An Alumminium Brick: How Bose Betrayed Its Customers with Engineered Obsolescence

Iconic, aircraft-grade brushed aluminium cabinet of  2014 Bose SoundLink Mini

In January 2014, I sat at my desk, looked at the gorgeous, brushed aluminium cabinet of my newly purchased Bose SoundLink Mini, and declared it a "Revolution in Portable Speakers" on this very blog, Bose SoundLink Mini: Review . I was so deeply impressed by its astounding bass and pristine acoustic clarity next to my MacBook Air that my review became a catalyst. Two of my immediate family members bought the unit, a university research scholar rushed to purchase one, and gradually, six more acquaintances bought the Mini solely based on my authentic recommendation. I wasn't just a customer; I was an uncompensated brand ambassador who helped Bose secure over Rs.1.5 Lakhs in premium revenue.

Today, in 2026, that identical Rs.16,200 acoustic masterpiece sits on my workbench as a completely dead, silent aluminium brick.

My speaker's internal audio circuitry is completely intact and flawless. Yet, Bose has intentionally engineered a digital lockout that forces consumers to throw away perfect premium hardware. This is the story of how corporate greed triumphs over sustainable engineering, and why global consumers are finally fighting back.

The Anatomy of a Corporate Lockout

The downfall of my SoundLink Mini began gradually around 2019 when the battery stopped holding a charge for long periods. By 2020, it refused to power on at all. When I contacted the Bose service centre in Delhi, I was met with cold corporate dismissal: Bose no longer stocks the battery, and they no longer service the First-Generation SoundLink Mini. Their official solution? Throw away your luxury aluminium speaker and purchase a newer model.

As an electronics hobbyist, I dismantled the battery compartment using my precision toolkit to fix it myself. What I discovered inside is a textbook example of predatory engineering:

1. The Cheap Battery Core: The power source inside this premium device consists of two standard, highly popular 18650 lithium-ion cells wired in series to create a basic 7.4V to 8V pack. These cells cost only around Rs.300 to Rs.375 to manufacture at factory scale.

2. The "Suicide Chip" BMS: Bose wrapped these cheap cells in a highly complex, proprietary Battery Management System (BMS) circuit board. This board contains a micro-controller programmed with an aggressive firmware lockout. The moment the internal lithium cells naturally drop below a specific voltage floor, the chip flags it as a permanent failure and permanently blows an internal electronic fuse.

Even if you open the casing and solder fresh, brand-new 18650 cells onto the board, the chip stays locked. It continuously broadcasts an un-clearing error signal to the speaker's motherboard, triggering a rapid red blinking LED and permanently muting the audio amplifier.

Removed proprietary Bose battery block (Model 061385) - housing two standard 18650 cells bound by a restrictive firmware lockout

Bose has made it so complicated that even if one would like to convert the SoundLink Mini into a desktop BT speaker by connecting an appropriate adapter to the AC 220 mains, it is impossible to make it come alive. Because the speaker's internal motherboard expects a constant handshake from the battery's locked-down chip, simply injecting raw external power does nothing. The digital gate remains locked, permanently barring the user from running their own device as a plug-in desktop unit.

However, beneath that modernised surface lay a severe drop in repairability. While my original Mini 1 features a clean, modular slide-out battery bay secured by four basic Torx screws, The Mini II shifted to a messy internal architecture where the battery cells are heavily glued down and hard-soldered straight to the electronic boards. This design change has backfired globally. For instance, an acquaintance of mine in Vijayawada who bought the SoundLink Mini II  watched his premium speaker transition into a completely un-fixable, bricked plastic and aluminium shell due to the exact same cell degradation.

Defective Design: The Vampire Power Drain

This anti-consumer engineering isn't new; it was present from day one. Even when my SoundLink Mini was just three months old, I noticed that a full charge would completely deplete itself if left unused in a drawer for just 3 to 4 weeks.

This is an incredibly poor design flag. In comparison, my standard XHData-D808 world-band radio features a continuous internal digital clock that runs smoothly for months on a single cell without ever draining the reservoir. Bose intentionally designed a high "vampire current draw" that constantly bleeds the battery dry, accelerating the day the cells hit the critical low threshold and trigger the permanent BMS digital suicide lock.

