If you live in a building in Mumbai, there’s a chance it will collapse from shoddy construction or be knocked down by the government for being illegal. Dilip D’Souza on the perils of finding a safe roof in his home city.
In the Mumbai suburb of Santacruz on Wednesday April 3, 43 homes were destroyed. These were apparently illegal.
In the rather more distant Mumbai suburb of Mumbra on Thursday April 4, an entire residential building, seven floors tall, was destroyed. The building was apparently illegal.
Indian rescue workers look for survivors as excavators clear the debris at the site of a building collapse in Thane, on the outskirts of Mumbai on April 5. (Punit Paranjpe/AFP/Getty)
The parallels, such as they are, end there. The Wednesday destruction was performed by the government. These were 43 slum homes, supposedly built on Railways and Defence Ministry land. The Defence Ministry wanted the land, the Railways promised to return it, 43 families were suddenly homeless. They hardly get any sympathy, because their homes were “illegal.” (Plenty of us even refer to the people who live in such homes as illegal.)
The Thursday destruction was courtesy of that meaningless euphemism "an act of god." Not really, but bear with me. This was a building under construction. It collapsed, killing 75 people and leaving dozens injured. They get plenty of sympathy, deservedly so, but this apartment block they called home was illegal too.
Think of these two episodes as a microcosm of the state of housing in this great city.
When Dilip D’Souza took a group of kids on a school trip, many of them fell mysteriously and aggressively ill, but it seems it was all in their minds. He investigates this phenomenon—and compares it to examples in America.
At lunch, N is slumped on the table, her food untouched, her face slack, completely unresponsive. From across the room, I watch her friends, some of them also ill, unsuccessfully coaxing her to eat. After a while, I walk over.
File photo of Indian schoolchildren, August 2012 (Sajjad Hussain/AFP/Getty, file)
“She’s not eating,” one says. “She can’t even sit straight!” Sure enough, when I try to speak to her, her head lolls back and her body crumples against mine, to the point that if I step back she will fall off her stool. Nothing registers. This is N’s second episode like this in two days, and this time the resident doctor is seriously worried. Better take her to the emergency room, he advises.
I pick her up—13 years old, it’s like picking up a largish puppy—and carry her to a waiting car. We rattle along, about 15 miles to a large hospital. Pick-up-and-carry time again, then I have to fill a form at the counter. No more than a couple of minutes later, a stocky doctor emerges from the emergency room and crooks his finger at me.
“Tell me,” he begins. “Did someone force her to come on this trip?”
If a sometime bus driver turned rapist from the slums of Delhi dies in jail, does India rejoice? Dilip D’Souza on the nation’s lack of euphoria around the mysterious suicide.
Leave aside the death-penalty critics, possibly his family too. Is there anyone in India who is both aware of the ghastly gang rape in Delhi in December, and who didn’t want its main accused (yes, and each of his partners in rape) to pay with his life?
Delhi police personnel assemble in the neighborhood of the home of Ram Singh, who was found hanged in his cell in high-security Tihar prison in New Delhi, March 11, 2013. (Prakash Singh/AFP/Getty)
I’d say, no. “Try the guy, sure, but make sure he gets the death penalty; then hang him, preferably in public”: arguably, that was the sum total of the sentiment about Ram Singh since he was first arrested for that crime.
And now the man is indeed dead. He was found hanging in his jail cell early on Monday morning, apparently a suicide. Now this death is, after all, what plenty of us Indians wanted. So is there an outpouring of euphoria about his passing?
Not surprisingly, no.
But the questions, first. Because there are far too many to wish away.
A surrendered militant was executed in India last week, but serious doubts remain about his guilt. Dilip D’Souza on the outrageous judgment by the courts—and why it reflects how India has gone soft on terrorism.
My government decides to execute a man who was condemned to death some years ago. My government has a fuzzy impression that perhaps his family should be informed. So my government writes a letter to them—they live in a town in Kashmir—seals it and hands it to its own postal service to deliver.
Mohammed Afzal Guru, second right, is escorted to court in New Delhi, India, Dec. 17, 2002. He was hung in an Indian prison Saturday, Feb. 9, 2013 for a conviction in the 2001 attack on India's Parliament, which killed 14 people, including five attackers. (Aman Sharma/AP)
Wonder of wonders, it is delivered. Just over 48 hours after he is executed.
