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Has Indian Journalism Lost Its Spine?

In the mid-80s at The Indian Post, (like in every newspaper across the country then) a story went through two layers of editing by no-nonsense mafiosi of the desk. No reporter dared file a piece without confirming at least two sources. Emotion had to be earned, not performed. Today, a well-timed sigh on camera often gets more reach than a day’s fieldwork. Once upon a time, calling someone a “storyteller” in a newsroom was a compliment. It meant they could write with grace, clarity, and flair. I remember our chain-smoking Pakistani news desk editor at The Khaleej Times, Dubai, telling me, “Don’t just inform, make the reader feel something.” But that feeling had to rest on a foundation of rigour. Today, in many Indian media circles, “storyteller” feels like code for someone who can spin drama over detail. In the chase for ratings, retweets, and relevance, journalism has taken on a theatrical air. Reporters sound like narrators. Headlines resemble movie trailers. Emotions routinely overp...
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Before the Byline and Dubai and the world

Before I became a journalist at 21 and joining The Free Press Journal in 1979 I dreamt of becoming a chef. The hospitality industry had my heart. I loved food. Still do.Back then, in the very-little-or-no-money days (Wilson College in the morning, Zenith Tin Works for the 8-hour shift beginning 3pm) joy came wrapped in newspaper or served on grimy plates and pieces of old mewspaper; kheema-pav at Dadar Lucky's just across from our building. Wadapav near Kirti College, Crisp dosas at Visava, and burji-pav outside Dadar railway station: greasy, spicy and perfect. Food was both nourishment and occasion. You didn’t need an event; eating was the event.Dadar in those years was a living, breathing, hungry part of Bombay. People rushed to trains with a wadapav in hand, argued cricket over chai at tapris and built lives out of chawls and borrowed dreams. I was one of them. A young man with a tall frame, gangly limbs, and a stomach that seemed to growl on cue.Then came a little twist of fate...
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What the 2025 IPL Taught Us About Brand Building in the Age of Public Everything

The Day RCB Finally Won – What the 2025 IPL Taught Us About Brand Building in the Age of Public Everything By David D’Souza Last night in Ahmedabad, Royal Challengers Bengaluru finally did it. After 17 seasons of heartbreak, memes, and shattered fan hopes, RCB lifted the IPL 2025 trophy — beating a resolute Punjab Super Kings in a final that had more emotion than all 70 matches leading up to it. Virat Kohli didn’t punch the air or leap into a huddle. He just knelt. Right there in the middle of the pitch. Bent his head low. Stayed still. And let it all wash over him. His eyes were moist. His face was folded in silence. He didn’t need to speak. A few moments later, the team rushed in. They didn’t leap onto him. They bent down next to him. Teammates, some younger by a decade, leaned in and placed their hands gently on his shoulder. There was no screaming. No selfies. Just reverence. And then, the most intimate image of all. Anushka Sharma, who had watched every ball from the stands, cam...
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The wadapav never left!

Brands have come and gone. Logos have evolved, campaigns have shifted from jingles to reels, but it has stood its ground: unchanged, unbranded, yet unforgettable.The humble wadapav.In a city constantly in motion, where identities blur and aspirations outpace memory, it never needed a rebrand, didn’t chase a market share or pay an influencer to go viral. It’s not just a snack. It’s a pocket-sized reminder of who we are. A slab of Mumbai in your palm. A steaming, golden batata vada, smashed between pav, kissed with fiery dry garlic chutney, and if the stars align—served with a green chilli that threatens to burn away your sins. You don’t eat it. You savour it. With your eyes half closed. With your soul. The drool at the corner of your mouth the telltale sign of orgasmic delight. It’s as tough and filling as a rush along Ranade Road in peak hours. A true Marathi welcome for the rich and poor, across faiths, languages, and geography. No entry barriers. No cutlery. No fuss. Just a knowing n...
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Kheema Pav: Grease, Spice and Everything Nice

Call it what you want: a dish, a memory, a rebellion. But know this: Kheema pav is not just Mumbai’s. It IS Mumbai. Spiced like its people. Messy like its streets.Strangely comforting, even when it doesn’t try to be. In that strange comfort lies the soul of the city. And of this Dadarwala storyteller.If wadapav is the humble worker who shows up at 5:00 am, Kheema pav is his errant cousin who swaggers in at 11:00 am, wearing yesterday’s cologne and still tasting like spicy mischief.You can argue its origins. Some trace it to Mughal bawarchis, others to Telangana cafés. But make no mistake: Kheema pav is a Mumbai original. It didn’t come here. It was born here. It grew up on street corners and on chipped marble-topped Irani cafés where time stands still.The dish is deceptively simple: minced mutton slow-cooked with onions, garlic, ginger, fresh coriander, tomatoes, sometimes frozen green peas, and a spice mix that doesn’t believe in restraint. Somewhere inside, your spoon will stumble up...
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Run free now, Buddy.

Today, our dear Buddy flew back to wherever he came from: someplace beyond pain, beyond time, and filled, we hope, with open fields and warm sunshine.He wasn’t ours on paper. He belonged to our dear friends the Kumars from our old neighborhood. Every morning or evening, we’d hear the scratch at our door going or coming from his walks, followed by a deep, insistent woof, his signature arrival call. Alka would open the door and in he’d stride, rubbing against her legs like he’d come home after a long day of work. His path was familiar: straight to the kitchen where a treat always awaited him.On Margashirsha Thursdays he’d do the same arrival routine but with a little more urgency. He'd lower his head slightly near the small puja shrine in the kitchen, as if asking forgiveness for the act that was about to follow. Then, with all the grace of an entitled deity, he’d gently eat the banana prasad, slurp up the milk, and walk back to the hall where he’d sit contentedly beside Alka.He was,...
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Five-day matches felt like relics....until Old Trafford happened

I thought I was done with Test cricket. Years of reporting and watching one-dayers and T20s had conditioned me for quick results and instant drama. Five-day matches felt like relics....until Old Trafford happened.After decades, I sat through every live telecast session of the fourth Test. What unfolded wasn’t just a game; it was a reminder of why Test cricket still matters. On the scorecard, it’s a draw. In spirit, it was India’s victory.It didn’t start that way. India were two wickets gone without a single run on the board. The match felt ready to slide into an England win. Instead, it became the moment India dug in. Much criticised captain Shubman Gill, Ravindra Jadeja and Washington Sundar scored centuries that were less about numbers and more about defiance. KL Rahul’s gritty 90 only deepened England’s frustration. Ball after ball, over after over, India pulled the match away from the brink and turned it into a contest England couldn’t control.Ben Stokes tried. When the result beca...
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