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Time of India
4 days ago
- Business
- Time of India
The Weekly Vine Edition 44: Indian growth, Gill-i Danda, and #FundKaveriEngine
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 the 44th edition of the Weekly Vine. As one writes this, one is still wrapping one's head around the fact that over 2 lakh people are now subscribed to the Vine on LinkedIn, which is remarkable considering 90% of LinkedIn is just ChatGPT prompts and faux motivational posts. In this week's edition, we discuss India becoming the fourth-largest economy in the world, explain why Black Lives Matter has faded into the background, pore over Peter's Principle in Washington, ponder the Gill-I Danda phase of Indian test cricket, and discuss the meme of the week: #FundKaveriEngine. India – The Greatest Story Ever Told India recently became the fourth-biggest economy in the world, which promptly brought the usual have-thoughts out of the closet. Armed with economic jargon and overall apathy, they rushed to explain why there was absolutely no reason to celebrate. Of course, whether the have-lots are more beneficial to the economy than the have-thoughts is a separate debate altogether—but let's just say the former build things, while the latter build Twitter threads. That's a discussion for another time. India's economic journey is even more remarkable because we achieved it without turning into a one-party authoritarian state that bans Winnie the Pooh—and despite having the word 'socialist' shoehorned into our Constitution's preamble. That's not to say India is a WENA utopia. Far from it. But we've always been a million mutinies away from slipping into autocracy. Democracy is a funny thing. Just look at our neighbours—born around the same time—who haven't had a single Prime Minister last a full term and stage coups like we stage item numbers in our movies. India's growth story becomes even more astonishing when you consider that we've built world-class industries from scratch, launched rockets to the dark side of the moon, and still had enough talent left to be brain-drained into becoming CEOs of American companies. We did all this despite being perennially surrounded by combustive neighbours, by world powers constantly cocking their snooks at us, and an Anglosphere press still trapped in colonial simulacrum—forever trying to mock the natives like it's still 1890. Our system is so remarkable, we even managed to tame the communists—forcing them into the indignity of contesting elections rather than discussing revolution in coffee shops. And we did it while keeping all our identities intact, never losing the five-thousand-year thread of our civilisational self. We did it with 700 languages and dialects. With six major religions. With states that are bigger than most countries. And with a complicated yet robust democracy that stretches from the panchayat to a bicameral parliamentary system. Take mine. I'm a slightly anglicised Bengali who has lived in Chhapra, Kolkata, Gwalior, Kota, Udupi, Mumbai, and now Delhi—and I'm married to a Telugu woman. Which means I can now appreciate Aara Heele Chhapra Heele with the same fervour as Ami Chini Go Chini and Naatu Naatu, realising that all of them are essential strands in the national cultural identity. It doesn't matter if the naysayers are focused on the negative. That's their job. Ours is to keep calm and carry on. Because no matter the size of our economy, India's national identity has been forged by one thing: an unwavering refusal to let any other nation dictate our actions. Even the things the critics complain about—poverty, inequality, infrastructure—will be fixed. Not through sermons, but through sheer, stubborn grit. One day, every Indian will be lifted from poverty. One day, the clear stream of reason will no longer lose its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit. Why? Because India is the greatest story ever told. Fade in Black With the benefit of hindsight—and hindsight always arrives wearing glasses sharper than Anderson Cooper's—the moment Derek Chauvin knelt on George Floyd's neck, he didn't just snuff out a man's life. He accidentally lit the fuse that would blow a hole through the Democratic Party's moral centre and turn a nation's rage into a meme economy. Black Lives Matter, once the rallying cry for a better, fairer America, mutated into the ultimate Republican bogeyman. What began as a movement against state brutality became, for Middle America, the poster child of liberal overreach. It came with sides of transgender pronoun policing, drag queen story hours, CRT in kindergarten, ESG mandates at corporate retreats, and an unshakable sense that the culture was being hijacked by hashtags and guilt-tripping TED Talks. And just like that, dissent