My newspaper carried comments, made the day the letter reached the family, from the Chief Postmaster General in Kashmir, one John Samuel, and they make eye-opening reading. The letter was dispatched from Delhi by "speed post"—in which you pay much more money for not much faster delivery times—and reached the main post office in Srinagar, capital of the state of Kashmir, the afternoon of February 9, which was already some hours after he was hanged that morning. Samuel is quoted: "The speed post for Srinagar is delivered that very day, but for other districts, it goes the next day. The next day was a Sunday and there was a curfew. But when we found out what the letter was, we made special arrangements to get it delivered"—right here, perhaps you think Samuel will say "the same day"?—"this [Monday] morning."
A callous and utterly botched effort, but even if just a sidelight to this execution, it fits the execution like a favorite glove.
Afzal Guru, as he was popularly known, was the surviving principal accused in the audacious attack on India's Parliament on December 13, 2001. But he wasn't part of the actual attack. That day, five men drove a car into the Parliament complex and started firing. All were killed in the ensuing gun battle, along with a gardener and eight security staffers. Afzal was arrested just two days later and charged with conspiring in the attack. He was tried, found guilty in 2005, and sentenced to die.
As India seethes with anger over the brutal raping of women, the country’s leading political family has delivered only weak platitudes. Dilip D’Souza on how the Gandhis have tarnished their legacy and political future.
Dec. 29, 2012: the day the Delhi gang-rape victim died, nearly two weeks after she was attacked. The same day, too, that Rahul Gandhi "broke his silence on the ghastly incident": "My heart goes out … We as a nation must reflect … deep-felt condolences … thoughts and prayers with the family."
Rahul Gandhi following the first day of the Parliament Monsoon, Aug. 8, 2012. (Sonu Mehta, Hindustan Times via Getty)
Nothing wrong with those words. But consider that those two weeks had seen a groundswell of public outrage building and eventually exploding on Delhi's streets, an upsurge that had echoes all over the country and would cascade into the New Year. There was frustration at the failure of police to make our streets safe for women, resentment of public attitudes that make such crimes conceivable, anger at the working of justice that makes punishment for rape a shamefully rare event, and much more.
Into this maelstrom of sorrow and rage stepped Rahul Gandhi. With two weeks to think about how to react, he had found a treasure trove of platitudes. Given a chance to meet his fellow citizens, to listen to and understand their fears, he spurned it for a prepared statement filled with high-sounding but meaningless sentiment.
When a nation feels, viscerally, the iron rod that was used to brutalize the woman, when we are nearly consumed with apoplexy at this horrific assault, what use are "reflection" and "prayers"?
If there's a surer sign of how detached Gandhi now is from his raison d’être, Indian politics, I don't know what it is.
A school shooting in America, a horrific rape on a New Delhi bus. Different incidents but both are deep problems that plague each country and seem unsolvable. Dilip D’Souza asks why.
In the US, it’s a horrific massacre with guns. In India, it’s a nightmarish rape and beating of a young couple in a bus. In my years in these two countries I’ve called home, no crimes cause as great a surge of outrage, followed by anguished introspection, as ones like these do.
Women participate in a candlelight vigil to show solidarity with a rape victim at India Gate in New Delhi December 21, 2012. (Adnan Abidi/Reuters, via Landov)
There’s outrage, but there’s no end to these atrocities. There may never be. In a two-week stretch last July, we saw an Indian assault on a woman and an American gun massacre. In a two-day stretch last week, we saw … an American gun massacre and an Indian assault on a woman.
Columbine, Virginia Tech, Aurora, and now Sandy Hook: each triggers a blizzard of hand-wringing over gun control and that unresolvable debate about whether guns kill people or people do. Columnists suffer conniptions trying to identify the failings in American society that drive men to these atrocities. Overseas, we non-Americans shake our heads in wonder: “Random, meaningless acts of mass killing are rare elsewhere in the world and yet so common in the Us”, writes Ranjona Bannerjee in a recent column.
Rare, newsworthy, and yet you can bet other events will soon crowd the fallout of Sandy Hook off the headlines—though only until the next outburst of inexplicable slaughter. And if such shootings are what Americans agonize over far too often, we Indians find regular hysteria after our women are attacked.
This has happened in Bangalore, Mumbai, Mangalore, Guwahati … and just days ago, it happened like this in New Delhi: Men in a bus offer a ride to a young couple. They then drive around the city, including through police security obstacles. Clearly unmindful of any possible repercussions, the men rape and beat the woman with an iron rod. Eventually they throw the couple, stripped and unconscious, on the side of the road not far from Delhi’s airport. They have so badly beaten her that her intestines—her intestines, no less—have had to be removed and she is struggling for life in hospital.
