Bombay is a city in which everything is on broad, public display. Nothing is hidden.

And at the moment of contact, they do not know if the hand that is reaching for theirs belongs to a Hindu or Muslim or Christian or Brahmin or untouchable or whether you were born in this city or arrived only this morning or whether you live in Malabar Hill or New York or Jogeshwari; whether you’re from Bombay or Mumbai or New York. All they know is that you’re trying to get to the city of gold, and that’s enough. Come on board, they say. We’ll adjust.

I'm a pucca Indian. Bombay is my home.

I asked Raghav, as we were looking over the wasteland, if the Muslims they burnt would beg for their lives. "Yes they would say, Have mercy on us. But we were filled with such hate; we had Radhabi Chawl on our minds. And even if there was one who said, Let him go, there would be ten others saying, No kill him. And so we had to kill him.

"But what if he was innocent?"

Raghav looked at me. "His biggest crime was that he was Muslim.

Allow yourself to be bored for few minutes each day. It will help you to unlock the hidden potential in you.

Her passion was never spent in public display.