A Proven Corporate Pattern: The May 2026 Blackout

Bose’s defence has always been that they cannot support "obsolete" legacy hardware forever. However, the international tech community knows this is a deliberate business strategy known legally as Planned Obsolescence - the practice of deliberately shortening a product's lifespan to force repeat purchases.

We saw the ultimate proof of this corporate shark-attitude recently in May 2026, when international media hammered Bose for its highly controversial SoundTouch Cloud Server Blackout. On May 6, 2026, Bose permanently shut down its central SoundTouch ecosystem servers. Instantly, thousands of premium, internet-connected home streaming speakers lost their native access to internet radio, multi-room cloud syncing, and physical preset buttons.

Bose proved to the world that whether it is a software lockout on a 2014 Bluetooth battery or a server shutdown on a Wi-Fi speaker, their ultimate goal is to turn working consumer property into e-waste to keep their sales graphs climbing.

This isn't an isolated case. When the First-Generation model began running out of stock across major retail hubs - such as the prominent Bose flagship outlet inside Select CITYWALK Mall in Saket, New Delhi, as well as multi-brand electronics chain like Croma - my friends and blog readers were directed towards the newer SoundLink Mini II. This version featured a dark carbon or pearl white metallic cabinet, slightly extended battery runtimes, a universal micro-USB charging port, a speakerphone microphone, and a highly intrusive, robotic AI voice prompt that announced modes out loud every time the unit booted up.

The Global Awakening: The Right to Repair

Thankfully, governments and consumer courts around the world are finally stepping in to penalise this level of corporate cheating.

Under the landmark 2023 EU Battery Regulation, tech giants are facing massive legal pressure. The European Union has mandated that by 2027, all electronic devices sold must feature batteries that can be easily removed, swapped, and replaced by the end-user using basic household tools, completely banning proprietary firmware locks designed to brick devices.

My Personal Verdict

I refused to bow to Bose's extortion. Instead of throwing my speaker in the trash, I will use my independent workbench to source a third-party, aftermarket replacement battery cartridge featuring a reverse-engineered, completely unlocked non-Bose BMS chip. The moment it slides into the mechanical bay, the red error light will clear, the amplifier will unmute, and my SoundLink Mini audio will come roaring back to life with its native, booming bass next to my MacBook Air.

My speaker will survive because I fought back with a screwdriver. But consumers shouldn't have to become hackers just to keep a premium speaker out of a landfill.

Defeating proprietary barriers: My orange-handed workbench precision tool kit used to unlock the mechanical bay.

Bose charges a premium for engineering excellence, but their behaviour proves they possess a complete poverty of ethics. When a company stops respecting the very advocates who built their success, they no longer deserve our loyalty.

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In Quiet Memory of Sobhan Acharya

Sobhan Acharya

Sobhan Acharya was a quiet pillar of strength for his family and for those who knew him closely. Gentle in manner and measured in words, he carried himself with a dignity that never sought attention, yet earned deep respect. 

An alumnus of Shillong’s educational institutions, Sobhan Acharya was formerly a resident of Bhagyakul, Laitumkhrah. He served the Defence Accounts Department under the Ministry of Defence (Finance) and had a long administrative career. His postings took him to Dimapur, Kohima, Imphal, Kolkata, Panagarh, Gopalpur-on-Sea and Narengi, Guwahati. He retired from the office of the Controller of Defence Accounts, Guwahati.

Following his father’s demise, he lived for several years at Survey, Beltola, Guwahati, with his mother and younger brother, remaining closely involved in family responsibilities until his mother’s passing. In the years that followed, he stood firmly by his younger siblings, offering guidance, reassurance and quiet support. Over time, we realised that in many ways he had become a father-figure to us, steady, protective and always present when needed.

When his younger brother was born, our parents would often recall that it was Sobhan Acharya who suggested the name “Sandip”, a small gesture that remained part of our family memory. 

After our father’s passing, Sobhan Acharya brought our mother to live with him in Guwahati, where he was posted at the time. His colleagues grew fond of her, and she, in turn, became a familiar and welcome presence among them. She accompanied Sobhan Acharya on several leisure excursions across the country, journeys she cherished deeply. Later, when his younger brother was also posted to Guwahati, the family lived together for a period, sharing a closely knit routine. Winters often saw us setting out on long drives, sometimes to the riverbanks to bask in the sun, and at other times towards nearby hills and streams. Those outings felt less like journeys and more like picnics, unhurried and joyful. In their childhood years, his nephews looked forward to school holidays spent with him and their grandmother, moments that remain among the family’s warmest memories.

