This one is for you, Ruch!

Happy Birthday, Ruchuni! Miss you tons. Thanks, Gulshan, for putting together these videos and sending them to us so many years ago. Thought I'd share some of them in memory of Ruchuni on her birthday. Great memories from some of the best years of my life...

Thinking of you today, Ruch. You once told me you knew we were meant to be best friends when you found our birthdays were a day apart. Birthdays are never the same without you anymore. Miss you.

Thanks for being the best friend in the world. Love ya.

PS: Some pics are distorted towards the end...but what the heck...they are precious memories...

Mumbai's Connection to the Social Web

Image courtesy: Reuters

My city was under siege for sixty agonizing hours last week. Sitting at my computer, thousands of miles away in the US, I watched in horror — helpless — as Mumbai was ravaged and scarred beyond recognition.

A friend had been shot. Brave friends risked their lives and made their way towards the terror scene to ensure his safety. I stared disbelievingly at my computer screen trying to make sense of the chaos. Where were all my family and friends? Were they okay?

Almost mechanically, I started dialing. I had done this before. On numerous occasions. The riots, the floods, the curfews… I was a seasoned Mumbaiite.

How many times had I visited Cafe Leopold for lazy conversations over greasy food and cheap beer? How many times had I walked by the Taj hotel, marveling at its majesty and grandeur each time I saw the iconic structure? How many times had I frequented South Mumbai for a reunion with friends, a good bargain and even a quick getaway? It let you disappear into the anonymity of the busy, carefree streets of Colaba — and emerge, rejuvenated. How could anyone think of destroying Mumbai? A million questions ran through my head — and I had no answers.

My city was being held hostage and I was helpless. Television channels in the US had just begun to cover the news but it wasn’t enough. I knew there was more going on because I was getting frantic text messages and calls from friends back in Mumbai. It was then that I turned to the Social Web — and never looked back.

I sat glued to Twitter and Monitter for those sixty gruelling hours, clicking every link, every news story, every picture — and every list of the injured and the dead — praying fervently as I scanned the names. Photographers like Vinukumar Ranganathan from Mumbai constantly updated Flickr with photographs of what was happening on the ground. Websites and blogs like Global Voices and Mumbai MetBlogs were putting up real-time information with helpline numbers, emergency contact information and even providing a forum for people to reach their loved ones with news of their safety. Twitter was an excellent source of real-time information that night.

Dina Mehta, a Mumbai-based blogger and social media consultant says: “We had a list of injured people — an illegible fax — and after tweeting that we needed help transcribing it, we were flooded with offers to help from all over the world.”

It was reaffirmation. Of hope. Of humanity.

The voices that emerged that night were real.

Of fear:

“Sirens outside my window. Can hear blasts and gun shots. Please make it a safe night.”

Of mind-numbing truths:

“Bomb blasts in Bombay as we speak.
Phones jammed. Can’t reach my family.
I’ve gone through this before.
Not panicking.”

Of hope:

“We didn’t feel alone anymore or scared. Fellow tweeters worldwide were experiencing and sharing in our pain and our anger during the prolonged siege.”

Of strength:

“And the firing still goes on outside, in batches of 4-5 rounds. As I am writing this, there are sirens of vehicles, police vehicles echoing in my ear… Only unity can fight this.”

Thousands of miles away, I held on to each voice of hope, tenaciously, for three gruelling days, praying for the safety of Mumbai.

I had never felt closer to my city.

Thank you to each one of you who tweeted, posted pictures and blogged amidst the terror, confusion and pain.

Social media, networking and citizen journalism were terms I use often as a social media advocate. But on the night of November 26, 2008, the social web had turned into something far more important for me:

A lifeline.

The Pearl Project – I made it!

I glanced at the subject of the e-mail: ‘You have to see this.’ I clicked on the attachment, ominously named ‘Execution of a spy,’ unprepared for what I was about to see. It was then that I witnessed it – the inhumane, barbaric act of terror, images of which have haunted me since.

“Pass it on,” said the e-mail. “Let the world know.”

Disgusted, I hit delete.

That – was my introduction to Daniel Pearl. Horrified, I looked up Daniel Pearl on the internet and was shocked to learn that he was a journalist who had lived in India. Ashamed that I had been oblivious to his existence and his kidnapping, I faithfully pursued every news clip and article that followed.

That was in 2002.

A year later, A Mighty Heart was published. The book helped me glimpse into his life – the closest, I can ever come to knowing Daniel Pearl. But it also left me feeling helpless.

