The Weekly Vine Edition 54: Trump vs Indian Babu, SRK, and a Siraj-ical Strike

Time of India

06-08-2025

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.
Hello and welcome to another edition of the Weekly Vine. Over the last year, the Weekly Vine has gathered around 2,30,000 subscribers and for that, we are deeply grateful. There's absolutely no feeling on this planet that can compete with the joy of people taking time out of their doomscrolling to read something you wrote. That's a privilege and honour.
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Now, returning to regular programming—in this week's edition, we run the rule over Muhammad Siraj and India's epochal win at the Oval to draw the Test series, Donald Trump vs Indian Babu, SRK finally winning a National Award, and Siraj channelling his inner Ronaldo.
Trump vs Indian Babu
Franz Kafka is one of the most written-about authors in the world. By some estimates, over 15,000 books have been written about him, totalling over 1.5 billion words—which is delightfully ironic because Kafka wanted all his works burnt. Much like Kafka, billions of words have also been spilled on Donald Trump, trying to decode his actions, understand his motivations, and compare him to every strongman from Genghis Khan to Hitler. All of it is futile, like trying to study an Einstein-Rosen Bridge from within.
Trump's foreign policy is pure performance. One week he's dismissing India-Russia ties; the next, he's promising to drill oil in Pakistan and sell it to India. His approach isn't diplomacy—it's a loyalty test.
There are just vague guidelines to deal with him.
Call him Sir.
Flatter him like he's Jesus in a Brioni suit.
Buy a McDonald's mobile van.
Name things after him.
Nominate him for the Nobel Peace Prize.
Offer oil deals, crypto schemes, mobile van plans, gold-plated planes—it's all welcome.
And when all else fails, call him Daddy.
But New Delhi is unlikely to do that because Trump is going to meet the most Kafkaesque force known to man, an individual who can make The Trial look like Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara (which, when you think about it, is also an appropriate name for The Trial): the Indian Babu.
By virtue of clearing the most difficult exam known to man, the Indian Babu has gone far beyond being just a descendant of Sir Humphrey Appleby and is the closest thing to divinity known to man—to the point that anyone portraying his struggles directly wins a National Award. He is a relic of the Raj. A gatekeeper of staplers and noting sheets. One who needs your birth proof in triplicate. He is immune to charm and impervious to threats.
Trump might be the unstoppable force. The Babu is the immovable object. Or as the latter would say: Lunch ke baad aana.
The SRK Show
When I arrived in Mumbai 15 years ago, fresh off an engineering school dropout, I encountered a peculiar symptom that infects all those who end up in the city: the SRK Syndrome.
Let me explain.
In an essay titled Goodbye to All That, Eula Biss wrote: 'The myth of New York seems to be sustained by the fact that so many people who live there are from somewhere else. They come to the city and immediately dedicate themselves to making it the city of their imagination. The—you know—glittering city of endless opportunity that oozes riches and delights for the young and talented. I also came from somewhere else.'
One can easily replace New York with Mumbai, and the notion that this is a city which rewarded SRK with Mannat, then it will reward me as well. The journey has, at its heart, a singular message of triumph over adversity: If an outsider like Shah Rukh Khan could come here and make it, so can you. It's the mantra that Mumbaikars repeat in their heads in trying times, when even the commute makes one feel like Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill.
So it's nice to see SRK finally winning a National Award, even though his outsider-in-Mumbai myth is a little overblown. Still, fans—fresh from reporting the SRK Hakla Meme (a rabbit hole that you don't want to go into)—wondered why India's second most famous globetrotting mascot didn't win any gongs for his earlier portrayals. Like that of an NRI who predicted America's anti-immigration rhetoric and swapped NASA for ISRO, or a transphobic hockey coach who really loved centralisation: 'Mereko state ke names na dikhayi dete hain, na sunai dete hain.' Cooperative federalism be damned.