After the sudden passing of his sister’s husband in June 2023, Sobhan Acharya stood firmly by his sister during a period of deep personal loss. He was constantly present, offering comfort through quiet care rather than words. He took it upon himself to steady the family, ensuring his sister never felt alone as she faced grief and uncertainty. His support reflected the steadfast role he had always played within the family.

He believed deeply in togetherness. For long, he spoke of a simple wish that the three siblings would one day travel together and spend some time at a serene and peaceful place. It was never about destinations or comfort, but about being together, sharing moments without haste.

After retirement, Sobhan Acharya first settled in Kolkata and later moved to Bengaluru, where he lived with his sister. Within the residential community and among his sister’s circle of friends, he became a familiar and much-liked presence. His warmth, gentle humour and courteous nature endeared him to many, and friendships grew naturally around him.

He was the eldest son of late Shelley Acharya and late Prof. Salil Krishna Acharya, founding Principal of Shillong Commerce College. Prof. Acharya was the original researcher who thought beyond conventional approaches and had conceptualised the interlinking of the Brahmaputra with the Ganga, with the aim of improving economic development in the northeastern region. His work, though implemented over time, remained largely unacknowledged, a reality Sobhan Acharya accepted with quiet pride and restraint.

Sobhan Acharya passed away on January 31, 2026, following complications arising from pneumonia. He was undergoing treatment at TriLife hospital in Bengaluru.

On the occasion of his Ardhya Shraddha today, February 9, 2026, the family prays for his eternal peace.

*Shraddha Nimantran shared here…

Published Tributes...

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The Sentinel, Assam

Shillong Today . Com

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SAI Radio Sport Meet, Delhi-NCR – A Personal Account

A Meeting Point of Signals and Sport

I had wanted to write this much earlier, but like most good intentions, it kept getting postponed by work, travel, and the comforting illusion that tomorrow would be more generous with time. It was not. So here I am, finally putting words to a Sunday that deserves to be remembered.

Sunday, the seventh of December 2025, arrived with bright winter sunshine and a light, honest chill. The kind of weather that quietly convinces you to step out of the house. By late morning, all roads seemed to lean towards the Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium. Inside its familiar concrete embrace, the Sports Authority of India conference room was slowly filling up. And then filling up some more. Many old hands later agreed that this was the largest gathering of Delhi–NCR radio amateurs they had seen in nearly a decade.

Onkar Nath Yadav with fellow radio amateurs at SAI

The crowd itself was a small study in diversity. Engineers stood next to doctors. Students sat beside veterans. Armed forces officers, technocrats, management faculty, homemakers, young enthusiasts, and seasoned operators all shared the same chairs and the same curiosity. Some had travelled from Punjab, Haryana, Uttar Pradesh, and even Hyderabad. A few brought family along, perhaps to show that the voice behind the call sign was indeed human. A quiet celebrity presence added sparkle. Former Asian Games judge Kanan Saha was there, applauded not for medals, but for showing up.

For many of us, voices that had travelled for years through coaxial cables and ionospheric hops suddenly had faces. The experience was mildly surreal. There was too little time to meet everyone properly, but enough to know that such gatherings need to happen far more often.

I have written earlier about this strange intimacy of radio – voices without faces, signals without borders – in a separate reflection, Sirens, Signals & Static Joy

This meet did not appear from thin air. It came together because of two radio amateurs who believed that the Delhi–NCR fraternity needed a common table again. One was Onkar Nath Yadav of the Indian Radio Regulatory Service, until recently Assistant Wireless Adviser at the WPC Wing. Anyone licensed in the last few years will recognise his name and signature instantly. What is less common is that Onkar also holds an amateur licence himself, VU3OOO. That makes him something of a rare species. He is presently on deputation as Director at the Sports Authority of India, which perhaps explains why this meet found its home inside a sporting institution.

The other driving force was Rajani Mohan, VU2HW, fondly known on the air as Hungry Wolf. Rajani has long been a familiar and reassuring presence on Delhi VHF and the 40-metre band at 7.065 MHz. Credit where it is due, he managed to bring together radio amateurs across clubs and affiliations under one roof, something easier discussed than done.