Every year on Dec. 6, India is divided between those who are ashamed and those who are proud of 1992 massacres that tore the country apart. Dilip D’Souza on the complicity of the recently deceased Bal Thackeray in this terrible day.
On Twitter on Dec. 6, some folks were trying hard to make the tag #ShauryaDiwas trend. “Day of Valor” is what that means in Hindi, and it is a reference to Dec. 6, 1992, when a vast crowd tore down a mosque in the northern Indian town of Ayodhya. I have no doubt that the tag did trend, because there are a whole lot of Indians who actually feel it was an act of bravery. They are proud that it happened. Proud at their redeemed “self-respect.” Proud of the destruction. Proud of that crowd.
Politician Bal Thackeray speaks to the press in 2007. (Rajanish Kakade / Hindustan Times via Getty Images)
Example: the late Shiv Sena leader Bal Thackeray told the press at the time, “If my [party activists] had brought down the mosque, then I could only be proud of them.” Example: various leaders of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), which had led the political movement around the mosque, were in Ayodhya that day, watching its destruction. Several, including a future chief minister of the state of Rajasthan, Vijayaraje Scindia, “were laughing in great delight.”
Such are the folks who think of this day as one of valor and pride.
Like with a lot of things, though, there are plenty of Indians who feel no pride at all about Dec. 6. Apart from the emptiness of the suggestion that Indian self-esteem is to be found on the rubble of a mosque, that one crazed act brought weeks and months of killing across the country. About 1,000 died in Mumbai, and tens of thousands more fled the city. Arguably, the destruction of the mosque set ghastly wheels turning that eventually brought on our heads the massacres in Gujarat in 2002, deadly bomb attacks in Delhi, Mumbai, Pune, and elsewhere over the last decade and more, and the horror of the November 2008 attacks.
A roll call of thousands of ordinary Indians—my fellow ordinary Indians—slaughtered is not quite what I want, or expect, from a day of Indian valor.
Hated and mocked in much of the world, the Nazi leader has developed a strange following among schoolchildren and readers of ‘Mein Kampf’ in India. Dilip D’Souza on how political leader Bal Thackeray helped inspire Indians to admire Hitler and despise Gandhi.
My wife teaches French to tenth-grade students at a private school here in Mumbai. During one recent class, she asked these mostly upper-middle-class kids to complete the sentence “J'admire …” with the name of the historical figure they most admired.
Adolf Hitler speaks in 1936. (AP Photo)
To say she was disturbed by the results would be to understate her reaction. Of 25 students in the class, 9 picked Adolf Hitler, making him easily the highest vote-getter in this particular exercise; a certain Mohandas Gandhi was the choice of precisely one student. Discussing the idea of courage with other students once, my wife was startled by the contempt they had for Gandhi. “He was a coward!” they said. And as far back as 2002, the Times of India reported a survey that found that 17 percent of students in elite Indian colleges “favored Adolf Hitler as the kind of leader India ought to have.”
In a place where Gandhi becomes a coward, perhaps Hitler becomes a hero.
Still, why Hitler? “He was a fantastic orator,” said the 10th-grade kids. “He loved his country; he was a great patriot. He gave back to Germany a sense of pride they had lost after the Treaty of Versailles,” they said.
"And what about the millions he murdered?” asked my wife. “Oh, yes, that was bad,” said the kids. “But you know what, some of them were traitors.”
As Bal Thackeray, founder of one of India’s most violent and aggressive political groups, lies on his death bed, Mumbai is silent in fear of what’s to come from the grief over his passing. Dilip D’Souza on how one man came to rule a great city—and why their agenda rings hollow.
In August 2001, a politician in Thane, the sprawling city northeast of Mumbai, died in the Singhania hospital there. His name was Anand Dighe. He must have been some kind of popular figure in Thane, because when the city got news of his death, a crowd of his supporters "spontaneously" expressed the "grief."
What form did this expression take?
Well, they looted and burned a garment store nearby. They siphoned out the fuel from several parked ambulances, then overturned them and set them on fire, along with 30 cars and three buses. They beat up several journalists, though two particularly intrepid ones escaped the thrashing by feigning death. (This is true.) As if all this wasn’t nauseating enough, they attacked the hospital and went after its nurses. No, it’s worse still. They went after its patients. One, suffering from renal failure, had been in the ICU bed next to Dighe. He had to rouse himself and run for his life through the hospital, hiding with the terrified nurses behind locked doors. “I had given up hope,” his son told the press later. “I thought I would lose my father.”