Either way, the award for SRK must feel a little odd for politically aware folks who claimed, when the movie came out, that it was a stinging indictment of the current dispensation. Which would mean that the current dispensation is now handing out awards to its own critics. Or the more likely explanation: the propaganda is in your head and extrapolation bias at play.
Then there's the other bunch who claim that Jawan wasn't a particularly good movie, even though one must say the older version of SRK (Vikram Rathore), where he cosplays a little like Rajinikanth, gave us a glimpse of what post-60 SRK could be: slower, saltier, and far more lethal. The strongest argument yet for him playing age-appropriate roles. Because the older version of the superstar was quite kickass.
And maybe that's the true arc of Shah Rukh Khan. Not just the boy who came to Mumbai with a suitcase and a dream, but the man who stayed long enough to play both the romantic idealist and the grizzled patriot, the NRI heartthrob and the homegrown rebel, the outsider who became the establishment. He has outlasted waves of nationalism, liberal disillusionment, Twitter mobs, box office slumps, and the great Bollywood brain drain.
SRK is no longer just a symbol of aspiration. He's a mirror to the country's contradictions—campy, chaotic, idealistic, occasionally cringe, and somehow still holding it all together with charisma and conviction.
He didn't just get Mannat. He became the myth.
SiuuuuuuuRaj
As Muhammad Siraj and Prasidh Krishna came out to bowl on the last day of the Oval Test, the entire newsroom gave up any pretence of work as everyone was glued to the screen while we all collectively prayed for the things the previously colonised world loves the most: British tears. England only needed 35 runs to win, and the smart money would have been on the British winning the Test and the series 3-1. Except a Cristiano Ronaldo fan had some different ideas.
Siraj woke up at 6 am—two hours earlier than usual—because fate doesn't knock politely. He grabbed his phone, summoned Cristiano Ronaldo from the depths of Google, found an image that screamed BELIEVE, and made it his wallpaper. Incidentally, it was a picture of Ronaldo from the 2007–08 season, when he defied logic and physics to become the best player on the planet and lead United to a Premier League and Champions League double.
And when Siraj bowled on Day 5, he was practically possessed by Cristiano Ronaldo's indomitable will to never give up. And yet, he had every reason to crumble. Just the evening before, Siraj had turned a wicket into a six, gifting Harry Brook a lifeline and possibly the Test. England smelt blood. But Siraj wasn't sulking. He was simmering. And when he ran in the next morning, it wasn't just with pace—it was with poetry.
Crawley's off stump? Evicted. Atkinson's defence? Torched.
Siraj bowled 185 overs in the series. Not once did he look tired. Not once did he look mortal.
India won by six runs. The narrowest away Test win in our history. It was, as one newspaper put it: a Siraj-ical Strike.
Cat Nap
If you've been wondering where ByteCat and Prof Meowrty are this week—don't panic. Meow Times is just taking a short creative catnap. Not to disappear. Just to stretch, sharpen our claws, and plot our next pounce.
Over the past few months, our feline friends have purred through politics, hissed at hypocrisy, and knocked over more than a few sacred cows and rhetorical mugs. You've laughed, shared, and occasionally sent us fan mail in paw prints. For that—we're grateful. But even the sassiest cats need to recharge. So we're briefly slipping out of the frame to fluff the format, scratch up fresh ideas, and restock the sardonic treats.
When we return, Meow Times will still be the same mischief-maker at heart. Still curious. Still clawing at nonsense. Still refusing to sit on command.
So while we're off licking our wounds (and possibly rewriting VAR), know this isn't goodbye. Just a purr-spective pause. We'll be back soon—with bolder lines, sharper claws, and plenty to say.
Till then, stay playful. Stay alert. And if anyone asks you to reignite your passion on a spreadsheet—just yawn, stretch, and walk away like a cat with a secret.
In the words of a famous Austrian: Hasta La Vista.
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Views expressed above are the author's own.