Rajani carries a quiet legacy. His father, the late Madan Mohan Prasad, VU2MMP, was a respected mentor to many. Today, his call sign lives on through the Patna VHF repeater maintained by the Society of Radio Amateurs (SORA). Some stories in amateur radio refuse to end, and that is a good thing.

My own introduction to this meet was anything but straightforward. Three days before the event, M. S. Kamat, VU3SLJ, called and requested that I attend. Soon after, a WhatsApp invite followed. It looked neat enough. Venue, date, time, and two call signs listed as hosts. One of them read VU2OOO. Curiosity got the better of me. A quick visit to QRZ revealed that VU2OOO belonged to Rani Gupta of Guna, Madhya Pradesh, spouse of the veteran R. D. Gupta, VU200. This raised several questions. Why was VU2OOO hosting a Delhi meet, and why was VU200 himself not coming? I let the thought rest, slightly puzzled.

Later that evening, I posted a photograph of my VX-6R handheld in a small WhatsApp group, accompanied by a hopeful line about the World Trade Tower repeater returning to life someday. The response from Rajani was instant. Was I joining on Sunday to raise my voice for the repeater? That single line clarified what the invite did not. The meet was about a repeater, or more precisely, the absence of one. Since the decommissioning of the VU2DLR repeater and the closure of Vigyan Prasar, Delhi–NCR operators have been operating at a noticeable disadvantage.

The final piece of the puzzle fell into place only at the venue. The mysterious VU2OOO turned out to be nothing more than a printer’s devil at work. The invite had meant VU3OOO, Onkar’s call sign. One missing digit had managed to generate an evening of speculation and a good deal of laughter later.

The invite that sparked an amusing confusion

When an Indian Radio Regulatory Service officer meets radio amateurs, conversations do spark and ideas do fly. Onkar’s presentation was delivered in Hindi, but the message translated effortlessly. Sports connect people. Ham radio can also become a sport. Radio sport can be adventurous, competitive, and engaging. If made interesting, students of science will take part willingly. When it gains visibility, leaders will notice. Radio sport, he suggested, is worth investing in.

Ham radio, after all, is one of the earliest forms of social media, long before the term became fashionable. It accommodates a surprising range of interests. Homebrew rigs and antennas sit comfortably alongside satellite communication, space station contacts, long distance DX chasing, contesting, digital modes, and long evening conversations that wander without apology. For a newcomer, it is a technical playground. For a veteran, it is a lifelong companion.

Every participant at the meet was invited to introduce themselves. Each story had its own rhythm, but one stood out sharply. Colonel Nasser Hussain Dubey, VU2DUB, formerly of the Ninth Parachute Field Regiment, an elite formation of the Indian Army specialising in counter terrorism, spoke with calm clarity. During his service in Jammu and Kashmir between 1991 and 1996, his unit tracked insurgent VHF transmissions using little more than directional antennas, maps, and a compass. Signals were intercepted, bearings taken, and local assistance used to translate languages. The collected intelligence was then passed to the Wireless Monitoring Organisation and onward to operational units.

Col. Nasser Hussain Dubey, VU2DUB, sharing field experience

Between 1996 and 2000, posted in the northeast and based in Aizawl, he formally set up his amateur HF station. He often monitored the 20-metre band, spanning 14.000 to 14.350 MHz, where cross-border transmissions from deep forested regions bordering Indo–Myanmar, including the Kachin region, and from across the Bangladesh frontier occasionally surfaced. Recorded tapes and supporting dossiers were forwarded to the Wireless Monitoring Organisation, which has a permanent presence in Shillong. Using signal direction, experience, and field intelligence, teams navigated dense forests, hills, and difficult terrain, sometimes coming close to high-value targets. There was no internet then, no satellite navigation. It was, in essence, fox hunting at a professional level.

When Sandeep Baruah, VU2MUE, spoke, the room leaned forward. Formerly Scientist F at Vigyan Prasar, now closed by administrative decision, he raised a pointed but measured question. What was the present status of the VU2DLR repeater hardware and associated equipment handed over to the Wireless Monitoring Training and Development Centre (WMTDC) in July 2024? His remarks aligned neatly with the question that had been quietly circulating all morning. 