Even before the book became a bestseller – long before it was reduced to a $5-dollar paperback, stacked in the lonely corners of the discount section – the world knew Daniel Pearl’s fate. Still, every time I read the book, I cannot help hoping – almost willing it to end differently. It never stopped me from wishing for Daniel Pearl to miraculously make it back alive.

I know I have no control over the past, but maybe I can help change the future. Being part of the nine-member team involved in the Daniel Pearl Project – an investigative reporting project that examines what really happened to Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl after being kidnapped and murdered in Karachi – I hope I can live up to the goals this project has set forth. This Pearl Project is my opportunity to play a small role in the life of a person I never knew – but strangely feel so connected to.

Being part of this project means more to me than just three credits. This is important because Daniel Pearl was a sincere journalist just doing his job.

It’s important because his family deserves justice. He deserves justice

It’s important because his death should not be reduced to a barbaric video that is mass circulated on the Internet for amusement.

It’s important because more than 660 journalists have been killed since 1992 while reporting on the job.

It’s important because Daniel Pearl’s last words, “I am Jewish”, showed that it is possible to find dignity in one's identity even in the darkest moments.

I have to admit, I have vested interests in taking this class. When I read A Mighty Heart for the second time several months ago, trying to establish if the movie had done justice to the book, I started researching groups like Jaish-e-Mohamed and Lashkar-e-Toiba on the internet. I spent extensive periods of time looking up the history of Mossad and the workings of the ISI.

But there was one brief moment when I hesitated, afraid to continue my research. I was, after all, in a country where privacy is a myth – and the Patriot Act, a reality. I am a foreigner in America.

That moment disappeared just as fleetingly as it had come, and I strengthened my resolve to go on. This class is an opportunity for me to overcome an infesting fear of insecurity, fear I know the Pearl family felt when they had to conceal their heritage to protect Daniel from harm.

For me, the Pearl Project stands for what Daniel Pearl embodied till the very end – an undefeated spirit. This project is important because it is our responsibility as journalists to fight for Daniel Pearl.

Danny Pearl must not be forgotten.

My father had built it for me, his little princess.

A double-storied palace with pillars in the front and a courtyard that went all around the white mansion. It had a steepled roof that was painted a bright red: My favorite color. Inside, he built me bedrooms and stairs and a kitchen. And four little white beds for the four bedrooms.

My father said they were all mine.

I had watched in amazement as my father built me my fortress, piece by piece. He took care of every detail, making sure it was perfect. It was the most beautiful palace I had ever seen. He even got me a royal car: My very own Rolls Royce. Painted black, its shiny brass and copper engine shimmered brilliantly in the sunlight as it adorned my green courtyard.

When he was done, he sat me down and told me, “This is for you, princess. Just for you.”
I hugged him. This was the best gift he had ever given me. I now had my very own palace.

That was 20 years ago. Today, I live in a one-bedroom rented apartment. My two-storey mansion, red steeple and all, never survived the vagaries of time.

After all, that aging shoebox had to give way someday. Even the bright red paint that had dulled over the years, could not disguise the weathered shoebox that my father had magically transformed. The Rolls Royce — a freebie that came with those noodle packets Mother cooked every Sunday night — had stopped running, its shiny engine, now rusted and disfigured.



Twenty years later, that ratty old shoebox lies stashed away in the dusty corner of my garage and I’m clueless on the whereabouts of the Rolls Royce. But the memories are still here — fresh as the first coat of red paint that cleverly concealed the scalloped edges of the shoebox.

I remember sitting cross-legged, across from daddy, as he carefully cut into the soft cardboard, carving out the windows. I watched as he painted the roof a fire-engine red, and taped a toothpick that was to become the ‘spire’. I even helped him a bit, handing him the scissors and tape whenever he needed it.

It was one of those epiphanous moments where I watched, open mouthed, as my father transformed an ordinary shoebox into a place that had soon become my escape into fairyland.

It was my very first experience with the magic of love.

If only...

The envelope stared me in the face, brown and curled at its scalloped edges. I stared disbelievingly at the faded address scrawled across the surface in smeared blue ink. I recognised the handwriting. The hastily scribbled letters that were unmistakably hers.

It couldn't be...

I took a deep breath as I ripped open the weather-beaten envelope, not sure what to expect. A few photographs slipped out from within the folded sheets. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it…not yet. I picked the letter instead and unfolded the sheets.

Tuesday, 5th Jan, 2003, it read. Two months before she died. I felt an overpowering feeling of guilt take over as I braced myself for what lay ahead. Swallowing hard, I began reading her five-page letter.

