Lately, my WhatsApp groups have been less about forwarded jokes and more about forwarded outrage. The topic? Tariffs. President Trump’s economic sabre-rattling—first 25%, then 50%—aimed squarely at Indian imports. The digital corridors of conversation lit up with calls for self-reliance. Buy Indian, build Indian, be Indian. The slogans echoed like old war chants, repurposed for a new battlefield.

But as the debates grew louder, my mind quietly wandered—not to policy papers or trade deficits, but to a memory from 1985. A moment that, in its own modest way, embodied the spirit of self-reliance, resourcefulness, and the understated power of collective action. I shared the story with my old bank batchmate group, and what followed was a wave of laughter, nostalgia, and a reminder that sometimes, the smallest gestures carry the weight of the biggest lessons.

It was the 26th of August, 1985. I was fresh out of university—idealistic, eager, and armed with a crisp appointment letter as a Management Trainee. My induction posting was to the Zonal Training Centre (ZTC) in Kolkata.

Kolkata, that maddeningly poetic and generous city, welcomed us in its monsoon mood. The streets glistened with rain, the air was thick with the scent of wet earth and frying telebhaja, and we—a group of trainees from across India—were thrown into a swirl of training modules, team games, and case studies.

We were strangers for about a day. Then, slowly but surely, friendships took root. Conversations over chai, shared laughter during lectures, and long walks under dripping awnings forged a bond. And among the many things that united us—dreams, ambition, late-night chats—was an unlikely one: drinking and smoking.

Back then, Wills Navy Cut was the cigarette of choice. Familiar, affordable, and almost cultural. But that year, Rothmans had made its suave entry into the Indian market—a sleek, premium brand that whispered sophistication. Naturally, we upgraded. Rothmans became our badge of arrival, a puff of pride that said: We’ve made it.

Lighting a Rothmans felt like lighting a signal flare to the world. We were professionals now. Or at least, we were trying to look the part.

But pride burns faster than cigarettes. Within two weeks, our pockets were close to empty. The induction programme was three weeks long, and our first salary would only arrive after we joined our branches for on-the-job training. Rothmans, once a symbol of arrival, became a luxury we could no longer afford. And so, the Rothmans dream went up in smoke.

Our fallback? Bidis. Loose bidis, to be precise—three for ten paise. The downgrade wasn’t just economic; it was symbolic. And it set the stage for what came next.

Our Training Manager, Mr. H.B. Subrahmaniam, was a brilliant man—sharp, empathetic, and surprisingly warm. He had this charming habit of “borrowing” cigarettes from us whenever his pack ran out. So one evening, when he casually asked for a cigarette, we solemnly handed him a bidi. He looked at it. Then at us. And something clicked.

We explained, half-seriously, half-jokingly, that we were broke. Rothmans had gone up in smoke, and now bidis were all we could afford. We even floated the idea that perhaps we should be paid our one week of salary—after all, hadn’t we worked hard for it?

From that moment on, we smoked bidis openly, almost theatrically—outside the training room, in the canteen, during breaks. What started as an economic necessity quickly became a statement. An action of sorts. Not loud, not confrontational, but unmistakably clear.

The turning point came one evening when the Zonal Manager, Mr. VP Taneja. a dignified man of the old school, visited us for dinner. The food was warm, the conversation flowing. And just then, Mr. Subrahmaniam—ever the tactician—chose the perfect moment to present our case. With humour and charm, he narrated our little plight to the Zonal Manager.

To our surprise, the Zonal Manager listened, smiled, and approved our request. The very next day, arrangements were made for us to receive one week’s salary in cash. We became the only group in the 1985 batch to be paid while still at the training centre. Each of us signed a receipt on a 20-paise revenue stamp, which, naturally, we paid for ourselves.

Just like that, our “bidi protest” had succeeded. It was a small victory, but it felt monumental. We hadn’t raised banners or shouted slogans. We hadn’t written memos. All we did was use humour, solidarity, and a touch of theatre to make our point—and we got what we needed.

The moment our salary came through, we gleefully returned to Rothmans and Navy Cut—our dignity patched up, our lungs only mildly offended. But honestly, who cared? In our early twenties, still high on the hangover of university freedom, life was meant to be puffed away.

Retelling this story amid tariff talk reminded me of something enduring: not all responses to pressure need to be loud. Sometimes, it takes just a bidi. No grandstanding, no anger—just a shared cause, a clever hand, and the right timing.

That, perhaps, is the real lesson. Whether in a training centre in 1985 or at the negotiating table of global trade today, the answers don’t always come from power plays. Sometimes, the quietest actions—the small, bold, unconventional moves—leave the longest trail of smoke.