The Weekly Vine Edition 42: Red-faced Pakistan, Virat Ending, and K-Pop supremacy

Time of India

14-05-2025

Nirmalya Dutta's political and economic views vacillate from woke Leninist to Rand-Marxist to Keynesian-Friedmanite. He doesn't know what any of those terms mean.
In this edition, we take a look at Pakistan's embarrassing situation post-Operation Sindoor, assess Virat Kohli's Test career, discuss how K-pop stans dismantled Pakistani disinformation, examine the Trumpian week, and pay tribute to the number 42.
Meme Nation
There's a hilarious video on Instagram featuring the educator known as Khan Sir, whose five-minute video on the state of Pakistan's military woes is more astute commentary than anything you might read in The New Yorker about how Pakistani misadventures have left its sugar daddies like the US and China red-faced.
As the fog of war slowly lifts, it's become evident to the world that Pakistan is a meme masquerading as a nation—one which shoots itself in the foot and claims victory with the confidence of a well-lubricated uncle at a North Indian wedding. It's the OnlyFans of failed states – broadcasting its delusions of grandeur while asking the world's powers to crowdfund its misadventures.
Consider the way it celebrated a $1 billion IMF loan—an amount that Indian cab or delivery app start-ups raise in the first round.
Much like North Korea, in Pakistani textbooks they have won every war they have ever fought, which is why it's not particularly surprising to see Shahid Afridi going around for a victory lap claiming the Pakistani military was 'unbreakable'. The same military whose chief slinked off to a nuclear bunker.
In fact, in the last week, AFP actually had to take down a story because the Pakistani Armed Forces' handouts turned out to be fake, and the Defence Minister claimed social media memes were proof of Pakistan claiming victory.
In days of yore, no matter how bad the censorship, Pakistan had competent people to present their snake oil mendacities to the world, but now it feels like their entire communication is being handled by a 13-year-old Reddit conspiracy theorist.
From trying to pass off a known terrorist attending an army funeral to Pakistani ministers openly admitting on TV channels that they have danced with terrorists, Pakistan's PR post Operation Sindoor has been a masterclass in incompetence.
And to put the little cherry of imbecilic behaviour on the sundae of incompetence, Pakistan's former foreign minister actually walked out of a debate (citing power cuts) after getting owned by the Indian side—which included a guy who once asked if Yetis are real.
Virat Ending
There's a saying that no one can come back from exile—not even Napoleon. The same would be true about the algorithm glitches as Virat Kohli hung up his baggy blue cap. It wasn't meant to end like this.
Virat Kohli was supposed to get his day in the sunset before retiring from the whites, but in life you don't get perfect endings—even if you are the closest thing to emulate God on earth.
Kohli's impact on Indian Test cricket can be explained in three distinct categories:
First off, you have the batsman—a slim Viv Richards vibe every time he walked out onto the pitch to bat. At his peak, Virat Kohli on song was a divine experience. Between 2016 and 2018, Kohli averaged 66.59, notching up 14 centuries and conquering foreign lands unlike any Indian kingdom of yore barring the Cholas.
As a captain, he took Dhoni's Captain Cool mantra and turned it around on its head with fire and brimstone, winning 40 of his 68 Tests—including transforming India's polite medium-pace attacks of yore into a snarling cartel of fast-bowling assassins who actually began to terrify batsmen on their own soil.
Kohli wasn't just a leader; he was the protagonist.
As captain, he averaged 54.80 with the bat, compared to 37.40 without the armband. While most captains crumbled under the weight of decision-making, Kohli got ripped and started bench-pressing the pressure.
Twenty centuries as captain. The second-highest by anyone, anywhere. His Perth 2018 knock, where the ball bounced like a Super Mario mushroom, remains a masterclass in defiance. He didn't build partnerships. He built resistance movements.
And finally, as a fitness icon he completely discarded the idea of the rotund cricketer. Around 2012, Kohli had a 'what am I doing with my life' moment that involved junk food, average Yo-Yo scores, and probably an existential crisis involving butter chicken. Kohli purged his diet like he was Leonidas, adopted Olympic-level training, and made the Yo-Yo Test the gold standard of Indian cricket.
Kohli's dedication to his craft became the standard everywhere, with Indian cricketers becoming as fit as fiddles.
And yet, perhaps because he's Virat Kohli, there is a 'what if' factor involved about him. That the ICC gongs eluded a man of his talent for too long. That he became too woke and too much of a PR fiend, who bore little resemblance to the angry boy from West Delhi.
