The author (in the forefront) seated opposite Fidel Castro

Our Spanish interpreter announced: “Our Prime Minister wants to meet you.”

The third-year chemistry student of Havana University was thrilled at the prospect. So were we.

After all, the Prime Minister in question was a certain Fidel Castro.

It was March 1967 and we had been invited by the government of Cuba. Dr Tuhin Roy, a leading chemical engineer based in Delhi, was there to offer technical expertise to help the Cubans extract nickel and cobalt from nickel ferrous ore in Cuba. I was accompanying Dr Roy to explore the possibility of producing steel from the tailings after the valuable metals had been extracted.

As state guests, we were first put up in a luxurious bungalow in Havana that had been abandoned by the owners of Colgate Palmolive when fleeing Cuba just before the revolutionaries arrived.

So when would we meet Fidel Castro? “He is sending a personal plane to take you to a place about 250km from Havana. We shall be leaving about 8 in the morning. The flight will be of 45 minutes followed by a drive of another 45 minutes,” gushed our interpreter.

Why 250 km from Havana? The Prime Minister, some of his cabinet colleagues and even President Dorticos were busy harvesting sugarcane there. It was not just their national crop but a symbol of the revolution, the bond between the new leaders of Cuba and its people.

The next morning, the Prime Minister’s plane, an Anton 25 (similar to Fokker Friendship) took us to a small domestic airport from where we were driven to a huge sugar plantation. We were received by President Dorticos.

Then, Fidel Castro walked in. What an imposing figure, nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, in a moss green polo neck sweater and khaki trousers. He later slipped on a khaki jacket with numerous pockets, a revolver bulging out from one.

“The Prime Minister has spent the whole night in the sugarcane fields and slept for just a few hours,” we were told.

Showing no signs of fatigue, he began chatting with us — through an interpreter of course — and an Anglo-French couple running a travel agency in London about how to lure tourists from the UK to Cuba. His enthusiasm was infectious.

After a while, Castro invited us to an open-air arena, where large quantities of chicken, piglets, potatoes and vegetables were being cooked. Plenty of white rum, beer and rum-based cocktails greeted us.

A corner of a huge tent served as a dining space for nearly 24 people. The lunch was marked by some technical discussions and a lot of what can only be called adda.

Castro was in a jovial mood. He not only took keen interest in everything we discussed, but also joined in regularly.

“This morning, the cook said he would prepare some Chinese soup. I told him it might not be a good idea, given that India and China are not really the best of friends. I was assured that despite the border disputes, Indians loved Chinese food!” he joked.

Lunch over, Castro took our leave and headed straight for one of the many folding cots with simple bedding filling the rest of the tent. He stretched out and promptly went off to sleep. His close aides remained in the tent while we were led off to a similar tent.

At 3pm, we were asked to accompany “the Prime Minister” for official visits to a few places.

One jeep was driven by the vice-chancellor of Havana University with Castro seated next to him, a sten gun across his lap. Unlike political leaders back in India, this head of state we realised was more than capable of taking care of his own security!

After an hour’s drive, we stopped at an agricultural college where Castro jumped off and joined the students in a game of baseball. And it wasn’t just a token attempt by a politician seeking brownie points. He went in full tilt; he was one of the boys.

Game over, another hour’s drive took us to the top of a hill where there were a number of log huts.

Later in the evening, we joined Castro for a frugal dinner of fruits and bread and retired early to bed.

Early in the morning, we were told to meet “the Prime Minister”. He walked us to a hilltop where he wanted to build a metallurgical complex.

We then joined him for a sumptuous breakfast. Fried chicken, French fries, bread, fruits...

“Why such a spread?” we asked.

“The Prime Minister will leave after breakfast for inspections that will take him all day. He will have to skip lunch,” we were told.

After a lengthy breakfast, it was time to bid goodbye.

Castro shook hands warmly and thanked us for our visit.

The final — and enduring — image I have is that of a giant of a man, seated ramrod straight in an open jeep, head held high, sten gun across his lap…

(The author, 77, is a chartered engineer and consultant, who now lives in Santiniketan)