KALEIDOSCOPE
2003. I was sitting inside my office of the New Sunday Express when a colleague walked in with a white polythene bag half the size of a pillow. The hall had a separate room for the Editor, which remained closed with lights always on even when he was out. "Hey, can I use this room for five minutes? I am going for a party tonight and I need to change," she asked. I didn't know what to say. I never heard anybody using the Editor’s room for any such ‘changes’ before. Apparently, she didn’t wait for my response. "See, I am using this room for five minutes, ok,?". She opened the door and then locked it from inside. I was alone in the department, and now a pretty girl inside the Editor’s room. Even though the Express office on Mount Road functioned in a very old building, it had a well-furnished washroom for ladies. Why didn’t she use it? I thought for a moment. Should I peep her through the ventilator? I knew if I wanted to do something, I must do it in five m