Shashi Tharoor went to my school in Mumbai; an old school tie can be a special bond. I do not choose to defend Mr Tharoor or give him a clean chit. Nor will I pronounce him guilty in the 'court' of a television studio. What I do call for is a swift and transparent investigation into the Sunanda Tharoor case. Sunanda died on January 17,2014. Now, almost a year later the Delhi police has filed an FIR in the case for murder under section 302 against 'unknown persons'.

First, a disclosure: I am an unabashed MS Dhoni fan. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that when I first met him, he warmly shook my hand and said, 'there are only two journalists who I respect. You are one of them, the other is Prannoy Roy.'

Like most South Delhi colonies, Panchshila park where I live, is seeing rapid construction. The old leafy houses are being demolished and three, sometimes four storey buildings are being constructed. Every morning, I walk past these houses, watching young men (and a few women) lifting the stone and gravel, knocking in bricks, carrying the sand.

I have been to Peshawar once. I didn't have a visa for the city but sneaked in because I was desperately keen to track the Taliban. The year was early 2001, just before 9/11 awakened the world to the horrors of global terror emanating from the Afpak region. I couldn't quite get into the rugged wilds of the FATA territories but I did manage to meet a number of Taliban sympathisers in Peshawar

There are moments in life which touch the soul almost unknowingly. Over the weekend, I was in Mumbai for my book promotional tour. The venue was Crossword book store at Kemps Corner, a wonderful place for bibliophiles in the heart of South Mumbai. I spent an hour talking and taking questions on my book. It was hugely energising to sit amidst book lovers.

You return from the Kashmir valley with a sense of overwhelming melancholia: it is a beautiful but tortured land. What should have been the Switzerland of the sub-continent is a depressed place. The large army presence and the fear of the terrorist has created a universe where anger and resentment co-exist uneasily with traditional Kashmiri hospitality.

The tragic death of Phil Hughes on a cricket field has revived memories of another day. My late father tells me the story of the mood in the Indian team on the 1962 tour of the West Indies when their captain Nari Contractor was hit by a bouncer. As Contractor was rushed to the hospital, my father was next in to bat.

Every 26/11, I offer a silent prayer for the victims of the Mumbai terror attack. Like so many south Mumbaikars, I felt directly connected to the act of terror. A school friend Sunil Parekh died in the attack while dining with his wife at the Oberoi; a college friend Ashok Kamte was one of the senior police officers who was killed; Sabina Sehgal Saikia had been a colleague at the Times of India and Ashok Kapur, a member of our club, Bombay Gymkhana, was also shot dead.

I suddenly felt 'old' this morning when at 5 am I got an sms saying Murli Deora had passed away. Murlibhai was the first politician I became a 'friend' of: you could not but be a friend of the ever smiling Mumbai Congressman if you were a journalist in Mumbai 1980s. Murlibhai, who was then the city Congress chief, knew just about everyone in the city: he had friends and 'contacts' across party and ideological lines.

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