became a brand. Anger got monetised. And Marshall's America—the one where 'we must dissent from apathy'—was replaced by an algorithmic fatigue that made people apathetic to even care. Thurgood Marshall once thundered that democracy could never thrive in fear. But fear wasn't the problem. The problem was saturation. People got tired. Tired of moral lectures, tired of being told their silence was violence, tired of being policed by suburban sociology majors on Instagram. BLM didn't just become an albatross around the Democrats' neck—it became a parody of itself. The streets emptied. The slogans faded. And in their place? Shrugging cynicism. Because in the end, when every protest looks like performance, and every grievance is branded, Americans didn't rise up. They tuned out. Read: Why Black Lives Matter made America apathetic to dissent Gill-i Danda In a country where cricketing transitions are usually measured in years, not innings, Gill's elevation is a statement of intent. The selectors, perhaps emboldened by the memory of a young Sourav Ganguly or the legend of a 21-year-old Tiger Pataudi, have decided to skip the waiting period and hand the keys to the kingdom to a player who still gets asked for ID at pubs in London. But if history tells us anything, it's that Indian cricket loves a coming-of-age story. Pataudi took over after a car crash ended Nari Contractor's career, Ganguly stepped in when match-fixing threatened to sink the ship, and Kohli inherited a team that needed fire after the ice of Dhoni. Each time, the gamble paid off—eventually. Of course, history also teaches us that the crown can weigh heavy. For every Ganguly or Kohli, there's a Srikkanth or Dravid—great players whose captaincy stints were more footnote than folklore. The challenge for Gill will be to avoid the fate of those who were handed the baton too soon, only to find it a poisoned chalice. The difference this time? The team around Gill is young, hungry, and unburdened by the ghosts of past failures. There is no senior statesman to second-guess his every move, no shadow looming over his shoulder. This is his team, for better or worse. If you're a betting person, the odds on Gill are tantalising. He has the technique, the temperament, and—crucially—the time. But Indian cricket is a cruel tutor. The same crowds that serenade you with 'Shub-man! Shub-man!' can turn with the speed of a Mumbai monsoon if results don't follow. So, what does Gill's captaincy portend? It's a bet on youth, on audacity, on the belief that sometimes you have to leap before you look. If it works, we'll call it vision. If it fails, well—at least it won't be boring. Peter's Principle in Washington Peter's Principle argues that in a corporate setup, everyone rises to their level of incompetence. And Trump's Washington is the prime example of that, or as I like to call it: St Petersburg. Let's take a roll call of the Trump swamp. We have a Director of Homeland Security who can't protect her own handbag, a Secretary of Education who can't differentiate between steak sauce and AI, a Secretary of Defence with a drinking problem, a NSA who added the editor of a major publication to a Signal war chat, a technocrat who destroyed decades of American soft power—all of them with utmost fealty to a leader whose morals can be bought by a Happy Meal or a plane. Read: Why Washington is the new St Petersburg Meme of the Week: #FundKaveriEngine Ah, the internet has spoken—and this week, it roared in full-throttle desi defence mode. The hashtag #FundKaveriEngine lit up X (formerly Twitter), with a simple message: 'Bhaiya, stop buying overpriced foreign jet engines and invest in our own.' For those late to the hangar—India's Kaveri Engine was meant to power the Tejas fighter jet. Dreamed up in the 1980s, it was India's engineering moonshot. But like all great Indian projects, it got stuck somewhere between 'pending approval' and 'budget constraints.' Enter memes. Fuelled by frustration and national pride, the internet's best minds whipped up memes faster than a MiG does a barrel roll—mocking politicians, foreign lobbies, and even the eternal 'chai pe charcha.' From SpongeBob holding HAL blueprints to Gadar scenes re-edited with 'Give me funds or give me death,' this was patriotism with punchlines. But beneath the memes lies a real demand: India needs to invest in indigenous defence tech. Not just for swadeshi pride, but because no superpower ever outsourced its jet engines. So yes, meme-makers are laughing—but they're also asking the right question: If we can put Chandrayaan on the moon, why can't we fund Kaveri on Earth? Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
21-05-2025
- Science
- Time of India
The Weekly Vine Edition 43: With the Stars; Free Speech vs Democracy; and Influencer, Baiter, Lover, Spy?