He survived, but what was lost instead was the hospital. Severely damaged by this outpouring of “grief,” it closed down for good some weeks later.
Imagine the city of Baltimore losing a major hospital because a politician died there.
Many of us Mumbai residents have Dighe on our minds today, Friday
What happened—or didn’t—when Dilip D’Souza went to take his driving test for a new license terrified him. He writes about India’s terrible road safety record—and why he fears for his life.
In crisp khakis, the cop stands at the head of a raggedy line of about 20 of us aspirants. Each one reaches him, he scribbles something on their form, he waves them on to one of two cars beyond him. The line moves quickly, so I'm standing beside him before I've had time to ponder exactly what he's doing, and then I get my answer.
He asks my name, checks it, and writes "passed" on my form, and that's it. I'm stepping past him, waiting for the car. "That one", says someone else, and I walk over to the open driver's door, conscious that the cop's paying me no mind. He's already focused on writing "passed" on the guy behind me’s form.
In the passenger seat, there's a man, buttoned-down shirt and furrowed brow. He hisses, "Don't touch that!" as I reach to move the seat belt so I can sit down. So I sit, and he hisses, "Don't touch that!" as I put my hands on the steering wheel. So I leave the wheel alone and he hisses, "Don't touch that!" as I reach for the gear shift. So I rest my hands in my lap and he hisses, "Don't touch those!" as my feet move, of their own volition, as any driver's feet would, move towards the pedals.
So I sit there doing exactly nothing, and the car, apparently of its own volition though he's really operating it from his seat with his own set of pedals, moves forward about 10 yards, then backward about 10 yards, and then he tells me, "OK, you can go. Your test is over."
Thus have I passed my driving test to get myself a new Maharashtra (the state of which Mumbai is the capital) driver's license. I swear I am not making this up.
Also, and for probably obvious reasons, this "test" puts accidents in my mind.
New accusations from rivals claim travel expenses that defy even simple math. Of all the murky dealings tied to the political heiress, why the fuss over numbers so illogical?
The astonishing thing is, there’s so much to hold the lady accountable for. What did she do to punish party colleagues who led mobs in massacring Sikhs after Indira Gandhi was assassinated? Will her party ever get over its obsession with her family—or is it just the name? Or are we forever to be blighted with dynasty? When do we get the truth about the Bofors gun scam of the 1980s, which named the then–prime minister, her husband?
Sonia Gandhi waves to supporters at a campaign rally Wednesday in Rajkot, India, ahead of the Gujarat state elections. (AP Photo)
There’s more, too, about Sonia Gandhi, chief of India’s Congress party. Yet come election time, her political opponents prefer to whack quite different horses. Like now, when the state of Gujarat is gearing up to vote in December. Its chief minister had Gandhi in his sights at an election rally the other day. Over three years, pronounced Narendra Modi, her trips to foreign lands for medical reasons cost taxpayers 18.8 billion rupees ($360 million at current exchange rates).
This stunning figure immediately got Modi’s fans atwitter. Something about Gandhi gets under these folks’ thin skins. Now here was a juicy cocktail: a vast sum of money, apparently public money; Gandhi goes abroad for treatment—and what’s that about anyway? India not good enough for Her Highness?
It was like throwing a pack of ravenous dogs a side of raw meat.
It was also another entry in the continuing effort to damn Gandhi for her “foreign origins,” in pursuit of which any foreign connection at all helps no end. When she ran for Parliament in 2004, her political opponents, Modi’s own Bharatiya Janata Party most of all, couldn’t stop talking about her birth in Italy. That she had since become an Indian citizen made no difference. If Italy and India went to war, they asked with straight faces, where would the lady’s loyalties lie? Prime Minister Vajpayee himself couldn’t resist the temptation. Many people, he said in his election stump speeches, were concerned about the national-security implications of Gandhi winning her seat and becoming prime minister herself.
In a damp courtroom in Mumbai, a cartoonist was brought up on charges of sedition simply for his naughty political images. Dilip D’Souza on India’s troubled penal code that can label free speech a crime—and send harmless cartoonists to jail.
