Damn! I don't have a single pink chaddi and now I will miss out this great deal- a saree for your chaddi , or some such thing. I mean, how often do we women get such offers? That young girl in Ahmedabad, remember the one who ran on the city streets in her chaddi and bra protesting against her abusive in-laws? Nobody came forward with a saree for her though everyone ogled and was appropriately shocked.

May be, she chose the wrong colour. Her  chaddi was black and not pink.  I don't think the Ram Sene will  barter sarees for black coloured  undies- sexy  but still too masculine for our saffron brigade. Kinda clashing colours- black and saffron.  Pink- pretty and yielding- that's what the Sene is willing to put its money on. You see, women in black may not take kindly to being punched around on the city streets.
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A new shirtless wonder is born and women are going wild. The poor things had barely finished ogling at the six-pack body of Shah Rukh Khan, when a bigger, better Khan zoomed in.

Eight packs, solid as it gets, and the wares on display like never before- Aamir Khan and his torso are the flavour of the month, the dish on the menu of every kitty party and the ultimate female fantasy.

Or so I am told…The flesh trade, oops! I mean, the film trade assesses that the business netted in by Ghazini is somewhere in the region of Rs 60 crore in the first week itself. Now that’s what’s called putting your money where your eyes are.. As for brains- goli maaro bheje mein! Faltu mein shor karta hai…
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I invariably calculate the length of my association with Mid-Day as a journalist by my son's age. He turns 16 next week. I spent 16 years working for an organisation owned by Muslims. Every Independence Day was a celebration in our offices with balloons and flags decorating each nook and corner. Diwali got feted with more fervour than Id, and each time we set up a new office, the age-old Hindu ritual of offering prayers to the machines was followed.

I remember the night when Khalid Ansari lay all curled up in the back seat of a jeep on way to Kargil, shivering in the bitter cold of Drass. He covered the war with me and photographer Suresh K K in tow, sending his daily dispatches from the bombed out Kargil Hotel.
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Delhi is mad with anger.
It’s neither fear nor grief but seething anger which grips the city after terrorists threw a bomb in a flower market and killed two persons -- one of them an innocent nine-year-old boy.
None is a coward here and nobody is afraid. This is not our first tryst with terror. The tech-savvy extremists of today are no more lethal than the turbaned youths of yesteryears who thought bombs could get them a separate state of Khalistan.
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Dead men’s price

Rs 8 lakh for each of the dead and Rs 50,000 for the injured. This is the price politicians have placed on the lives and limbs of those poor sods who died or were grievously hurt in Saturday’s bomb blasts in Delhi.

It’s a lot of money- Rs 8 lakh is. Perhaps enough to compensate that woman whose husband will never come home again. An orphaned kid surely won’t miss his dad with this kind of cash to play around with? Rs 8 lakh is also guaranteed to dry the tears of the mother we found sprawled in the street after the blasts, grieving bitterly over her dead son. Rs 8 lakh… Wow!
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