigrant families.

Additionally, Trump administration increased scrutiny of Green Card holders. These steps created deep anxiety among migrants, including Indians who have lived in the U.S. for decades.

Economist Jeffrey Sachs

As US ties flicker, India needs steadier partners. Russia stays close; Putin may visit New Delhi soon. Modi will attend the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation (SCO) summit in China. BRICS and SCO should be more than photo-ops. They should mean real multipolar solidarity. Economist Jeffrey Sachs says it plainly: India and China need each other in a multipolar world. The U.S. wants to use India, but we should stand tall. We are the third-largest economy. With care and respect, we can outgrow old power centres. A stable future demands mutual respect, not subservience. Watch Jeffrey Sachs's comments in these YouTube video links: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/9xE4tumqzz0 

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/FyYv_WgYQeg

There is a moral angle, too. Our diplomatic choices, for example a visible tilt toward Israel and distancing from Palestine, have consequences at home and abroad. Large protests and international criticism show that many countries and civil societies object to the violence in Gaza and the humanitarian cost. These choices affect how India is judged on the world stage. 

Inside the country, institutions are under strain. Eminent voices warn that politics is creeping into education and public life. When universities and public bodies change appointments for political reasons, merit suffers. When the media shrinks from critique and repeats slogans, democracy weakens. Former Vice Chancellor at Delhi University and economist Deepak Nayyar, and others have pointed out the risks to higher education and institutional autonomy. This is not abstract. It is about the future of our public life. 

These concerns are not only about universities or the media. Many people feel the bureaucracy, once expected to be impartial, is now leaning toward the political mood of the ruling establishment. It is not acting like a neutral guardian of the Constitution. Even the armed forces, which have always stayed above politics, now face such doubts. Critics say some military statements seem aimed at serving political optics instead of plain facts. This raises serious questions. Are institutions that should unite the nation being pulled into politics?

I must be blunt. A free press and tough scrutiny are not enemies of the state. They are its protectors. If journalists avoid critical questions and prefer applause over accountability, power grows unchecked. Power without checks drifts toward arrogance. Arrogance can become something close to a dictatorial mood. That is a danger no patriot should ignore.

I believe in India’s talent and grit. I celebrate every factory that gives steady work. I salute scientists and engineers who push our limits. But I will not applaud theatre for progress. I want real factories, real research, real supply chains that can stand shocks. I want policies that back substance, not slogans.

I am not trying to put India in a poor light. I am asking the hard questions that the media should be asking. I am trying to nudge our conscience. Love of country is not blind love. True patriotism is pointing out faults with respect and demanding better. If the press, our institutions and our leaders listen, India will not just sound strong, it will be strong. I want my India to have a bureaucracy that is efficient, fearless and neutral, one that upholds the Constitution above all else. I want my India where politicians do not drag our defence forces into political theatre. Our institutions must serve the Republic, not a party, not a leader and certainly not a narrative.  I want my India to be tolerant to all religions and never harass the minorities, as enshrined in our Constitution. Only then will the true spirit of freedom and unity shine through for every Indian. Jai Hind!

Check out the relevant videos below:

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Sirens, Signals & Static Joy

                   Delhi’s Disaster Rehearsal with Hams on Air

Last Friday, 1 August 2025, Delhi woke up to sirens and emergency messages on phones. The District Disaster Management Authority (DDMA) circular had already sent a notice:

Mock victims on Metro floor

“On 01/08/25, an earthquake and chemical disaster mock drill is being conducted in the districts of Gautam Buddha Nagar and Ghaziabad. Sirens and announcements may occur. Please do not panic, do not spread rumours, and cooperate.”

Simulated injury loaded
in ambulance

This was no panic button. It was part of a larger plan called Exercise Suraksha Chakra. A massive mock drill ran at 55 locations across all 11 districts of Delhi, in sync with parts of Uttar Pradesh and Haryana. Residents watched ambulances, fire vehicles, police vans and even army trucks criss‑cross the city streets.

Teams from the National Disaster Management Authority, Delhi DDMA, Uttar Pradesh and Haryana SDMAs, NDRF, Indian Army, Delhi Police, fire services, health, transport, metro staff, civil defence and RWAs took part. They tested systems, coordination and response under pressure.

Meanwhile, I was intermittently monitoring the communication signals at my shack. I grabbed my handheld gear every now and then and tuned into the Ham radio channels keeping the drill in rhythm below.

The exercise started with a fake 6.8 magnitude quake at 9:03 am. That was only the opening act. Soon, mock chemical leaks were staged at industrial sites, metro stations, bus depots, even in some markets. At Ramesh Nagar Metro Station, staff and volunteers evacuated commuters, haz‑mat (Hazardous Materials Response Team)  teams sealed off the hazardous zone, and paramedics rushed in to treat simulated victims.

While all this drama was unfolding, another hero quietly took charge: the Ham radio

Radio Drill Action

community. Five VHF amateur radio stations were activated at key locations: near hospitals, markets, residential clusters and at Major Dhyan Chand Stadium close to India Gate. These licensed operators simulated emergency transmissions to ensure that even if mobile networks failed, communications would not.

A few calls that you could almost hear in real time:

“Maharaja Agrasen Hospital, Sec 22 Rohini: building collapsed, fire, casualties expected… any station acknowledge?”

“Shastri Park: gas cylinder burst, two dead, nine injured… relief services needed fast!”

Ham-Station crew

“IOCL Shahbad Mw Pur site: 30 persons trapped under debris, rescue teams on site…”

“Chlorine gas leak at Indraprastha Metro, situation critical: all stations remain alert.”

These were not rehearsed lines. They were sharp messages under test conditions. The hams handled high message traffic with grace. Their calm voices cut through chaos. They proved that when voice fails, radio prevails.

The brightest moment of the day came courtesy of the VU2DLR repeater, now housed atop the World Trade Tower (WTT) in Noida. At a height equivalent to a 45 storey building, it gave

VU2DLR repeater on WTT mock-up

Delhi‑NCR hams the reach they always dreamed of. Stations in Gurgaon, Faridabad, Noida and Ghaziabad easily triggered it using handheld radios, something thought impossible when it used to be under Vigyan Prasar Bharati.

This repeater, running on 145.60 MHz with a Motorola rig and a Diamond antenna, kept the network alive for hours. Traffic was heavy, yet stable. The Ham community was ecstatic. Many whispered, “Our repeater has come back stronger.”

What did this day teach us? First, clear communication is life’s

Ham SUV Antenna

backbone in a crisis. Second, quick coordination beats chaos. Static drills bring real learning. And third, when all else fails, a well-pointed little handheld radio can be the real hero.

In the end, this mock drill was more than just noise and sirens. It was Delhi’s way of saying: We will not be surprised. We will be prepared. A big salute to everyone who ran drills, wore gloves, spun antennae or just played their part in keeping tomorrow safer, sometimes rescue is just a frequency away. 

Few more images from the event:

Ambulances and rescue teams near IOSL

Civil Defence volunteers pose for snapshot

VHF transceiver inside event SUV

SUV with mag-mount antenna plus Ham duo

Banner: Suraksha Chakra organisers

Relief ham station at Major Dhyan Chand Stadium

Ham team at IOSL site

Delhi women police officers coordinating response

Fire brigade trucks park at the IOSL staging ground while rescue teams work alongside volunteers to coordinate aid and brief civilians

On the left: from a rescue SUV, you see a Ham operator transmitting updates and taking notes into the field. On the right, the same operator and a fellow Ham beam a big smile for a selfie break between drills

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