On a drizzly Sunday morning, a police SUV raced up to the entrance to a “holiday court” in suburban Mumbai and disgorged a small flood of burly khaki-clad cops. Somewhere in their midst was a short, slight man—without his thick beard, he might have been a teenager—in a black kurta, jeans and (I found out later) distinctive pointed shoes.
Indian cartoonist Aseem Trivedi, who was arrested on sedition charges, speaks with the media after being released from Arthur Road Jail in Mumbai on Sept. 12, 2012. (Punit Paranjpe / AFP-Getty Images)
For a moment, his upraised arm was all we could see of him, long slender fingers flashing a “V”. They bundled him up the stairs and through a strangely wet lobby. A few of us followed in their wake, running a gantlet of cops trying to stop us for no reason they could reasonably explain. Chugging past the elevators, I nearly slipped in a puddle.
In courtroom 9 beyond the lobby, in a press of black-jacketed but unshaven lawyers, bailiffs, journalists, and activists and piles of moldy paper, the short man waited for his case to be called. Waited to hear what the police wanted the judge—stern-looking lady wearing a cloak—to grant them, and whether the judge would indeed grant it to them. Waited to hear what she would make, even at this early hearing, of the charge he faced: sedition.
The young reporter beside me had, to her own surprise, forgotten to bring her pad. She pulled out her phone and started taking notes on it, both thumbs working furiously. A cop leaned over my shoulder to stop her. She tried to explain that she wasn’t making a call, but it had no effect on him. “No cellphones!” he whispered sternly. Stuck on the wall behind the judge was a sheet of paper, slightly askew, with this word in neat black letters: “NORTH.” Intrigued, I looked around. To my left, “WEST.” Right, “EAST.” Turned and sure enough, behind me was “SOUTH.”
Thus reassured of my bearings, I heard a number called, much shuffling of feet, and then a lawyer began reading, in Marathi peppered with occasional English words, two close-printed pages. “This is an offense under Section 124A, we need to investigate it and find out if anyone helped this man and for that we need to have custody of him”: that was about the gist of it. The judge asked for some papers, studied them intently, made some notes and suddenly spoke. Too softly for us toward the back of the room to hear, and very briefly. But suddenly someone said in a stage whisper, “Police custody, one week!” More shuffling, another number was called and the cops began bundling the little man out.
Even as the death sentence of the Mumbai massacre's lone living perpetrator was affirmed last week, murderous politicians show how medieval justice in India remains. By Dilip D'Souza.
In Mumbai on Aug. 29, activists of the Shiv Sena party distributed sweets. Which is what you usually do when there's been a birth in the family, or a marriage, or some other good news. Elsewhere the same day, the head of their party, Uddhav Thackeray, demanded a public hanging. Not what you usually do when there's been a birth in the family or such like.
Dr. Maya Kodnani and Mohammed Ajmal Kasab. (AP Photo (2))
Turns out that both of these were reactions to the same bit of news: India's Supreme Court confirmed the death sentence a lower court gave Mohammed Ajmal Kasab.
Kasab is the only survivor of the gang of armed thugs who swarmed ashore and attacked Mumbai in November 2008, killing more than 160 people. He was captured and—despite loud calls to flay him alive, lynch him, tear him apart, and the like—given a lengthy trial. It ended where we all knew it had to: he was found guilty and sentenced to die. Routine, predictable stuff, really. But for me, the trial was a thing of pride, a reminder of a country's faith in justice and the rule of law. It marked us as different from terrorists who kill indiscriminately.
The reminder is a good thing, because that faith is too often tested. In November 1984, mobs roamed the streets of Delhi, intent on slaughter, many of them instigated and led by powerful politicians. In days, they had killed 3,000 Sikhs. Twenty-six years later, nobody has been punished for what I consider India's greatest crime—if it makes any perverse sense to choose. In late 1992 and early 1993, mobs killed about a thousand in Mumbai, the majority of them Muslim. Again, powerful politicians led the mobs, egged the murderers on. One was even caught by the Army at the height of the violence, roaming in a jeep crammed with gangsters and weapons, including an unlicensed gun. Again, 20 years on, nobody has been punished. Not only was the man the Army caught never punished, he even won election to Parliament afterward. (My MP, to my disgust.)
Justice? People like me believe it's like the Loch Ness monster: widely spoken about, but nobody has seen it for years. And if that's what justice has been reduced to, we worry for our country. We fear the anarchy that must inevitably lie ahead.
The anti-immigrants violence in the Indian state of Assam and the Sikh shooting in Wisconsin both come from the hate of the other. But why do immigrants themselves hate that which they are or were? Dilip D’Souza on the irony of immigration.