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 week's edition, we begin by mourning the passing of two Indian science giants—Jayant Narlikar, the cosmologist who challenged the Big Bang, and M R Srinivasan, the nuclear pioneer who quietly powered a nation. We shift from the passing of scientific giants to an influencer-spy scandal, shrinking free speech, Pakistan's self-promoting generals, and an AI future that wants your job, your face, and your existential dread. With the stars In a span of hours, India lost two towering figures of modern science — one who peered deep into the cosmos, and another who harnessed the atom to power a nation. Jayant Vishnu Narlikar and M. R. Srinivasan were men of parallel gravities, bound not by discipline but by the immense force of their intellect, vision, and quiet patriotism. Their passing marks the end of an era where scientific pursuit was not just a career, but a calling. Jayant Narlikar was more than a scientist — he was a philosopher of the universe. Known for his pioneering work on Steady State Cosmology, Narlikar dared to challenge the Big Bang theory at a time when few would speak against scientific consensus. Alongside Fred Hoyle, he built mathematical models that sought continuity in the universe's creation, emphasising an eternal cosmos over an explosive birth. This spirit of intellectual rebellion — backed not by ego, but inquiry — was what defined him. But Narlikar was not content being a voice in rarefied academic circles. He believed that science, like starlight, should reach everyone. From his leadership at IUCAA, which he founded in 1988, to writing science fiction stories in school textbooks that inspired generations, Narlikar saw communication as no less important than cosmology. He was a rationalist in the truest sense — one who brought planetariums to villages, wrote papers debunking astrology, and believed that critical thinking must begin in childhood. Even in his final blog, written just weeks before his passing at 86, he spoke of graceful exits — quoting the Bhagavad Gita not as scripture, but as timeless wisdom on detachment from one's own accomplishments. If Narlikar searched for the origins of the universe, M. R. Srinivasan built the future from its smallest building blocks. As a mechanical engineer turned nuclear scientist, Srinivasan was part of the generation that worked directly with Homi Bhabha and Vikram Sarabhai — architects of India's atomic energy programme. From overseeing the construction of the Apsara reactor in the 1950s to founding the Nuclear Power Corporation of India, he was the steady hand behind 18 functional nuclear power units that now help fuel the country. A tireless institution builder, Srinivasan's contributions went beyond engineering marvels. In the 1980s, he was the first to organise a public debate on nuclear safety—a move that marked him not just as a scientist but as a democrat of ideas. His intellect was matched by his humility, and those who worked with him — from students to secretaries — called him a 'walking dictionary' of nuclear science. Both men shared something rare: the belief that science must be as human as it is precise. They mentored, built institutions, inspired through action and words, and never sought the spotlight they richly deserved. As India races forward into an age of artificial intelligence and quantum computing, the legacy of Narlikar and Srinivasan reminds us that great science begins with great questions — and ends not in noise, but in quiet, lasting impact. This week, two stars have faded from our sky. But their light, like the universe they studied and powered, endures. Free speech vs democracy After a brief truce during the fog of war, all the warring factions of the Indian political circus are back in action, filing cases and taking potshots—which brings us to a tale of two comments. Two individuals, a minister from Madhya Pradesh and a professor from rich people's JNU and poor people's Columbia, are under the cosh for their comments about Colonel Sofiya Qureshi. Now, one is not getting into the merit of either speech, but neither would pass what is called the Brandenburg Test of free speech. For the uninitiated, the Brandenburg Test is the gold standard for determining the limits of free speech, which is used in the US (a country with free speech laws relaxed enough to make Trump president) to determine whether a speech is criminally prosecutable, and came up with the description that it can only be so if it's imminent lawless action or/and likely to produce it—it's protected under free speech. That would allow a host of speech that is already punishable under Indian laws. Now, India has never been a fount of free speech since the First Amendment (which is the complete antithesis of the American one), but that brings