As I hear with sadness about more and more of our youth getting addicted to drugs and alcohol, I remember the story of two fish moving along the water together and who come across what looks like a huge cave. “Let’s go in and explore,” says the smaller of the two fish gleefully. “It could be dangerous!” warns the second. “I’m going,” says the first little fish and swims right into the shark’s mouth, which clamps shut as soon as the little fish is in.

With the internet reigning supreme and the media slowly moving into petrified silence, leaders the world over, find that telling a lie convincingly, makes it believable. “People don’t know what to believe anymore!” said a teacher who worked in a newly begun school for liars, “So we teach leaders to lie so convincingly, it becomes the truth! First the uttered lie is washed thoroughly of any extra trappings, like filthy words or tone, then we add spoonful’s of convincing rhetoric, a touch of genuine voice, gentle hand gestures, and voila, this mixture brings immediate belief!”

Amidst the azure waters of the Bay of Bengal lies the captivating allure of the Andaman & Nicobar Islands - a tropical paradise for travellers seeking solace in its pristine beaches and diverse marine life.

However, the COVID-19 pandemic cast a shadow over this idyllic destination, plunging its vibrant tourism industry into turmoil. As the islands strive to emerge from the depths of the crisis, the journey towards revival presents both challenges and opportunities that demand concerted efforts and support.

As I hear about a guru, who mesmerized the youth with his clever words, and now lies in hospital, and as I remember scenes of the billionaire wedding, I’m reminded about the story of a king with four wives.

He loved the fourth wife the most and adorned her with rich robes and treated her to the finest of delicacies. He gave her nothing but the best. He also loved the third wife very much and was always showing her off to neighbouring kingdoms. However, he feared that one day she would leave him for another.

She stood shaking hands with the mourners who had come for her husband’s funeral at the Parsi Tower of Silence.  I stood in line and watched as she solemnly held each person’s hand, tears glistening in her eyes. When I came to her, she lifted her eyes and looked at me, “Bob,” she sighed, “There was not a day he didn’t read your column! Sometimes if the newspaper man came late, he would walk down the road in his pajamas and shout to me that he couldn’t have breakfast before reading Bob!”