Problem, Purpose, and the People Who Face It

Chapter 17 – Problem, Purpose, and the People Who Face It

The night deepened in the Singh family courtyard, but the conversations only grew warmer.

The lantern's glow shifted across the walls as a soft breeze passed through the neem tree overhead. Food still lay on banana leaves and steel thalis, and barefoot children sat munching quietly, eavesdropping between giggles.

Ajay leaned back slightly, still seated beside Maa and Dadaji. The last of the dal was being served when he turned and asked with a calm, inviting smile:

"Alright… who's next? Who else wants to tell me what problem they'd like to solve with technology?"

A moment of silence. Then…

Pooja's Voice: The Disease Before the Symptom

Pooja adjusted her dupatta, her doctor's instincts already awake even as she sat beside Vandana. Her forehead creased in thought.

"I'll go," she said.

Everyone looked at her.

"I work in a district hospital. We treat people with coughs, fevers, broken limbs. But sometimes… we lose people because we didn't know soon enough what was wrong."

She leaned forward slightly. "A man once came in—slight stomach pain. He was dead in two days. It was internal bleeding. Another was a child with a mild fever—turned out to be brain inflammation. We didn't have the machines to catch it early."

Ajay nodded slowly.

"So what do you imagine?" he asked gently.

Pooja's voice grew firmer.

"I want small, portable diagnostic devices. A machine that listens to the body—really listens. Heart, liver, blood flow, brain pressure—without cutting open or injecting. Something that runs a quick check, like a scan, and says—'Look here, something's starting.'"

"In early stages, we can cure anything. But we always find out when it's too late."

She glanced around. "People think rural health means just medicines. But we need detection. Awareness. Machines that reach places where doctors can't."

Ajay made a quick note in his diary. "Early-phase detection. Portable. Solar power compatible. With readouts in Hindi and local languages."

Arjun's Voice: Across the Border, With Boots in Snow

The elder son of the Singh family, Major Arjun Singh, had returned from his posting in Jammu only two weeks ago. His Army uniform hung in the room nearby, and his presence always carried an air of silent discipline.

He picked up a steel tumbler of water and took a slow sip before speaking.

"I'll go next."

His voice was calm but direct.

"I lead twenty soldiers in a forward post. We live near the Line of Control—where you don't get a second chance if you miss something."

Everyone grew still. Even the youngest children looked up from their food.

"We have radios. Maps. But fog, snow, terrain… everything changes in seconds. Communication lines break. Supplies freeze. And sometimes—your own men can't see more than ten feet in front of them."

Ajay sat up straighter.

"What kind of technology do you need, Arjun?"

Arjun replied without hesitation.

"Night-vision goggles—affordable, light, durable. Not imported, not fragile."

"A communication device that doesn't need towers. Just works. Mountain to mountain. Soldier to base."

"Sensors that can detect movement—not just metal, but footsteps. Heat signatures. Like a dog's ear, but better."

"Boots that insulate. Uniforms that don't freeze stiff. We don't want luxury—we want survival."

"And finally—tracking. Not like GPS from satellites. That's foreign. I mean local signal triangulation—Desi jugad, but military-grade."

Ajay exhaled. "We'll talk to DRDO. And if they're too slow, we'll build our own pilot lab."

Arjun gave a rare smile. "Just make sure the soldier never walks blind again."

Raghav's Voice: The Threads That Feed a Nation

At the far end of the floor mat, Raghav Singh—second brother, textile manager, and man of accounts—folded a piece of roti and said:

"Textile toh humare khoon mein hai. I'll go next."

He glanced at Bharat and then back to Ajay.

"You already know, bhaiya—our factory runs every day except Sunday. But every year, Japanese machines arrive and take over another part of the work. Faster looms, newer dye patterns, better stitching."

He placed the roti down and looked up.

"But their machines are expensive. And when they break down, their parts don't come for six weeks. We lose contracts. Our workers just sit idle."

Ajay raised his brows. "So what's your dream?"

Raghav's hands moved instinctively as if weaving a thread in air.

"Multi-weaving looms—designed for Indian patterns. Light cotton, silk, khadi. A single machine that can shift modes."

"Built in India. Maintainable in India. Not just run on diesel—make one that works on crank or solar too."

"Pattern scanners—so workers can upload a hand-drawn design, and the loom picks it up digitally."

"And an AI suggestion system. Show trending styles across states: what's selling in Delhi vs Lucknow vs Indore. Not guesswork—data."

"Let us not just make cloth. Let us make fashion. Indian fashion. And export it to the world."

Ajay laughed in satisfaction. "Brilliant. Design-tech for Bharat's hands."

Raghav added softly, "People think textile is old work. But it feeds more families in UP than computers do."

Bharat's Thought: A Future Taking Shape

As the voices of his aunt, uncles, and father settled into the soft evening breeze, Bharat remained quiet—but not empty.

Inside his small frame, something stirred. A sense of weight. Of knowing.

"These are not just ideas," Bharat thought.

"These are starting lines."

"If Pooja bua had that machine—maybe more children would live. If Arjun chacha had that gear—fewer soldiers would die. If Raghav chacha had those looms—maybe our factory would never shut down again."

"They don't know it, but I will build it all. I will make sure their voices don't disappear in the noise of other countries' inventions."

He looked at the neem tree above. Its leaves rustled softly, like blessings.

Still the Dinner, Still the Dreaming

The food had gone cold on some plates, but no one minded. Vandana poured water gently into copper glasses. Maa refilled pickles and smiled at her children.

Ajay looked up again and said:

"Who's next?"

He didn't need to say more.

Because this dinner—this gathering—was no longer just about food.

It had become a movement.