As I watch the Bengal elections, I imagine a foreigner friend asking me, “How can a candidate win an election without a debate?”

To show him we could also have what the west had, I decided to organize one.

We picked a moderator.

 “Your speech will make the difference!” said the moderator with a smile to the two candidates.

 ‘Rebellion!” is the name of the Netflix serial I am watching. Based on incidents just after the First World War when Irish soldiers were used to fight against the Germans, and asked themselves, “Whose war is this? Ours or that of the British?” And then an even bigger question, “Whose freedom are we fighting for? Ours, or that of those who have taken ours away?”

Well, I guess that must have been a question our own soldiers asked as they fought in both the world wars, alongside their British masters, even as we fought for our own freedom. Our leaders like the Irish were jailed, and many were injured. As I watched the movie, and later as I saw the interview Oprah Winfrey had with Megan and Prince Harry, I realized how racist the British were and still are and how important the freedom movement was to us Indians, to be treated as first class citizens of the world!

Missy was ready for marriage, and suddenly each man she met became a potential husband. And then one day she saw him; he was a flawless hunk, huge and muscular, handsome and confident as he looked around. she stared, fascinated at his, bulging muscles and taut abdomen.  

"How strong he is!" she thought happily.

Mala giggled to herself as she picked up the phone and dialed Sandra’s number. “So,” she giggled, “what happened? You said your aunt was dying. I even gave you a bottle of blood to pull your aunt through, now why the silence?”

 “We didn’t use your blood Mala?”

 “Oh you didn’t, didn’t you? Thought your best friend would taint your family’s blue bloodedness did you?” giggled Mala. “So why didn’t you use the blood?”

A few months ago I watched the movie, ‘The Least of These,’ I’m not going to talk about the movie here, but what it brought back to me, was my meeting with Gladys Staines, just after the gruesome murder of her husband and her two little sons. Even as she spoke to me, a vein on her forehead throbbed and I wondered whether any mother could live with the scene of two little ones, Philip aged ten and Timothy aged six, and her beloved Graham roasted alive?