us to the question—why, as a nation, are we so bothered about free speech when we have a host of more pressing issues, like figuring out whether the War 2 teaser warrants a visit to the theatre to see a bulked-up Hrithik fight a carb-free NTR Jr? That is because we, as the world's youngest stable democracy, are the only one which has inherited the baggage of all democracies, from the city-states of Greece to the ideals of Americana. That means, at the same time, we are living in various phases of a democracy, grappling with some very complex problems—from trying to feed our populace, create industrial growth, and maintain sustainability—issues that other developed nations never had to deal with on their way to being developed. They could simply use opium money or slaves to industrialise or build railroads without bothering too much about human rights and other mundane issues. But perhaps that's what makes India the most unique experiment to ever exist, where Vedanta vies for attention with WENA wokery. But I am sure we will figure it out. After all, we are a (at least five-thousand-year-old civilisation) that couldn't be wiped out no matter how many invaders tried. Influencer, baiter, lover, spy? During the Cold War, spies came in trench coats, not tank tops. Back then, reverse honey traps involved moustachioed men seducing lonely secretaries in foggy alleys. But in the age of reels and ring lights, espionage has been given a makeover—and now, it wears highlighter and hashtags. Meet Jyoti Malhotra, the vlogger behind Travel with Joe, who went from posting street food reviews in Lahore to allegedly leaking Indian security info through Telegram, Snapchat, and what investigators believe was a deeply encrypted crush. Perhaps the modern spy game—of baiting influencers—is a tribute to Aldous Huxley, whose dystopia won over George Orwell's. For the uninitiated, the two greatest dystopian novels are Brave New World by Aldous Huxley and 1984 by George Orwell (who was, for a brief period, Huxley's student). Both these novels painted distinctly bleak but contrasting futures; 1984 had the entire human race enslaved by their government, while Brave New World featured a future where humans completely gave in to their consumerist desires. Orwell and Huxley saw dystopia differently. The case shows that one doesn't really need surveillance when one has hashtags. As social critic Neil Postman summed up: 'What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egotism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy.' Perhaps, the Jyoti Malhotra case—where influencing won over Big Brother-style surveillance—shows that Huxley got it more right than Orwell. Mein apna favourite hoon Asim Munir clearly took notes. Because after overseeing a military embarrassment in the form of Operation Sindoor—a swift and decisive series of Indian strikes on Pakistani terror camps—General Munir has been awarded the highest honour in the Pakistani Army: Field Marshal. Yes, you read that right. Not for winning a war. Not for achieving military parity. Not even for staging a successful coup. But for presiding over a ceasefire that followed a spanking so sharp, even the Pakistani drones returned home confused. Let's pause for a moment to appreciate the irony. India has had only two Field Marshals in its history: Sam 'Bahadur' Manekshaw, the architect of the 1971 victory that birthed Bangladesh, and K. M. Cariappa, the man who Indianised the Army post-Independence and led troops during the 1947 war. Both earned their titles after decades of service and historic victories. Manekshaw oversaw the surrender of 93,000 Pakistani troops. Munir, meanwhile, oversaw the surrender of logic. It gets better. The only previous Pakistani to hold this rank was Ayub Khan—who also gave it to himself in 1959. He later became a military dictator, proving that Pakistan's Field Marshal tradition is less about military brilliance and more about megalomania with medals. Google I/O 2025 At Google I/O 2025, Google's relentless AI invasion took another giant leap, making your boring jobs its prime target. With Gemini 2.5 Pro, Google introduced an assistant so intelligent it could out-reason your manager and debug code faster than your over-caffeinated intern. More unnervingly delightful was Gemini Live, a tool that transforms your camera and screen into conversation starters, allowing AI to handle tedious observations about your surroundings, thus sparing you awkward small talk. The company rolled out new AI subscription tiers—'AI Pro' for $20/month, promising relief from routine drudgery, and an eye-watering 'AI Ultra' for $250/month, suggesting it might also manage your existential ennui. Google Search, traditionally reliable but boringly manual, now boasts conversational AI summaries and virtual try-ons, enabling