Sandeep Baruah, a maverick scientist and adventurer whose curiosity knows no bounds, was the custodian of Delhi’s oldest repeater, VU2DLR, and its associated equipment for more than two decades. Under his watch, Delhi VHF rarely fell silent. Many will remember checking into the nightly net, followed by extended conversations that stretched well past reasonable dinner times. Winter ducting often brought stations from Punjab, Haryana, and Uttar Pradesh into the repeater late at night and early morning. Those were warm frequencies in every sense.

According to sources familiar with the matter, the factual trail is laid out clearly. With the closure of Vigyan Prasar, licences were surrendered and equipment transferred as per rules to WMTDC under the Ministry of Communications. The hardware, including repeaters, transceivers, and accessories, remains functional. Some items are barely used. The question now is not about ownership, but about intent and utilisation.

The larger story of Delhi-NCR’s silent repeater and the hopes once pinned on the World Trade Tower has been documented earlier in my post, Delhi-NCR Repeater: Hopes from a Tower 

It is widely speculated that Onkar, presently at SAI, may be in a position to take this forward more formally when he returns to his parent department with higher responsibility. Whether that happens remains to be seen, but the possibility has given many operators cautious optimism.

Bhanu, VU2MB, bringing flair to the gathering

The meet had its lighter moments too. Bhanu P. Singh, VU2MB, arrived with effortless flair, dark blazer, cowboy hat, and an illuminated name badge, before departing quietly in a sleek electric vehicle. Kaustav, VU2UUU, drew attention with a lightweight homebrew telescopic dipole mounted on a modest tripod. Simple in appearance, adaptable in design, it reflected his broader approach to amateur radio. From satellite work to low power VHF contacts across states, from clever digital mode hacks to broadcast quality audio from minimalist circuits, his enthusiasm is infectious.

As the afternoon wound down, there was general agreement that such gatherings should be held at least once every three months. Many operators had not known about this meet at all. Better communication will be essential going forward.

Delhi-NCR radio amateurs at Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium

The hope, unspoken yet shared, is that valuable equipment does not gather dust in storage rooms. Delhi–NCR needs an effective repeater, much like the one deployed during the October 2025 mock drill at the World Trade Tower. The pieces exist. The people exist. The energy certainly exists.

The signal is waiting. It would be a shame not to transmit.

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31 Years Since You Left Us

Stories of a life that still speaks

Every year when 17 November comes closer, my heart and mind drift back to a man who is no longer in this world. He moved on to the next world 31 years ago on this day. He was a brilliant man with ideas far ahead of his time. His research and thoughts helped lay the foundation that changed northeast India, especially Assam and Meghalaya.

A moment of him, captured in quiet pencil lines

My dad, Professor S. K. Acharya, had a clear vision of linking the Brahmaputra with the Ganges. He wrote about it more than fifty years ago. People may have thought it was too radical then, yet it has turned real in today’s world. And now look at what has happened. The world’s longest river cruise is running. A fifty-one day journey across three thousand kilometres. Tourists from around the world are coming, and it has boosted the tourism sector of the northeast. I often feel he would have smiled seeing this.

I remember the day, 17 November 1994, with absolute clarity. Early that morning my late brother-in-law, Monujesh Borooah, called from Calcutta to tell me about my dad’s passing. I was in Shillong, living alone and working in journalism. Barely a week earlier I had spoken to my dad over the phone. His voice had sounded a little weak. A couple of days later I made another STD call to discuss something for a story I was writing. He did not answer. My mother too did not pick up. I assumed they may have gone to the National Library and that my mother had gone with him. Later that evening I tried again. I also tried calling my siblings’ home in Calcutta. There was no response. This worried me, and by the night of the 16th I decided to travel to Calcutta the next day. But the news came before that. Monujesh’s phone call on the morning of the 17th felt like a shock from nowhere.

Those were the days without mobile phones, Internet or ATMs. Only landlines. All India Radio’s morning regional news bulletin carried the news of his passing. I did not have the coordinates of my eldest sibling as I was not sure where he was posted then. Through a friend I managed to send the message to his office under the Ministry of Defence.

It was a bright but cold morning in Shillong. The telephone started ringing with calls from friends and well-wishers. I had to reach Calcutta quickly but did not know how to get a confirmed ticket. Air travel was still considered a luxury or used only in emergencies. Rail travel was the usual way.