The Ku Klux Klan hates "illegal aliens." I knew that. But I realized it anew when I read a little about Wade Michael Page, the late gunman in Wisconsin who thought barging into a place of worship and shooting worshippers dead was a fine way to uphold the supremacy of whites. Page once applied for membership to the KKK, and that nugget led me to this KKK page which rants on and on about illegal aliens ("OUR FOREFATHERS FOUGHT THESE SAVAGES TOOTH AND NAIL" and "Look white people, Look whatthe [sic] drity [sic] wet backs can do to our Country").
Indian paramilitary soldiers patrol the streets in Bangalore, India, Saturday, Aug. 18, 2012. Hundreds of Indians from the northeast are leaving the southern city of Bangalore and other towns, spurred by rumors they would be attacked in retaliation for communal violence in their home state of Assam. (Aijaz Rahi / AP Photo)
Here in India, the term we usually use is "illegal immigrants," and right now they are on many Indian minds. That's because we've had an outbreak of bloodshed in the eastern state of Assam. Over seventy dead, hundreds of thousands driven from their homes into refugee camps, and plenty of folks believe the cause is, well, illegal immigrants. Illegal immigrants from Bangladesh. Meaning Muslims.
Meaning the idea that droves of illegal immigrants from Bangladesh, these Bengali-speaking Muslims, are transforming the demographics of Assam. This is not just a huge security risk to India, goes this line of thought, but a threat to culture, language, and jobs in Assam. This causes the tension that eventually erupted into widespread violence last month.
All the fault of the illegal immigrants. Look what they can do to our country.
In truth, blame is not quite so easy to hand out: the ugliness in Assam has intricate, complex roots. The ethnicities, politics, and history of that state are all far too involved for me to explain, even reasonably unravel, in an essay like this. Suffice it to say two things.
What was remarkable about India’s power collapse was how few people it affected. One large fraction has good fall-back options. Another large fraction never had electricity anyway.
While I was wandering about yesterday in Guwahati, in the northeastern state of Assam, a friend called. It was dusk. "There's no electricity," he said. I didn't need the reminder. It was a few hours into the power collapse across northern and eastern India and I was drenched in sweat.
A family eats dinner in the dark on Aug. 1, 2012 in Srinagar, India. (Dar Yasin / AP Photo)
My friend went on: "There's no point sitting inside somewhere, right, so why don't you join me for a walk?" We drove to a hill nearby. By the time we arrived, night had set in. We spent the next hour walking up and down the hill, a total of three times. It was a good workout, but the darkness was so complete that at one point, I nearly lost my footing and didn't know what I'd stepped in. Not that I wanted to know.
All through that panting hour, we could see a shimmering cornucopia of lights in the distance, like some fantastic Middle Earth castle. "Guwahati refinery," said my friend when I asked. "They have their own separate power supply." All right, I said, that seems reasonable. A refinery probably deserves uninterrupted power. But what about these lights in buildings and shops along the road that run at the base of the hill? How is it that they had electricity? I mean, if we hadn't known, it wouldn't have struck us that we were in the middle of a massive electricity shutdown: these lights were that numerous, that normal.
"Hmm," said my friend. "I guess they all have generators."
The media has explored several facets of the far-reaching collapse of India's power grids this week. The shortage in production of electricity; the amount of electricity that's lost to theft; the way that Power Minister Sushil Shinde moved up the ranks to become Home Minister after the blackouts; the blame game being played between Indian states about which one drew more power; the lamentable state of that catch-all phrase "Indian infrastructure"; the blow this supposedly deals to our country's aspirations to become a superpower: all of it has been and will be argued and discussed endlessly. (Please don't miss the lone tweeter who's trying valiantly to make #SackShinde trend.)
Dilip D'Souza, author of "Roadrunner: An Indian Quest in America" and "The Curious Case of Binayak Sen," is the winner of the Newsweek/Daily Beast Award for South Asia Commentary. He lives in Bombay with his wife, two children, and two cats. Follow his Twitter account @DeathEndsFun.
For decades, experts puzzled over hundreds of ancient dead bodies found at a remote lake. Were they victims of disease? Mass suicide? War? The answer is weirder than you think.
The perfect gift for any crime and mystery lover this season is a new omnibus edition of Dashiell Hammett’s work. Allen Barra on the enduring greatness of his work, even when there are no crimes.