Made in INDIA: a Proudful Experience!

Weekend  Musings: 

I count myself fortunate to have been born in India—a land steeped in richness, not just of spices and color, but of centuries of knowledge, craftsmanship, and civilizational depth. As a child, I grew up surrounded by tales of empires, thinkers, and artisans—stories etched into history books and whispered by elders who remembered the dignity of simplicity. I read about the brilliant town planning of the Indus Valley, the mathematical minds that predated modern calculus, the metallurgists who built iron pillars that would not rust, and the weavers whose fine muslins were once worth their weight in gold. There was pride in every detail, even if we didn’t always speak it aloud.

I studied engineering at IIT Kharagpur—one of the best in India—yet life remained simple. I rode a bicycle, lived with clean food, pure water, and an abundance of books. Imported magazines from America were a small wonder—the glossy pages, precise printing, and vibrant images gave me a glimpse into a world that seemed so far ahead, as if science had leapt into the future while we still lingered in black-and-white memories.

Circumstances led me to the United States for higher studies, and I stayed there for nearly a decade. The American way of life was intoxicating in its scale and sheen: skyscrapers of steel and glass, enormous cars powered by V6 and V8 engines, giant machines from Caterpillar and John Deere rumbling with purpose. In Minnesota, companies like 3M and Honeywell were at the forefront of innovation, and my university was neck-deep in cutting-edge research. Even in the mid-1980s, we had touchscreen monitors for CAD/CAM design, students building speech-to-text software, and custom computers rendering high-speed graphics. We had access to Cray 2 supercomputers—the technological marvel of the time. It made us feel a little superhuman, or at least super cool. Perhaps even super hot, depending on who you asked.

Minneapolis, where I lived, was not only technologically sophisticated but also remarkably clean. I remember the city introducing a recycling program in the late 1980s and distributing green plastic bins. It felt like living in the future. I came to believe that this was the only true path to progress.

But then I moved to Switzerland.

That shift felt like a quiet revelation. Everything in Switzerland was smaller, yes—but precise, beautiful, and seamlessly functional. It was the only airport I’d seen where you could roll a luggage trolley onto the escalator without it toppling over. I made the mistake of trying the same thing years later in the U.S.—nearly causing an accident and earning some very colorful looks that asked, wordlessly, “Which jungle are you from?”

Even ticket machines in Switzerland were marvels—sleek, automated, flawless. I remember thinking, “I had no idea these mountain-dwellers who perfected milk chocolate were also quietly living in the future.” Almost everything I saw carried the proud label: Swiss Made. Even eggs had printed codes tracing them to their origin farm. Products weren’t cheap, but they were built to last—washing machines costing CHF 2,000 would run for 15 years. Every town, no matter how small, housed industries that designed and produced sophisticated, world-class products.

I began to admire the Swiss deeply. There was a quiet pride in their work, a cultural obsession with quality, safety, and aesthetic precision. Meanwhile, back in India, the middle class was increasingly buying imports—products from abroad replacing local innovations. Soon, the shelves were flooded with cheap Chinese goods. And I found myself asking, “How long will we keep exporting basmati rice and spices, only to import calculators and flat-packed furniture?”

This was the early 1990s. India was undergoing a painful economic crisis—borrowing against gold, devaluing currency, and negotiating with the World Bank. It broke my heart to think we had fallen so far behind nations like Germany and Japan, who had risen from complete devastation, or even China, who had started the race alongside us but surged ahead.

I didn’t lament openly—I’m not a sentimental man. In fact, I never quite understood the phrase “tears of joy.” If you’re happy, you smile. If you’re sad, you cry. Simple.

But one day, that changed.

On a visit to India, I needed a pair of reading glasses. The local vendors showed me rows of thin plastic frames, all labeled “Made in China,” priced between Rs. 100 and Rs. 150. I asked, “Do you have anything of better quality?” One of them replied, “If you want Made in India, try Himalaya Opticals—about two kilometers from here.”

It was late, but I walked anyway. The shop had only one other customer. A cheerful young Bengali man greeted me with a wide smile and began showing me various pairs of glasses, describing their benefits with enthusiasm. I asked, “Are any of these made in India?” He smiled again, “Sir, all our glasses are locally made in Kolkata.”

That made me pause. I selected a pair priced at Rs. 600. They felt sturdy and well-crafted. I still use them, especially for long hours on the computer. And even after 30 years, they remain scratch-free.

In fact, as I type this very story, I’m wearing those glasses.

Back in Zurich, I began to observe the Swiss way of work more closely. Their discipline, their care for craftsmanship, their humility—it was everywhere. Every worker, no matter the role, had been trained and took pride in their contribution. Take the company Maxon, for instance—a modest Swiss firm that makes tiny electric motors. Their motors were chosen by NASA for the Mars Rover. Rather than develop entirely new motors for the mission, NASA relied on Maxon’s proven precision. Those little motors performed flawlessly, millions of kilometers from Earth.

I often wished we in India could adopt even a fraction of that “Total Quality” mindset. But then, I reminded myself: while Europe was perfecting fine instruments for generations, we were toiling under colonial rule. Our histories are different. Our wounds still fresh.

One winter, I wore my thickly-lined Botany 500 trench coat, Made in the USA. A couple of buttons had come loose. I walked into a textile shop in Zurich looking for needles. The shop was empty except for a friendly woman who switched to English, assuming I was a tourist. I asked for the best quality needles. She opened a drawer and offered me a lovely little packet—gold-tipped needles of various sizes, so fine I marveled at how anyone could produce them, let alone make that tiny hole at the end. The price was modest, about CHF 5. I bought navy-blue thread too. She offered a paper bag, but I declined, holding the items in my hand.

As I stepped outside, I glanced at the needle packet more closely. There was a line printed in the finest of fonts. I puon my reading glasses—the ones made in Kolkata—and read the words:   “Made in India.”

And in that moment, I finally understood what tears of joy meant.

Postscript): Today, India stands proudly on the global stage. From software and services to motorcycles, tractors, precision parts—and soon, even semiconductor chips—India is reclaiming its place. Not because the path was easy, but because countless individuals refused to give up. They chose quality over shortcuts, purpose over profit. And the world has begun to notice.

ISRO sends missions to the moon and beyond. I salute them. And I salute every quiet craftsman, every stubborn innovator, who helped us believe again in those three simple words:
Made in India.

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*Dr. Ranbir Sinha is an IIT Kharagpur graduate. He earned his Ph.D. in the USA and has worked on several successful space projects in Europe. His passion is to train and inspire STEM students in India to solve real-life problems and create innovative products. He is the co-founder of — Skill2030.com
His motto is simple— “Explore, Think, and Create. Make India Great!”