Sandeep Kotwal - SKTCE

Inefficiency

2 days ago | [YT] | 0

Sandeep Kotwal - SKTCE

#ValentineWithPurpose #SilentSacrifices #LegacyThinking
#OneManMovement #SandeepKotwal

3 days ago | [YT] | 2

Sandeep Kotwal - SKTCE

🎬 Valentine’s Day Act Theme: “Choices Speak Louder Than Flowers”

Scene 1: The Nice Gesture

A nice, respectful boy approaches on Valentine’s Day.
No touching. No pressure.
Just a flower… or a simple “I like you / I love you.” 🌹
His body language shows sincerity and restraint.

⸻

Scene 2: The Rejection

The girl refuses—which is completely her right.
But instead of just saying no, she overreacts:
• Public shaming
• Complaint
• Treats kindness as a crime

The boy walks away—hurt, silent, dignified.

⸻

Scene 3: The Turn

Time passes.
The same girl is now seen with a “bad boy”:
• Loud
• Dominating
• Flashy attitude
• Red flags everywhere 🚩

Yet she chooses him.

⸻

Scene 4: Realisation

The bad boy’s true nature shows:
• Disrespect
• Control
• Emotional damage

She remembers the flower, the silence, the respect.

⸻

Final Frame: Moral on Screen

“Not every danger looks dangerous.
Not every good man looks exciting.”

MORAL

She didn’t have bad luck.
She had a poor choice.

3 days ago | [YT] | 0

Sandeep Kotwal - SKTCE

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4 days ago | [YT] | 0

Sandeep Kotwal - SKTCE

#LivedExperience
#SilentStrength
#NoLecturesOnlyLessons
#GroundReality
#EarnedNotAdvised

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Sandeep Kotwal - SKTCE

5 days ago | [YT] | 0

Sandeep Kotwal - SKTCE

Chapter 3 — Endurance in Motion: When the Sector Fell, but Work Continued

When I finally entered the hydroelectric sector in the late 1990s, it did not arrive as relief—it arrived as responsibility.

Hydropower projects in the Himalayas are not ordinary workplaces. They are living terrains, where engineering knowledge alone is never enough. Every assignment demands physical stamina, emotional restraint, and the willingness to live far from comfort, certainty, and familiarity. For someone who had already spent years waiting for an opportunity, there was no hesitation. I stepped in knowing fully that this path would extract more than it would immediately give.

My early exposure came through projects like Dul Hasti, where I first encountered the seriousness of underground works—dams, tunnels, caverns, and the uncompromising discipline required to operate safely in high-risk environments. Large mechanized tunneling, long shifts, cold conditions, and absolute precision became routine. Mistakes were not forgiven by terrain or gravity.

But it was Baglihar Hydroelectric Project that became the defining chapter of my hydro journey.

Baglihar was not a project I joined in start —it was a project I lived through from near inception to commissioning. I worked across phases involving powerhouse caverns, underground structures, anchoring systems, cable crane operations, and coordination between civil and electro-mechanical teams. Timelines were tight, margins thin, and the cost of delay enormous.

There were moments when conventional construction sequencing threatened schedule slippages. In response, alternative execution strategies were introduced—parallel working, precast solutions, and logistical adjustments that allowed civil and electro-mechanical activities to progress simultaneously. These decisions were not about innovation for recognition; they were about responsibility—preventing time overruns, avoiding disputes, and protecting project integrity.

Baglihar taught me a lesson no classroom ever could:

Engineering is not about ideal conditions.
It is about judgment under pressure.

From there, the work carried me across regions and climates.

In Chuzachen, Sikkim, I worked in one of the country’s highest rainfall zones, where landslides, weather volatility, and fragile terrain dictated daily planning. In Kishenganga, I transitioned into planning and coordination roles, working closely with advanced tunneling technologies while managing interfaces across disciplines. Panan (Himagiri) and Fozal demanded sensitivity—balancing construction with environmental constraints and local realities. Dugar tested precision in documentation, where success was measured not by concrete poured, but by clarity achieved within deadlines.

Yet even as experience grew, stability did not.

By the mid-2000s, the hydroelectric sector began to falter. Projects slowed, funding cycles broke, approvals stalled, and many professionals exited the field altogether. Work continuity—once assumed—became uncertain. Careers fragmented. Assignments shortened. Entire teams dissolved.

This was the moment when many chose safety.

I chose movement.

When one project paused, I moved to another—often further, colder, more remote. From accessible locations to high-altitude valleys. From established sites to politically sensitive zones. From regions with infrastructure to areas where logistics itself was a challenge.

Each relocation carried a cost.

Distance from family.
Absence from milestones.
A life lived in transit—between site camps, temporary quarters, and unfinished homes.

But continuity mattered. Responsibility mattered. And dignity mattered.

I did not measure success by comfort or visibility. I measured it by survival without compromise—by staying employed through a collapsing sector without diluting ethics or responsibility. Over time, I learned to read terrain, systems, people, and failure modes. I learned that restraint often achieves more than assertion, and that silence, when disciplined, can be strength.

The hydro sector did not reward loyalty.
It tested endurance.

And endurance became my asset.

By the time the sector’s instability forced many to stop, I had learned how to keep going—how to adapt without abandoning principles, how to carry uncertainty without complaint, and how to work without applause.

This chapter of my life did not make me visible.

It made me durable.

That durability—earned quietly across years of unstable industries, harsh climates, and remote assignments—became the foundation on which everything that followed would stand.

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1 week ago (edited) | [YT] | 3

Sandeep Kotwal - SKTCE

This references a newspaper article published by Daily Excelsior
regarding telecommunication services in the Gurez–Tulail region.

The article is shown briefly for identification and reference only.
This is a factual summary and commentary created for
public-interest documentation and archival purposes.

