A few months into my first job as reporter in The Times of India, Bangalore, in the 1990s, Gauri joined the desk, on transfer from the Delhi office. “Hello, mari..” (that's Kannada for pet, or little one) she said, and gold-flecked brown eyes twinkled with the promise of much mischief, great humor and the thrill of a million little rebellions. Gauri wasted no time in taking charge, and now I had two shoulders to cry on, which I did a lot of in those days, for the same reasons that most 23-year-olds need a shoulder to cry on that is…
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