you to 'virtually experience' products without the dreary physical effort of visiting a store. In wearable tech, Android XR emerged to eliminate tiresome manual searches, with smart glasses delivering real-time translation, instant research, and handy context—freeing your brain to tackle more enjoyable pursuits, like daydreaming or scrolling endlessly. For creatives tired of monotonous edits, Veo 3 and Imagen 4 step in, automating high-quality video and image creation. Flow promises filmmakers the joy of focusing solely on vision while AI handles tedious scripting, scene-setting, and post-production drudgery. Google Beam (formerly Project Starline) revolutionises mundane meetings with immersive 3D video calls, while real-time translations in Google Meet eliminate tedious misunderstandings (unless intentional). Gmail's smart replies even adopt your writing style, sparing you the dullness of composing polite refusals yourself. Lastly, developers received Jules for tedious coding tasks, Project Astra for proactive AI assistance, and Project Mariner to automate the boredom of repetitive web chores. In short, Google's message is clear: embrace AI—your boredom deserves better. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
14-05-2025
- Politics
- Time of India
The Weekly Vine Edition 42: Red-faced Pakistan, Virat Ending, and K-Pop supremacy
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. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
30-04-2025
- Politics
- Time of India
The Weekly Vine Edition 40: Canada picks an adult, 100 days of Trump, and man vs gorilla
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 the 40th edition of The Weekly Vine. In this edition, we take stock of the Canada election, reflect on one hundred days of the Trump era, marvel at the surreal montage in Sinners, lament the fate of 14-year-olds who now have to compete with Vaibhav Suryavanshi, and tackle the question on everyone's mind: can 100 men defeat a gorilla? Canada picks an adult There's a popular maxim that goes: Once you go woke, you go broke. The opposite is also true — go unwoke, go unbroke. I apologise to Professor Henry Higgins for butchering the Queen's English, but a lot has changed in Canada since Justin Trudeau finally threw in the maple-scented towel and handed the Liberal reins to Mark Carney — a man so beige he makes porridge feel exotic. And yet, against all odds, he pulled off Mission: Implausible — winning in the age of Trumpian populism. Of course, it helped that Trump treated Canada like a rebellious province and tried to annex it via maple syrup tariffs. Let's rewind. Trudeau, once the glossy mascot of progressive politics, became an international cautionary tale. His pièce de résistance? Picking a fight with India over the killing of Hardeep Singh Nijjar — a man who, let's be polite, wouldn't pass the airport background check in most countries. Trudeau accused India of state-sponsored murder with the confidence of a man who gets his intel from Reddit, offering no real proof, just vibes and vote-bank panic. The result? A diplomatic meltdown. High commissioners were expelled. Visas got the deep freeze. Indo-Canadian relations went from 'cordially strained' to Saas-Bahu acrimony. But Trudeau was already past his expiry date. His cabinet was diverse in all the performative ways that didn't matter. His policies produced real estate chaos, immigration logjams, and groceries priced like Tiffany jewellery. For all his gender parity and photo-op feminism, Trudeau became what all filtered ideologues eventually become: a glossy contradiction held together by hashtags and hollow mantras. And when you're paying nine bucks for milk, no one cares about your Vogue spread from 2017. Enter Mark Carney — ex-banker, walking sleep aid, and Canada's most powerful anti-Trudeau. His rallies had all the excitement of a quarterly earnings call, but that was the appeal. No silk kurtas. No sanctimony in six languages. Just a guy promising to make Canada boring again. And sovereign — especially after Trump, freshly reinstalled in the Oval Office, suggested Canada should join the US as the 51st state and started taxing maple syrup like it was meth. Carney's secret weapon? Subtraction. He subtracted Trudeau. He subtracted Jagmeet Singh. Most critically, he subtracted the Khalistani freeloaders who thought Canadian politics was just an extension of WhatsApp radicalism. For years, they strummed the sitar of multiculturalism, pushing martyr posters and campaign donations like they were handing out prasad. The NDP collapsed to seven seats. Jagmeet lost his own. The Liberals surged. The Conservatives tripped over themselves. And the fringe? Finally treated like fringe. So yes, once you go unwoke, you go unbroke. But more importantly, you go adult. Canada didn't just