But what every cricket fan will realise, when Kohli is gone is that we were seeing a sui generis athlete, one that transcends the very sport he plays. Like Michael Jordan. Diego Maradona. Muhammad Ali. Or even Novak Djokovic.
The Trump Glitch
Friedrich Nietzsche once said that morality is a herd instinct, and it seems to be the nihilistic pathos that Donald Trump lives by. Last week, Donald Trump exhibited his tendency to celebrate prematurely—while announcing a ceasefire that wasn't, accepting a luxury aircraft from a nation that ostensibly foments all the trouble in the Middle East, and clinching two major deals with the UK and China.
He visited Saudi (where they wheeled out a mobile McDonald's for him) and lifted sanctions on Syria while meeting its new leader—who just happened to be a former ISIS–Al-Qaeda member (the IIT-IIM of terrorism).
The China deal saw tariffs slashed by 115%—which either breaks the rules of maths or the rules of trade—but opened doors for US exporters nonetheless. The UK deal was more traditional: agriculture, manufacturing, all the goodies that make Rust Belt voters cheer and Europe grumble. In true Trumpian fashion, both were hailed as historic, transformational, and 'the best ever.'
And then came the sideshow. Trump mocked Elon Musk for 'injecting Ozempic instead of testosterone,' promised Americans he'd slash the prices of life-saving drugs—'not just insulin, everything, folks, everything'—and hinted at a populist pharma overhaul.
Somewhere between pledging to break Big Pharma and calling Musk a chemically assisted tech gnome, Trump also took it upon himself to give Qatar an image makeover.
The $400 million Boeing 747 from Doha wasn't a gift, he claimed, but a 'gesture of friendship'—because nothing says friendship like accepting foreign aircraft while running a country. Never mind the Emoluments Clause, security concerns, or the faint odour of conflict of interest. In Trump's universe, facts are fluid, ethics are optional, and every scandal is just free advertising.
K-POP on Fire
A few years ago, when yours truly was at another organisation, said organisation had the temerity to do a story that angered BTS fans. What followed was the most remarkable troll attack in recent memory as K-Pop fans attacked the media organisation's emails, social media accounts, and website—in a way that would make one think the barbarian hordes were peaceniks. All internet fandoms can be vicious, but there's a wrathful K-Pop fan group that could make you wonder if the K stands for Kafkaesque.
What do you get when you mix K-Pop stans, meme generals, OSINT nerds, and BeerBiceps with a cause? You get Pakistan's worst digital nightmare. When Pakistan launched its latest cycle of keyboard jihad and cinematic disinformation following India's retaliatory strike, it probably didn't account for the true fifth column of Indian resistance: teenage girls with Jungkook profile pics and time on their hands.
These weren't your average concert-goers. These were algorithm assassins who've fought bigger wars—like streaming BTS to #1 while sabotaging Saudi troll farms and MAGA hashtags. Now weaponised with Tricolour filters and fact-checked fury, they rolled in like a cyber Mahabharat. Fan cams were fused with footage of BrahMos launches. Hashtags were hijacked and disinfected with the thoroughness of a Korean skincare routine. And somewhere between 'Namaste India' and 'Free Balochistan,' Pakistan's troll factories collapsed under the onslaught.
The Indian state didn't need to lift a finger. Every fake video, every photoshopped missile, every puffed-up ISPR clip got shredded by this bizarre and beautiful alliance: K-Pop ARMY, Indian hackers, cricket fanatics, travel influencers, and the great ungodly mess of Reddit-ised desi patriotism.
Also read: If K-Pop fans don't get ya, Beer Biceps will
The Number 42
Last week, much like the greatest superstar of Bollywood numbering his tweets, I miscalculated and thought it was Edition 42. Actually, this week is Edition 42.
The number 42 is particularly interesting—not just because it marks how many editions we've sent out into the void, but because it may very well be the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. Or so claimed Deep Thought, the supercomputer in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. The only problem?
But 42 has a habit of showing up in strange places. It's the number of chromosomes in a cat, the atomic number of molybdenum, and the angle at which sunlight hits water to create a rainbow. There are 42 laws in cricket (all of which R. Ashwin remembers).
In ancient Egyptian mythology, the soul was judged before 42 divine judges. In the Bible, 42 children are mauled by bears for mocking a prophet's bald head (a harsh lesson in respect, or just Old Testament drama?).
Mathematically, it's a pronic number (6 × 7), the sum of the first six positive even numbers, and the third primary pseudo-perfect number—whatever that means, but it sounds impressive.
In other words, if you're seeing 42 everywhere, you're either on the verge of an existential breakthrough or overdue for a nap.
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Views expressed above are the author's own.