It was the September of 2012, a season wrapped in lazy monsoon clouds and a soft, anticipatory chill that always hovered around my birthday. I remember the doorbell that morning—nothing dramatic, just the calm ding-dong of another delivery. But what lay inside was far from ordinary: a gift-wrapped copy of Political Science: An Introduction by Michael G. Roskin, sent by none other than my former college head and intellectual elder, Dr. Amritabho Banerjee. The man everyone affectionately called “Dip,” with a mind as sharp as a scalpel and a soul tuned to nuance, had clearly remembered more than just the date of my birth. He remembered what made my mind tick.
At first, I’ll admit, I chuckled. A textbook? For a birthday? I mean—where were the fancy novels, the leather-bound poetry collections, the indulgent literary perfumes I’d grown to expect from well-read friends? But that smile soon dissolved into something quieter—something like awe. Because as I flipped through the preface, something clicked. This wasn’t a textbook thrown at a student. It was a kind of intellectual compass, handed over by someone who had already walked several miles ahead.
Roskin’s Political Science: An Introduction may, at first glance, seem like your standard poli-sci 101 fare: chapters on ideology, institutions, systems, policies, comparative frameworks, global conflicts, public opinion, democracy, authoritarianism, and the usual suspects of Western political thought. But there’s a deceptive elegance in its simplicity. Roskin never dumbs things down. Instead, he performs a delicate tightrope act—introducing key concepts with lucidity, without ever sacrificing nuance.
Reading it, I kept returning to one phrase: politics is the authoritative allocation of values. That definition became a kind of echo chamber in my head. I found myself re-evaluating the arguments in my living room, the choices in my city council, even the dynamics at the college canteen table. Roskin doesn’t just talk about systems and institutions—he teaches you to look at them as living, evolving forces. And once you start seeing the world like that, it’s impossible to unsee it.
The strength of this book lies in its pedagogical empathy. It’s aware that its reader may be a first-timer or a skeptical student, so it never condescends. Instead, it builds—from Plato and Hobbes to comparative governance, from American federalism to foreign policy in a multipolar world. It doesn’t pretend the world is tidy. It merely hands you the tools to make better sense of its mess.
One of the chapters that stayed with me most was the one on political ideologies. The careful unpacking of liberalism, conservatism, socialism, nationalism, and the mutations they’ve undergone in the modern context—this wasn’t dry analysis. It felt like a crash course in human belief systems, in why people fall in love with the idea of power and order. Especially in the post-9/11, post-recession world we were still reeling from in 2012, Roskin’s framing offered clarity. Not answers. Just the right questions.
Reading it in those months that followed—late nights curled up with a cup of instant coffee, mornings when news headlines seemed to echo the case studies in the book—I realised how political science was less about "studying politics" and more about learning how to read the world. Dip had known exactly what he was doing.
In hindsight, that birthday gift wasn’t just a book. It was an act of transmission—a passing of the lamp. A reminder that sometimes the most transformative gifts aren’t the ones that flatter your taste, but the ones that challenge your perspective.
Roskin didn’t dazzle me with rhetorical fireworks. He did something far better—he built a structure in my mind, one brick at a time. He left space for disagreement, room for curiosity, and the promise of lifelong dialogue. And as I moved on to reading harder political theory texts—Arendt, Rawls, Foucault—I kept hearing Roskin in the background: calm, reasonable, foundational.
Years later, I still return to that volume. Not for nostalgia, but for grounding. And every time I pick it up, I hear a quiet laugh, see a half-smile, and feel the invisible hand of a teacher saying, “Here. Try looking at the world this way.”