'My fans don't mind me hamming.'
The best analysis of politics does not come out of air conditioned newsrooms, but from the voices on India's streets. Rakesh Kumar Singhal -- once an army jawan, then an ONGC employee, then a tea shopwallah -- reveals why he left the Congress for Modi.
Rangoli Chandel is in the news again. This time, for spreading communal hate through her Twitter posts.
'I want to show that we are also part of this society and want to participate just as much, whether it is for security or whatever community work there.'
Mekhail delivered the most deliberate heart-tugging line of the day: "If a son asks his mother for money is wrong, then tell me." At the back Indrani gave one of her most beaming smiles that was meant to convey the exact opposite. This was no mother happy that her son had said he turned to her when he needed money because she was his mother.
Vaihayasi Pande Daniel reports from the Sheena Bora murder trial.
'Bola nikal jao. Sala firing karte hai Russi.'
Just 20 years old, Inderlal Kamalsingh Dhurve is a migrant labourer, a part-time farmer, a sole breadwinner and one of four survivors from the group that was mowed down by a goods train near Aurangabad, Maharashtra, 10 days ago, claiming 16 lives.
The ripping off the lid, that Mekhail did, on the chain of episodes that lead up to his sister's murder, while condemning Indrani for her actions, for the first time, paradoxically, allowed a more human -- if flawed and complicated -- picture to emerge of Indrani, allegedly The Woman Who Killed Her Own Daughter and shocked a nation.
A pregnant woman is murdered in cold blood in the heart of suburban Mumbai. By her father who didn't want her to marry the man she did.
There are no two views on which way the 'hawa' is blowing. It's Akhilesh Yadav -- with or without his father. Akhilesh, with or without the Congress Party.
Throughout, Mekhail spoke calmly, with hardly an inflection making even the barest attempt to hijack his tone. His tone was so empty it made his narrative all the more touching. And ugly and grey, as the monsoon sky beyond the window.
And then came the chief moment of Friday. If the courtroom had a soundtrack, Beethoven's 9th would be playing, providing a triumphant, dramatic prologue to the production of this last clip. A woman reporter was asking Mekhail about Sanjeev Khanna. He says clearly, without mincing words, emphatically: 'Never seen him. First time I am hearing his name.'
One couldn't help feeling a certain melancholy viewing these now vagrant documents and photographs that would never be rightfully cherished. The pictures spoke to you. They offered slices of extinguished lives. They breathed sadness too, for what could have been and will never be. The sweet promises that Life made and insolently, arrogantly never kept.