Shillong UNI bureau chief, S. Bhattacharya, called Sheba Travels and also Guwahati airport to keep a ticket reserved for me on the 3:10 pm Airbus-330 Guwahati–Calcutta flight IC 230. I rushed to Police Bazar (Khandailad) and was lucky to find an ambassador taxi returning to Guwahati. A newly married couple was in the back seat after their honeymoon. I asked if I could sit in front as I needed to catch a flight to attend my father’s last rites. They agreed without hesitation. We did not even stop at Nongpoh, which was the routine mid-point halt between Shillong and Guwahati. The driver was careful and fast, and soon I reached Paltan Bazar.

But from Paltan Bazar to the airport there were hardly any taxis left since most had already gone for airport drops. It was around 2:10 pm and I felt the panic rising. I somehow reached the airport. When I reached the Indian Airlines ticketing counter it was 3:15 pm. I told the lady at the counter I had come from Shillong and a priority ticket was kept aside. She recognised it immediately and said they were waiting for me and several announcements had been made, but I was late. She said she would try to speak to the pilot as the doors were already closed.

From the glass panel of the lounge I could see the Airbus 330 with its doors shut. The strobe lights were on. The ladder truck had pulled away from the rear door. Even the front door was closed. Then the ladder truck paused, reversed and reconnected to the front door again. The counter lady handed me a boarding pass and told me to run. I climbed up the ladder alone. The air hostess guided me to my seat, the first window seat on the right side of the door. One of the air hostess seats was right in front of me, face to face.

The ticket and boarding pass of Flight IC 230 I used on that difficult journey to Calcutta on 17 November  1994

This was the original Sheba Travels envelope in which my ticket was issued

At Calcutta airport, Monujesh was waiting. He drove me straight to the hospital and then to the electric crematorium for the final rites of my dad. I remain grateful to everyone who helped me reach Calcutta that day.

The days that followed were very sad. I missed him and cried privately for months. A few days before he was admitted to the hospital, he had written a letter by hand to a senior Member of Parliament. It was still on his table. His research papers, typewriter were all kept in place in his room, almost as if he was still around. I saw the thick file on his Brahmaputra–Ganges project. Even the huge folded blueprint map was inside it. And then one day that file simply disappeared from the house. I often think of how the authorities picked up his ideas and used them without even acknowledging him.

He was far more than just a thinker. He was a teacher. He was the founder Principal of Shillong Commerce College, earlier known as Commerce College, Shillong. His ideas helped shape policies like Look East and Act East. He believed deeply in education. He even turned down a well-paid offer from a university in South Africa so that he could build the commerce college from scratch. 

I once wrote about how his work went largely unacknowledged by authorities and media, that reflection is here: Salil Acharya: The Forgotten Trailblazer

During the B. P. Chaliha government in Assam in the 1950s and the B. B. Lyngdoh government in Meghalaya in the 1970s, he would be invited for personal consultations on economic matters. It was an honour, and both Chief Ministers saw his originality in those areas.
For a glimpse into the campus I grew up observing – Shillong Commerce College – here's an older post: Shillong Commerce College: A Chronicle of Vision and Triumph

He also helped set up the Centre for Ethno Social Studies in Calcutta, which is no longer functioning now. His research covered subjects like mutual economic cooperation between Bangladesh and eastern India. He always believed this region could grow hand in hand.

He also had a lighter side. Once he went for dinner wearing my mother’s petticoat without realising it. Another time he took the wrong suitcase for a trip. He was absent-minded at times, but we loved that part of him. It made him who he was.

For more of his light-hearted moments, here's a post I wrote earlier: Celebrating Prof. S.K. Acharya: A Brilliant Mind

He was a poet, an artist and a wonderful dad. I can still picture him sitting at his desk writing his poems or sketching ideas for his next project. He was always working on something. And he was always there for us.

A peaceful Shillong morning from my lens

For those who wish to listen, here is the AIR broadcast from the morning of 17 November 1994, the day the news of his passing was carried

I feel proud of all that he did, and I miss him. He left us, but his influence remains. We remember his big ideas, his gentle nature and his unique humour. He would have been happy to watch his ideas taking shape today, and to see how they are making a difference.

When I look back at his life, I am struck by how much he achieved. He dared to dream and then work towards it. There is something to learn from that. I write this not only to remember him, but to share a part of him with others. If you have ever lost someone who inspired you, I would love to hear your memories.

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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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