The memories rushed back, bringing with it the heart-wrenching pain of losing someone you love. Her letters were always long, filled with details, complete with illustrations and doodles. Underlined sentences and different-coloured ink that reflected her mood.

There was no escaping the pain.

She spoke about her dreams, her plans to take a break from studies and go abroad for work. She wanted to travel, "experience what the world had to offer her".

She was only 22...

She asked me about my plans and chided me for not keeping in touch.

Girl, you should start connecting with the world again, she said.
Would you have called me if I had not written to you? she asked.
Why don’t you keep in touch?
Right now, I just want to talk someone, she had scribbled.

She sounded disturbed, like she was looking for some direction and had turned to me for help.

Could I have helped her out?

A horrible sense of guilt gripped me as I read on, unable to hold back the tears.

Have you changed? she asked.
I don’t know why, but I feel you’ve gone far away, she said. Her letters were shaky.

Had she been crying?

I couldn't go on. I picked up the photographs, its yellowing edges reminding me of how long we had been friends. Seven, long years….She had sent pictures of us in boarding school, sneaking in noodles for our midnight feasts, posing in our favourite David Duchovny T-shirts…memories that had been captured forever.

I was pulled back into an ocean of memories - knocked down, kept underwater - until I felt as though I could barely breathe; and then picked up again by a random wave and thrown back onto the shore, even more sad and lonely than I was before.

Give me a second chance, let me make it up to you…

She had called me just before that fateful day…

Do you have a minute? she whispered, her voice nervous and shaky.

I was busy, I said and promised to call her back….I never did find the time.

She died four days later.

If only I had called her back…

A tryst with God

Divine Intervention. That's what I needed.

Having reached a stage when I knew I needed nothing short of a miracle, I decided to visit the famous Jagannath temple at Puri.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't pray. It's just that I don't belong to the school of thought that believes faith is directly proportional to the number of visits you make to the temple.

Thus, I set off to meet the Almighty. On reaching the intimidating structure, I prepare to meet the all-equalising force that controls the universe, only to be confronted by big, bold

letters engraved at the entrance: `Only Hindus Allowed'.

OK, so I had fulfilled the first criterion.

I decide to start with the smaller temples. That's when I meet them.

Dressed in orange robes, with vermillion on their foreheads, the priests ask me if I need to be shown around (Read: paid to be given a guided tour).

Polite refusals don't go down very well. A firm `no' elicits nothing but further persistence.

At Temple 1: ``No, thank you, I don't need a tour,'' I say politely.

``Nahin chaiyen baba.''

``Bola, na nahin chahiyen.''

``Please leave me alone.'' (By this time, I've reached Temple 15 withTemple 2 to 14 passing me in a blur).

When I finally reach the main temple, albeit a bit breathless from running for my life, the only feeling is one of relief.

Inside, I realise that there are various vantage points from which one can offer prayers. I am among the privileged ones to be just two inches away from the idol (being bestowed with this honour after parting with a generous tip to the priest).

By some inane sense of logic that completely escapes me, I realise that the nearer you are to the idol, the better your chance at having your prayers answered.

Finally at the entrance of the room that houses Lord Jagannath, I heave a sigh of relief. Made it. Having slayed my share of priests and pesky beggars, it's now only the Lord and me.

``Ouch!' Hey Mister, watch where you're going," I yelp at a stranger who stamps my toes.

But before he knows the damage he has caused, I'm swept into the dark, imposing room by a tide of devotees.

Hordes of strangers. Thousands of them. Pushing, heaving, all eager to reach out to the idol, for that one touch. The room is a mass of confusion, a fusion of noises, prayers, beseeching, religious advice.I began to wonder if I'd reach the Lord before I died of asphyxiation or was killed in a stampede.

But I didn't have to think too hard.Before I knew it, I was swept in the direction of what I fervently hoped was Lord Jagannath.

Two minutes and three crushed toes later, I find myself in front of Him.

``Dear God,'' I begin.

``Hurry up, will you?'' cuts in a rude voice.

``Move over'' says another, as he usurps my moment of glory with the Lord.

``But...but...'' I sputter, realising that I had not even reached para two of my 15-page soliloquy.

Knowing I cannot not let this opportunity pass, I do away with my reverence and try regaining my vanquished position only to be tossed aside by other covetous suitors.

Defeated by the adversaries of silent rumination with the Lord, I return home, miserable.

Sitting on my bed that night, I realise this was as close as I was ever going to get to the Lord.

Knowing this was as good a time as any, I begin...

``Dear God...''