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 chants - the pent up anger of the hospital staff was pouring out. The patients' family members were landing the choicest abuses on the crowd of around 20 wardboys, peons, etc, threatening them that more of their supporters were on the way to 'teach them a lesson'. The worker's union, on strike, was having none of it and threats were flying all around.

All this would not have been half bad, except the situation was fraught with communal overtones, something we could not really report in the news story that went on air - it would be needlessly incendiary. Police vans were pouring into the compound, while we, the only TV camera there, were shooting it all.. Shooting surreptitiously, I might add, so as to not spur the crowd into doing something stupid (crowds tend to put up a show especially for cameras).

Eventually, the union leader's efforts to calm the crowd down, paid off. The communal nature of the face-off was something even they recognized as being too dangerous. By the time the patients finally discharged themselves to another hospital, it was all over.

I heaved a sigh of relief, but unfortunately, the doctor I was supposed to meet in the first place, had left. Instead, I found his colleague, the hospital's senior managing trustee, an old, old Parsi gentleman. Now, I love old Parsis. They make the world seem righteous, with their charm and social consciousness. But Dr. G-, looked at me suspiciously, though I had spoken not a word, shook his finger at me, and said, 'no no.' I said ok, but would he at least give me the hospital's side of the story. "Nononono, I know nothing.' Oh, alright, I said, and went on my way. I shot a piece-to-camera on the hospital's heritage grounds, with Dr. G- observing me from his wire-meshed window all along.

My work done, we were just easing out of the compound, when two old Parsi ladies rapped their knuckles on the car window, and pointing at me, shrieked, 'you, you, Dr. G-is calling you.' Wondering what on earth could be the matter, I got out and went up again, with the cameraman. Dr. G-was sitting in a high-ceilinged office with his tea and biscuits and welcomed me in like as if we had never met before. But one look at the cameraman, and out came the gnarled finger again. This was to be just a personal conversation, it appeared.

'Well, let me tell you what I know..' he began, giving me a brief account of the last night's events. None of it was new, and I was beginning to get impatient, especially since I had to head back to the office to edit the story, to make it in time for the evening bulletins. Heedless of my impatience, he went on, and my eyes were just beginning to glaze over when suddenly I heard, "Madhubala, oh, she was beautiful." I snapped back to present tense incredulously. His hospital was recovering from being practically burned down, police teams were still on guard, and this tea-sipping, dreamy-looking old gentleman (for that is certainly what he was, the finger-wagging notwithstanding) was telling me of Madhubala and her great beauty. He told me of being Madhubala's family doctor, 35 years ago, when he was young and doubtlessly dashing ('it was before your time, young lady, but surely you know her name was yasmin khan'). Of how the actress' Pathan father trusted him, a Parsi, so much that when Madhubala was going off to England, he insisted Dr.G-go with her. "Even though she was so beautiful and so desired then, that's how much they trusted me."

I was soon drawn into the anachronistic narrative, but somewhere, I was struggling to find a connection between Madhubala and the half-crazed crowds downstairs. Eventually, Dr. G-in his own time, informed me that he had narrated this very same story to the aggrieved patient's family. His motive? To assure them of the trust shown towards him, by members of their own faith, some 40 years ago. He had hoped this would calm them down, and they wouldn't feel so victimized.

I still don't know what to think about the old Dr. G- and his firm belief that people, in a rage, or in a plain hurry, still have the time to listen to parables. But in the midst of my messy, humid day, his gentle world was like an oasis. Was it a practical one? I don't know. But beneath the whirring of an old fan and the whiff of ginger tea, I was glad to have met him.