Source credited: Daily Excelsior.
No copyright infringement intended.


www.dailyexcelsior.com/gurezi-better-telecommunica…

1 week ago (edited) | [YT] | 1

Sandeep Kotwal - SKTCE

Chapter 2 — 1992: When the Safety Net Disappeared

The year I graduated as an engineer—1992—looked like a milestone on paper.
A degree completed. A future assumed.

I had studied a locally feasible discipline, not chosen by comfort or passion, but shaped by family circumstance and responsibility. At the time, it felt practical. In hindsight, it marked the start of a long uncertainty—not a launch.

Almost silently, that same year delivered a blow that changed everything:
government engineering stipends were withdrawn.

For students from modest families, stipends were never rewards.
They were lifelines.
They funded further studies, competitive exams, and the fragile bridge between education and employment. When they vanished, so did the margin for error.

Options narrowed overnight.

Still, I refused to disengage. Within those constraints, I pursued a Post Graduate Diploma in Industrial Pollution Management through correspondence—a deliberate choice to stay intellectually alive when institutional support had disappeared. Learning became an act of resistance.

There was no safety net.

What followed was not failure—but delayed momentum, far harder to explain than defeat. From 1992 to 1997, I lived without stable employment. I taught wherever I could, supplied building materials when possible—doing any honest work that preserved dignity and movement.

This was not inactivity.
It was endurance.

Jammu & Kashmir was passing through prolonged militancy. Private industry with pan-India reach barely existed. Opportunities that flowed elsewhere simply never arrived here. Effort alone was not enough when the ecosystem itself was fractured.

These became years of quiet survival.

There was no social media to narrate struggle.
No professional networks to amplify potential.
Only long days of preparation, waiting, recalibration.

Watching peers move forward while remaining stationary tests more than ambition—it tests self-belief.

Yet one rule never broke: I would not burden my parents. They were pensioners—independent, dignified, but not positioned to carry the cost of prolonged unemployment. Independence, as I had learned early, meant standing quietly—even when standing still.

Then, in 1997, a door finally opened.

The hydroelectric sector began work in Kishtwar. The opportunity was not glamorous. It offered no guarantees, no comfort, no safety. But it was real.

I stepped in without hesitation.

That first job did not erase the five lost years.
It absorbed them.

Those years left a permanent imprint. They hardened patience. Stripped entitlement. Replaced urgency with resilience. I learned something that would define my life thereafter:

Careers are not always built by speed.
Sometimes, they are built by survival.

1992 did not give me a launchpad.
It gave me endurance.

And endurance, I would later realize, is a stronger foundation than momentum.

1 week ago | [YT] | 0

Sandeep Kotwal - SKTCE

Chapter 1 — Born Between Rivers and Responsibility
Picture belongs to Pul Doda, now submerged.

I was born in Bhaderwah, a place known for its beauty, resilience, and quiet strength. My father worked as an overseer, and my mother was a schoolteacher—two professions rooted in discipline, structure, and service. Due to their postings and responsibilities, our family gradually settled in Pul Doda, a small but significant town along the left bank of the Chenab River.

Pul Doda was not a conventional town. It grew in a ribbon-like form, stretching parallel to the river rather than expanding outward. The Chenab was more than geography—it was a presence, powerful and constant, shaping life in the region. Sand extraction during summers filled the air with dust, often entering homes and making daily living uncomfortable. In winters, the challenges were different but just as defining—sunlight touched our homes for only a few hours each day, making cold, shadow, and endurance a part of ordinary life. Harsh winds, limited infrastructure, and isolation were normal, not exceptional.

Yet Pul Doda was also a hub. It served as a business center for surrounding Chenab valley villages. Roads branched out from here toward Doda, Kishtwar, Bhaderwah, and Jammu. In scale, it resembled towns like Banihal or Ramban—but far smaller, quieter, and more constrained. Opportunities existed, but they were narrow and required effort to reach.

Education reflected those limitations. There were only two schools—one for boys and one for girls—up to the eighth standard. After that, anyone wishing to continue studies had to travel six kilometers daily to Doda for higher secondary education. My own schooling followed this path. Until Class 8, I studied in the girls’ school where my mother was the headmistress—not by convention, but by necessity and care. It allowed her to keep close watch in an environment where choices were limited and safety mattered.

After Class 8, daily bus travel to Doda became routine. Those journeys were lessons in themselves—long rides, unpredictable conditions, shared hardship, and stories that quietly shaped resilience. Education was never taken lightly, because accessing it demanded effort beyond classrooms.

Like many young men of that era, I dreamed of joining the National Defence Academy. I prepared sincerely. But due to a misunderstanding about examination schedules—two papers held on the same day—I missed that opportunity. It was not a failure of preparation, but of information. At the time, I did not dwell on it. Looking back, I understand it as an early lesson: life does not always test ability alone; sometimes it tests awareness and timing.

I completed my engineering degree in 1992, in a discipline chosen not by personal preference, but by family practicality. At that time, resources were limited, and my parents were quietly planning for the education of younger siblings as well. Their choice was not restrictive—it was protective. Later, I saw how that sacrifice enabled others in the family to pursue degrees of their own choice, with far greater support.

That same year—1992—marked an unseen turning point. Government engineering stipends were withdrawn, abruptly narrowing paths for further studies. What might appear today as a simple policy change was, for many of us, a decisive closure of options. My journey forward was shaped not by ambition alone, but by responsibility, circumstance, and realism.

This was the beginning—not of struggle, but of endurance.

I did not grow up surrounded by privilege.
I grew up surrounded by expectations—to stand on my own, to adjust, to endure quietly.

And those expectations became the foundation of everything that followed.

1 week ago (edited) | [YT] | 1