A kaleidoscope of men, matters & moments that make the madness & magic of Mumbai
Fakebook
Email hacking and Facebook hacking is not a new concept with many people having fallen victim to it. But it isn’t easy to imagine a former Chief Minister of Maharashtra having his Facebook account hacked.
But that’s exactly what happened to a former chief minister of the state. The ex-CM has a Facebook account and claims that, since he is not very techno-savvy, he operates the account highly irregularly. And yet, his friends and followers seemed to receive replies from him on a regular basis.
There was one instance when, while returning from Delhi, he met a former MLA from the Congress party from Mumbai. While conversing, the ex-MLA told the ex-CM that he has been in constant touch with him via Facebook. This information surprised the ex-CM as he was not an active member on Facebook. He added that he rarely even visits his own Facebook page.
The ex-MLA then said that he would show the ex-CM evidence of their live chatting and they sat at a lobby at Delhi airport. The ex-MLA opened his laptop and visited his Facebook page and started a chat conversation with the ex-CM, who, in fact, was sitting next to him. And both were shocked when they received a reply from the ex-CM’s Facebook page.
The ex-CM then called the police and lodged a complaint, and the police traced the impersonating person, who turned out to be an engineering student from Jalgaon. The police arrested him and informed the ex-CM, but the ex-CM said he did not want to file an FIR against him as that would ruin his career. Instead, he asked for the student to be released after a warning, following which, the police set the student free.
It was revealed in police investigations that the student had created a false Facebook account and was chatting with the ex-CM’s friends while impersonating him. But after this warning from the police, he will hopefully mend his ways.
The shadow line
I remember being told by my grandmother, when I was younger, that one should never look at one’s own shadow. Those words suddenly came back to me one night as I was walking back from office under the yellow light that lent a golden glow all around, making my shadow look as if it had a golden aura to it.
I remember asking the almighty to forgive me when I, by mistake, stole glances at my shadow while growing up (just as I did when I accidentally looked at the moon on Ganesh Chaturthi).
Then came a stage when I began to question things rather than following them mutely and blindly. Call it rebellion or plain inquisitiveness, but I looked at my shadow longer and admired how it altered itself according to different times of the day. I never got satisfying answers. But during that phase, I appreciated how it was always there with me like a family member, until the electricity went off. Poof! So disappointed was I. But that’s when something else dawned on me. Maybe grandma was right. Maybe she was trying to tell me that I shouldn’t look at my own shadow and walk thinking I am not alone because one’s true glory lies in accepting that one is ‘alone’ and yet ‘complete’.
Maybe she said that to make me understand that it’s good to be out there in the open, rather than being shrouded by your appearance (shadow) which keeps changing.
The one thing that would always remain with you is, well, you yourself!
To drink or not to drink
This correspondent, after finishing work, was on her way to Pune and reached Dadar at 10:15 pm, which was just in time for the 10:30-pm Shiveneri bus to Pune. Her colleague was also accompanying her to Pune and, after buying tickets, they got into the bus. Once inside, they got a third seat in the right row.
The correspondent noticed that there were hardly any female passengers in the bus. However, she put this thought in the back of her mind and started to chat with her colleague. But if the empty bus with the no other female at that hour was not enough, another discomfiting incident took place.
This correspondent was extremely thirsty and gulped the 200 ml of water offered in the bus and asked her friend for more water, without realising that two boys had just entered the bus and overheard the conversation. And out of the blue, one of those two boys turned around and offered his bottle of water to this correspondent, with the weirdest of smiles and saying, “Take this, you can have my bottle of water.”
The correspondent was surprised and a little alarmed about the seemingly courteous behaviour of the guy. So she politely refused the water and kept wondering if it was a genuine gesture or whether it had some hidden agenda. Some incidents in our country have left each one of us so badly shaken to our roots that it’s difficult to shun the possibility of dubious intentions even in acts of apparent politeness.
Bigger than ‘Bhai’
When this reporter was reporting on the Salman Khan hit-and-run case, she was at the court on the afternoon of the final verdict in May. The room next to the court room where Salman Khan’s case was being heard was the TADA court. A well-built man dressed in shabby clothes was impatiently patrolling the corridor and at least two policemen were following him at all times, with a gun and handcuffs at hand. When this reporter asked a policeman who this man was, she was told that he is a 1993 blast accused.
From among the crowd gathered outside Salman Khan’s court room, eager to hear the final verdict on their revered actor, a woman approached this 1993 blast accused and innocently asked him, “Are you Salman’s driver?” She must have thought so because of the evident police attention this man was getting.
The man then said a little indignantly, “Madam, Salman Khan can be my driver, I cannot be his. Do you understand?!”
Tail piece After tweeting in defence of Yakub Memon, saying his elder brother Tiger Memon should be hanged instead, Salman Khan apologises and says, “My driver was operating my twitter handle.”
Contributed by Pandurang Mhaske, Divya Nambiar, Iram Siddique and Eeshanpriya MS Compiled by Manasi Tahalani Compiled by Iram Siddique.
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Neck and neck
An 8-year-old girl had been strangulated and murdered in her house by her neighbour when she was home alone. The house was a shanty in a chawl near Chembur station. After getting the police’s version, it was time to get the family’s version about the incident. It was around 7 pm when this reporter reached the slum, which was right along the highway’s edge.
A few people milled about at the footpath, discussing the events of the past two days. Among them was the murdered child’s father. This reporter approached him and spoke to him and a few of the neighbours. It was then time to speak to the mother, as she was the one who found the child’s body. The grief-stricken woman slowly came out of the one-room shanty, a couple of women helping her walk. Her voice hoarse with crying continuously, she started narrating her story. The neighbours, who were naturally charged up due to the incident, were more than eager to chip in and add the finer details to the story. There were myriad expressions and emotions that this reporter witnessed among the people — anger, sadness, restlessness, concern, exasperation, frustration, despair, cluelessness, etc. The crowd looked like it could easily become a mob at the slightest provocation.
At one point, the mother was explaining the marks on her daughter’s neck. By this time she had opened up considerably and was talking in an agitated manner. While explaining how the murderer must have held her daughter’s neck, the mother extended her hands and held this reporter’s neck. She continued describing and enacting the strangulation, and as her fingers lightly pressed the flesh on the neck, this reporter, for those few seconds, could totally see herself in the victim’s place and feel the terror of losing one’s life in cold blood. At that time, silly and needless though it may be, the instinct of self-preservation and survival was at its peak in this reporter’s mind.
It was only after the woman’s hand came down that this reporter could finally heave a sigh of relief and feel secure once again.
— Sindhu J Mansukhani
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