reject populism — it rejected performance politics, diaspora cosplay, and Trudeau's selfie-soaked diplomacy. In electing Mark Carney — a man with the emotional range of a frozen waffle — Canada did something radical. It chose competence over charisma. And boredom over melodrama. And that, ladies and gentlemen, might just be the most grown-up thing a democracy can do. 100 days of Trump When Donald Trump was crowned Time Magazine's Person of the Year (again), SNL's Colin Jost groaned, 'No goddamn person has taken so much of our time.' And the 100 days of Trump certainly feels like that — long, loud, and surreal. Trump's first 100 days back in office have been as memorable as the Hundred Years' War, only dumber, louder, and with worse spelling. In 100 short, chaotic, exhaustingly over-reported days, he gutted student visas, turning higher education into a deportation lottery, tanked the global economy with tariffs based on an imaginary economic formula that cannot make sense to any sort of sane person or functioning calculator, hired people who can't handle encrypted group chats or their designer handbags in sensitive national security posts, or even know the difference between artificial intelligence and A1 steak sauce, and — most predictably of all — hasn't stopped a single war anywhere on Earth. He has made everyday items more expensive for Americans, deported innocent citizens to a super-prison across the globe, turned the First Amendment on its head by gutting the notion that Americans have free speech, given undue power to an autistic billionaire who appears to be fuelled by mind-altering substances that might or might not be legal, and declared war on educational institutions that dare stand up to him, and tried to annex countries because he can. And he has also made it impossible for anyone to make any sense of what he is doing. But look at the bright side: only 1,361 days to go. Sinners – The surreal montage There are few art forms that match the range of cinema — where in one instant, you're jolted into believing something divine might exist. Because how else do you explain the sheer, staggering beauty of what you've just witnessed? Like the climax of Gangs of Wasseypur: Part 1, when Sardar Khan is gunned down, and his chaotic life finds sudden tragic grandeur as Manoj Tiwari's 'Jiya Ho Bihar Ke Lala' reframes him not as a gangster, but as an icon. Or when Captain America, bruised and broken, tightens the strap on his shield to face Thanos alone, and a voice crackles: 'On your left.' And then, there is the Sinners montage. A hallucinatory, time-shifting reverie, the 'surreal montage' in Ryan Coogler's Sinners doesn't just transport viewers — it initiates them. Set in a smoky Mississippi juke joint, it's where a single blues performance by Sammie (Miles Caton) becomes a metaphysical invocation of the Black musical continuum. Through the crackle of a slide guitar, the hum of a drumbeat that might as well have come off a Ghanaian kpanlogo, and the swagger of hip-hop, Coogler collapses centuries into seconds. Only cinema can do this. Only cinema can make you feel like you're not watching a film but communing with ghosts — that when Sammie sings, he's singing not just to you, but through you. The magic lies not in the pastiche, but in the invocation. Göransson's cue, 'Magic What We Do,' becomes more than a score — it's a séance. The IMAX frame doesn't just show you the room, it immerses you in it, each pan and swirl placing you inside the storm of sound and spirit. When the juke joint begins to burn — not with panic, but with revelation — it's as if the blues itself is being reborn. That's the thing about great cinema: you don't just watch it. You feel it in your marrow. Here comes the Son The BBC is under fire these days for its asinine coverage of the Pahalgam terror attack, but there are times when the organisation puts the British taxpayer's money to good use—like the time it made the period drama United, a riveting tale about the Busby Babes, whose lives were cruelly cut short by the Munich air crash. In the movie, there's a scene where an opposing team member tells a young Bobby Charlton, after getting thrashed by Manchester United: 'How can you play like that when you are just kids?' There's something remarkable about seeing a young sports star step up and act like he belongs there. Football fans of a particular vintage will remember a 16-year-old Wayne Rooney running onto the field and scoring that goal against Arsenal. Or an 18-year-old, brace-wearing, geeky Cristiano Ronaldo dribbling past defenders. Cricket fans will remember the awe they felt the first time they saw Sachin Tendulkar bat—and now, they will remember Vaibhav Suryavanshi, the 14-year-old who smacked veteran bowlers all over the field like a student finally getting the