<p>My father was my superhero. Born in the 1930s, his brilliance needed no degree to shine. He didn’t need an IIT or a BE certificate to prove his intelligence—his hands, his ideas, and his relentless curiosity spoke for him.</p>.<p>We lived in Solapur, Maharashtra, where he worked with the Indian Railways. Every evening after duty hours, our living room transformed into a workshop. Tools lay scattered, wires crossed the floor, and curious neighbourhood boys sat around him, their eyes wide with wonder. Many of them would one day become engineers. But back then, they were simply children watching magic unfold.</p>.<p>My father taught without a classroom, without a syllabus—only with patience, kindness, and the pure joy of creating.</p>.<p>Those were the decades between 1960s and 1980s, before screens and gadgets, when joy lived in presence—in people, in conversations, and in things made by hand. He had many accomplishments and countless inventions, but the one that still moves me deeply is the working model of an electric engine he built from scratch. </p>.<p>Days turned into months as he carefully crafted the little engine. And then one evening, the long-awaited eureka moment arrived. His passion was finally in motion. She gracefully began to chug forward on tracks he had laid himself, pausing at signals he had built with equal care. The room filled with awe.</p>.<p>I was still young when I first watched it come alive. Made from discarded tins—ghee and oil containers that came in sturdy tin boxes in those days—it was more than a machine. It was imagination shaped into motion.</p>.<p>Our little chugging pride was not only a prized possession in our home, but also within the railway circle. She would come alive during exhibitions and special railway programmes, sometimes even beyond the railway community, drawing smiles wherever she went. Even today, our generation remembers it fondly—those Solapur days often revived in nostalgic WhatsApp conversations.</p>.<p>After he passed away, the train was carefully packed away, resting in silence—as if waiting.</p>.<p>Years later, my son chose mechanical engineering and selected a working electric engine as his personal project. When the engine began to chug once more, my happiness knew no bounds. In that familiar sound lived a legacy—not inherited through words, but carried forward through curiosity, craftsmanship, and motion.</p>.<p>What began in my father’s hands found its way into my son’s. Some legacies do not fade. They chug along gently, beautifully— from one generation to the next.</p><p><em>(Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.)</em></p>
<p>My father was my superhero. Born in the 1930s, his brilliance needed no degree to shine. He didn’t need an IIT or a BE certificate to prove his intelligence—his hands, his ideas, and his relentless curiosity spoke for him.</p>.<p>We lived in Solapur, Maharashtra, where he worked with the Indian Railways. Every evening after duty hours, our living room transformed into a workshop. Tools lay scattered, wires crossed the floor, and curious neighbourhood boys sat around him, their eyes wide with wonder. Many of them would one day become engineers. But back then, they were simply children watching magic unfold.</p>.<p>My father taught without a classroom, without a syllabus—only with patience, kindness, and the pure joy of creating.</p>.<p>Those were the decades between 1960s and 1980s, before screens and gadgets, when joy lived in presence—in people, in conversations, and in things made by hand. He had many accomplishments and countless inventions, but the one that still moves me deeply is the working model of an electric engine he built from scratch. </p>.<p>Days turned into months as he carefully crafted the little engine. And then one evening, the long-awaited eureka moment arrived. His passion was finally in motion. She gracefully began to chug forward on tracks he had laid himself, pausing at signals he had built with equal care. The room filled with awe.</p>.<p>I was still young when I first watched it come alive. Made from discarded tins—ghee and oil containers that came in sturdy tin boxes in those days—it was more than a machine. It was imagination shaped into motion.</p>.<p>Our little chugging pride was not only a prized possession in our home, but also within the railway circle. She would come alive during exhibitions and special railway programmes, sometimes even beyond the railway community, drawing smiles wherever she went. Even today, our generation remembers it fondly—those Solapur days often revived in nostalgic WhatsApp conversations.</p>.<p>After he passed away, the train was carefully packed away, resting in silence—as if waiting.</p>.<p>Years later, my son chose mechanical engineering and selected a working electric engine as his personal project. When the engine began to chug once more, my happiness knew no bounds. In that familiar sound lived a legacy—not inherited through words, but carried forward through curiosity, craftsmanship, and motion.</p>.<p>What began in my father’s hands found its way into my son’s. Some legacies do not fade. They chug along gently, beautifully— from one generation to the next.</p><p><em>(Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.)</em></p>
