The air of the 1980s and 90s in Patratu carries a warmth in my memory that never quite fades — those golden years of my childhood. Weekends held their own gentle rhythm as I travelled with my father, almost every week, from Patratu to Ramgarh via Bhurkunda. We usually took the Teckar — a shared jeep with cracked vinyl seats — or the public bus, and occasionally, a white car belonging to his colleagues. The road was long and coal-dusty, filled with chatter from passengers — workers, students, and families who recognized each other not by name but by face.
Among them was one of my uncles, who worked at the Bhurkunda Glass Factory. A quiet man dressed in his habitual white dhoti-kurta, he carried an aura of simplicity. Occasionally, he would visit our home, bringing with him stories from the factory and tiny glass souvenirs that seemed almost magical to me as a child — small windows into a glowing world of molten art.
My father worked at the Patratu Thermal Power Station, in the telephone exchange — a cool, air-conditioned room within the heart of the sprawling plant. That division was vital in those days, keeping alive the voice of communication across the towers of industry. The exchange ran on a manual ring-dialling system — a wonder of coordination at the time. To make a call, an operator had to connect lines by plugging cords into a vast switchboard, and each turn of the rotary dial released a cascade of clicks and rings.
The sound of those telephones echoed like the heartbeat of the power station — carrying messages between engineers, control rooms, and distant units. My father was among the senior officers who managed this delicate system with unwavering precision — a quiet guardian of connectivity in an age before digital automation.
The Bhurkunda Glass Factory had its own fascinating story — one that began long before I was born. In 1952, Gurusharan Lal Bhadani founded it upon land rich in coal, silica sand, and minerals — nature’s perfect recipe for glassmaking. The furnaces burned ceaselessly, day and night, melting raw minerals into shining sheets of glass that travelled across India.
By 1957, the factory passed into the hands of Japan’s Asahi Glass Company and was renamed Indo Asahi Glass Company Limited (IAG). Under Japanese management and guided by their meticulous precision, Bhurkunda transformed into an industrial showcase of Asia. Machines hummed with harmony; workers brimmed with new purpose; the modest town began to dream in the rhythm of Japanese craftsmanship.
Three decades later, in 1987, a modern plant rose from its glowing heart, making Indo Asahi one of Asia’s most advanced glass manufacturers. For locals like my uncle, the factory was far more than a workplace — it was a temple of dignity. The siren that wailed each morning and evening became part of Bhurkunda’s own heartbeat.
Yet, as every story meets its shadow, this one too took a turn. By 1999, beset by losses, the Japanese owners sold the factory to Delhi-based traders, the Khemka Brothers. The new chapter never quite found its clarity. Quality declined, complaints swelled, and the once-proud name of Indo Asahi dulled like forgotten glass.
It was a world where every ring mattered, every voice was human, and a father’s work became the unseen rhythm to a child’s growing years. In 2004, while I was studying in England, I heard in the news that the furnaces had gone cold. The factory gates had closed forever. More than 1,300 workers lost their livelihood. Bhurkunda’s nights grew dim without the glow of molten fire, and silence replaced the old industrial hum.
๐จ๐ซ Sudesh Kumar
๐จ help@patratu.com