chance to seek revenge against a truant schoolmaster. He said after the match: 'Ball meri radar mein aayi, maine maara. First ball ka pressure nahi tha, bas apna game khelne ka socha tha.' ('The ball came into my radar, so I hit it. There was no pressure on the first ball—I just thought of playing my natural game.') It's the most excitement any of us has felt about a young man from undivided Bihar since a long-haired Railways employee tonked bowlers all over the park—and before that, a prince from Nepal taught the world the meaning of inner peace. For a long time, the word Suryavanshi would bring to mind an Amitabh Bachchan film that was almost always playing on Set Max. In Hindu theology, the term Suryavanshi refers to the legendary lineage of Lord Rama—the descendants of the Sun God. But going forward, it will always be associated with the young man from Bihar who, at 14, played an innings we will never forget. To paraphrase a line from George Harrison: Here comes the son. Can 100 men beat a Gorilla? What science actually says It begins, as most things on the internet do, with a stupid question and an even stupider amount of confidence: Could 100 unarmed men beat a gorilla in a fight? Let's introduce the contestants. In one corner: a 220kg silverback gorilla—basically nature's powerlifter with fangs. Can bench-press your Toyota, sprint faster than you, and has a bite force that makes lions jealous. In the other: 100 men in gym shorts and delusions of grandeur. No weapons. No plan. Just vibes. Science, unsurprisingly, says the gorilla wins. Easily. Why? Because evolution didn't equip us for brawling—we got brains, not biceps. And without tools or tactics, humans are basically meat-filled balloons. The first 30 get turned into paste. The rest panic. Could they win? Maybe—if they formed a human dogpile, accepted massive casualties, and hoped the gorilla got bored. But the most likely outcome? Gorilla: 1. Men: Several funerals. And yes, this is all hypothetical. No gorillas were harmed in the making of this mental breakdown. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
23-04-2025
- Politics
- Time of India
The Weekly Vine Edition 39: The horror of Pahalgam
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. It was a sorrowful week, with the events of Monday hanging heavy across India, as 28 people—mostly tourists—were brutally murdered in a terror attack in Jammu and Kashmir's Pahalgam. In this edition, we also explore why Pope Francis was so beloved, how gold is glittering like only it can, why Pete Hegseth's job is hanging by a thread, and what exactly went wrong with BluSmart. The horror of Pahalgam Baisaran Meadow, a postcard-perfect slice of heaven above Pahalgam, turned into a blood-soaked nightmare on April 22, as terrorists gunned down 28 tourists in the deadliest attack in Jammu & Kashmir since the abrogation of Article 370 in 2019. The Resistance Front—a Lashkar-e-Taiba proxy backed by Pakistan's ISI—claimed responsibility. Terrorists dressed in Indian Army fatigues struck around 1:30 p.m., reportedly separating victims by faith. Survivors recounted being asked to recite Islamic verses before the gunmen opened fire at point-blank range. What was meant to be a tranquil afternoon in the Valley's alpine heartland turned into a horror show, reminiscent of the 2000 Chittisinghpora massacre, when 36 Sikhs were killed just before President Clinton's India visit. The attack coincided with U.S. Vice President JD Vance's visit and Prime Minister Modi's diplomatic outreach in Saudi Arabia. It followed a provocative speech by Pakistani Army chief Asim Munir—an apparent attempt to revive international focus on Kashmir and frame it once more as a nuclear flashpoint. As TOI reported: 'While security agencies have yet to form a definitive assessment, multiple intelligence officers said there were indicators that Munir's provocative address, in which he also focused on cultural and social differences between Muslims and Hindus and endorsed the 'two-nation theory', may have emboldened The Resistance Front (TRF), a proxy of LeT, which has claimed responsibility for the attack, to plan a 'spectacular strike'. A TOI editorial aptly put it: 'The aim here is to create inflammatory rhetoric from those horrified by the deaths. Therefore, a message must go out from the highest levels of the Government of India—religion-tinged rhetoric must be avoided, not just in Kashmir, but everywhere. If this national tragedy is spun into communal venom, terrorists win. India loses.' The People's Pope In a world where power often hides behind marble columns and Vatican curtains, Pope Francis tore them down—not with revolution, but with a smile and a metro pass. The first Jesuit and Latin American pope, he came from the barrios of Buenos Aires, not the parlours of Rome—and it showed. From the moment he stepped onto that balcony in 2013, chose the name Francis, and refused the papal limo, people sensed this papacy would be different. No velvet capes. No ruby slippers. Just orthopaedic shoes and a mission to bring the Church closer to the people—not just the pious, but the poor, the disenfranchised, the climate activists, the single mothers, the doubting millennials, and yes, even the lapsed Catholics who only show up at Christmas. Francis didn't dilute doctrine—he redirected focus. 