knights in white satin

one summer evening in 2001, at a cool, calm apartment in napean sea road, i met a man called daniel pearl. it was a surprise birthday party for tanvi, and danny and his wife marianne were guests, as were assorted frenchmen, a few nris, my friend lou, and tanvi's then boyfriend julian, whom she eventually married.

while i sipped vodka and lou struggled with wine, i asked danny what he did for a living. "i represent the wall street journal in mumbai," he said, and smiled a beautiful smile. i remember him as a fairly tall man, very attractive, a man most women would have no problems striking up a conversation with. "i live near theen buteeee," he went on, smiling while lou laughed and i tried to get him to pronounce 'teen batti' correctly.

marianne was as interesting. curly-haired, colourful, outspoken, easy-going. i could see why they were a couple. we spoke of other things, like music. danny could, he said, play fiddle, electric violin, and mandolin. i didn't know what electric violin was, so he enlightened me. around us, the indians, frenchmen, and tanvi chatted, white wine-and-vodka-laden.

the next morning, i told ashok about this man from the wall street journal, and suggested we do a story on how the internet was making it possible for him to do what he did so many miles from home. ashok agreed. the story idea was finalised. december arrived.

one summer evening in early 2002, reports mentioning the abduction of a certain daniel pearl in karachi began to sprout. lou called later that day. "is it him?" she asked. "yes," i said. and she hung up, upset. it was in mumbai, apparently, that daniel had begun working on his story about terrorism, tracing the steps of a 'shoe bomber' called richard reid.

months later, a video appeared online, depicting the last minutes of daniel pearl, throat being sliced open. available for download. free.

i haven't seen that video. i never will. what i keep in mind is a smiling, attractive man who told me what an electric violin was. what i keep in my wallet is a faded visiting card. a reminder of how some nice guys never have a chance.

r. i. p. danny (1963-2002)