The other day, I was reporting on the Masina Hospital mob violence story. The previous night, two patients, girls aged 22 and 16, had accused three wardboys of molesting them while they were being treated for burns. One of the girls said the wardboy had touched her thigh while cleaning the burn wound on her calf. Where the truth lies in molestation incidents always remains a mystery. No matter how much we as reporters, as having been at the scene of the crime so often, think we are certain of who's done it.. the fact is we're never SURE. And no matter what story the police, lawyers, and courts discover, one gets the feeling that Truth is the only one that got away. Anyway, personal opinions aside, I happened to be there to get a sound bite of a hospital doctor on the previous night's violence. Just as I got out of the car, suddenly, one corner of the hospital erupted in loud...

How do you define belonging? By the Time you spend in a place? By Quality - the things you do there? By Dependance? By Love? Whichever way I look at it, I belong to Bombay. It is the city of my sunrise, and very likely, it will be the city of my dusk. It has given me everything, and by every criteria, I give back daily in full measure. Time and again, I have wondered about leaving, fed up of its grime, heat, apathy, and utter selfishness. Its callousness towards my adoration. But like a helpless lover, I come back, and I stay. I'm still trying to unravel why I stay. Sometimes I feel like a slave to this city, the slavishness that love brings. Most days I feel like I own it, the ownership that time brings. It's my Bombay, and my blood curdles at the thought of someone who doesn't love this city as much as I do, stick it down...

So, we've been getting marzipan, milk creams, kalkals, gooey chocolate cake, plum cake, rum cake, I've-died-and-gone-to-heaven-blueberry cheesecake, and all these wonderful holiday season goodies every day of the week at my home. Not to mention the non-stop late nights and dreary early mornings at work - an altogether undesirable lifestyle. There was a time in agile August when I was in the best of shape. Then there was a time in supple September when I was in the best of health. Everything was going great in Nimble November too, till the maharshis monitoring the stars of the Hindu Calendar found, like every year, the stars are now clanging together in consonance. And behold, the beginning of the wedding season. Ergo, the end of my diet. So my main concern when I'm making merry is this: with so much going in, how do you stop yourself from falling out.. of your jeans, that is. Now, to those who are not concerned with...

Spoilt brat. Bad boy Bandraite. Rich kid. Alistair Pereira, sentenced to six months imprisonment for rash driving in the Carter Road case, is being hung out to dry in a trial by public opinion. Never mind that the public in question probably doesn't drive in Mumbai and therefore, doesn't realise that true driving skill here lies not in driving on the road within speed limits, but in NOT driving into people, even when you are within speed limits. So why the outcry because Alistair Pereira got 'only' six months for mercilessly mowing down seven labourers, whose tear-stained faces are daily dripping down our television screens and newspapers. This blog is certainly not in defence of Alistair Pereira. If I had anything to do with it, he'd never see a driving license again. Here's another reason why: Just four months after he rammed his Toyota Corrolla into those migrant labourers, even as the Carter Road case was still going on, Alistair got himself...