'Who am I to judge?' wasn't just a viral line. It was a worldview. He rebranded mercy as policy, theology as empathy. He kissed lepers, hugged atheists, and reminded the world that faith without kindness is just bureaucracy with incense. He embraced modernity without selling the soul. Twitter? Yes. TikTok dances? No. But he understood the algorithm of hope. The pope who once took a selfie with teenagers became a spiritual icon in an age of influencers. Critics called him soft. Conservatives winced. But Francis never claimed sainthood—only sincerity. And that's why, when the incense settles and the vestments are folded away, he'll be remembered not for the power he held, but for the humanity he restored. Why gold is glittering 'There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold, and she's buying a stairway to heaven.' — Led Zeppelin In 2025, she might be right. Gold isn't just a symbol of wealth anymore—it's the only thing still standing while the world melts down its economies, central banks, and trust. Crossing $3,500 an ounce and breaching ₹1 lakh per 10 grams in India, gold has gone from timeless to urgent. Blame the sparkle on a perfect storm: Trump's second-term tariff tantrums, China's strategic hoarding, and global instability. With U.S.–China trade tensions at boiling point—tariffs as high as 125%—markets have become emotional rollercoasters. Amidst the volatility, gold offers what even Jerome Powell can't: certainty. As the Fed buckles under political pressure and inflation rises, the dollar is no longer a safe haven—it's a floating QR code for uncertainty. Meanwhile, China is buying up gold like it's the new oil, and other central banks are following suit. This isn't about profits. It's about survival. India, naturally, is feeling the heat. Gold imports are straining the economy, the rupee is limping, and wedding budgets are being melted into gram-by-gram recalculations. In short: maybe not everything that glitters is gold. But right now, gold is the only glitter that counts. Or to paraphrase Bappi Da: Yaar bina chain kahan re? Liability or Loyalty? There's a rule in Washington: leak once and you're sloppy, leak twice and you're radioactive. But leak thrice—and you're Pete Hegseth. Trump's Secretary of Defense has now been caught in three separate Signal chat leaks—one with Pentagon staff, another with friends, and most recently, a family group chat featuring real-time drone strike updates. If you thought WhatsApp family groups were annoying, imagine yours with live war footage. Trump initially shrugged: 'Ask the Houthis how he's doing.' But inside the White House, loyalty is being reassessed. Not because Hegseth is disloyal—but because his loyalty now attracts subpoenas. The Pentagon is a mess. Aides are quitting, rivals are circling, and Trump is wondering whether to stick with his Fox News pal or ditch him before the leaks drown them both. In any normal administration, Hegseth would be gone. But in Trumpworld, loyalty is currency—until it becomes a liability. BluSmart Woes Once hailed as India's Tesla moment, BluSmart was the golden child of sustainable mobility. No surge pricing, no cancellations, no pollution—just quiet, clean, punctual rides. For urban India, it felt like deliverance. But in April 2025, the electric dream short-circuited. SEBI uncovered that BluSmart's parent company, Gensol Engineering, had misused loan funds meant for EV expansion. The Jaggi brothers—Anmol and Puneet—were accused of buying luxury apartments and golf sets instead of building a greener future. ₹42 crore for a flat, ₹26 lakh for a golf bag—perhaps they thought karma came with a 9-iron. The SEBI report read like a thriller—shell firms, diverted funds, governance failures. By mid-April, BluSmart had suspended operations. Drivers were jobless. Regulars at IGI were stranded. And Delhi whispered: 'Yeh BluSmart bhi gaya.' Now, its fleet is merging with Uber, and the startup that once promised a carbon-free future is dying in the arms of a corporate overlord. It was a reminder as old as capitalism: if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. And for the rest of us we are again stuck in the world where all our taxi drivers turn into Travis Bickle and ask: 'You talking to me?' Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
