1984. I was in Kolkata on a business trip. I was watching life go by through the large bay windows at our office, sipping hot chai, when I noticed a flurry of activity. Shops pulled their shutters down rapidly, swarms of buses pulled across to block streets and white cars with flags wove dangerously through a melee of people scurrying away. I soon learnt why. Indira Gandhi had been shot. We closed business and wound our way back home. I innocently agreed to walk a frightened sardarji to a safe house couple of miles away. Having safely deposited him in his gurudwara, I ducked, hid and ran the eleven miles back to the guest house I was staying in as I watched, without comprehension, mobs with hate-filled eyes go after people that till then were woven into the fabric of the city. That day, I saw hate and anger like never before, and read more about it the next day. A small part of me died that day. Many years later, I was visiting my city, Mumbai for an extended stay. Singapore had bec