Author Archives: Hriday Ranjan

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Getting a desk job at the age of 31

( A santised, edited, sanskaari version of this article appeared last Saturday in the Bangalore edition of The New Indian Express. I write a weekly humour column called Urban Bourbon. If you live in Bangalore and are jobless, you should read my column.

I will be publishing a dirtier, foul-mouthed version of my articles here on my blog).

 

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When I was 16, I ran away from home with the confidence of Amitabh Bachchan in the 70s.

I couldn’t stand my parents, having lived alternatively with both of them. Their morals, their lack of empathy to my aspirations, their ideals and expectations of me were too warped and illogical.

I had nurtured a baby-dinosaur of an ego in the 15 odd years I’d spent on this planet. I wanted to live on my terms, earn money and pay for my fantasies, such as buying the latest MP3 CD of Lucky Ali, or the latest BSA SLR bicycle.

When you’re in your teens, the universe conspires to tell you that it’ll all be okay. Even if the universe doesn’t tell you that, you mistake all its messages for precisely that – let’s see what happens. And so, armed with the confidence of Vijay Dahiya facing Australian fast bowlers, and no real skills except fluent English, I set out to find my calling in life.

What I found instead, was a call centre. In the years since, I have worked in travel agencies, PCO booths, sold investment plans, drawn up press meets and conferences, dubbed for TV serials, advertisements and infomercial campaigns, worked in customer care centres. I have burnt the midnight oil as a teacher, writer, bar singer, M.Phil scholar, sports commentator, copywriter, stand-up comedian and calligraphy instructor.

I know it sounds impressive when I put it all out like this. Sounds like I went through a sea of experiences that changed and shaped who I am today. That it was a time of struggle and survival. In reality, it was not. I was honestly tripping. Each part of these jobs is intrinsically linked to one or the other narcotic substance.

Like for example the Customer Care Executive job where I had to answer 400 calls a day from customers all over Orissa. I used to report to work at 3, and wait for the bhang shops to open at 4.30. The first two hours were torture – assholes calling with strange complaints like:

“Hello! Your network is fucked up. I have two phones in each hand. I can’t call from one to the other”. 

OR

Hello. Your network is bad on Wednesdays. I have to stand in the toilet or the balcony to get any network.” 

OR

Hello. I want to fuck you, baby! Aah *hangs up*

I tolerated it all, waiting for the clock to strike 4.30. I would then shoot out of the office for a smoke break, and gobble up a big ball of bhang. The rest of the day was smooth as butter! I spoke to the customers with a smile on my face (my colleagues attributed it to my patience!). I listened to their problems with empathy and solved their issues.

Every single job has been a whirlwind journey of sorts, a blurred mix of memories and intoxication. I have followed my passion, plunging right into it, even if my passion changed drastically in a few weeks.

And finally, after years of searching for my passion, I took up a desk job at the ripe age of 31.

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Most of my friends have desk jobs, and I would listen to them complain and crib all day. I would hear them bitch about their bosses, and shiver with excitement as Friday approached. Their stories were all the same – their bosses were assholes, the food in their office was shit, HR executives got paid a salary to make their lives miserable, and Fridays were for ethnic dressing.

Thanks to their constant cribbing, I’d nurtured strange ideas about a desk job. I detested having to wear formals, disliked the control that managers exert over employees. I was wary of bosses constantly prying over their employees’ work; and mundane, boring work.

But like Shakti Kapoor says in every movie where he accepts a bribe – Paisa toh paisa hota hai. I got an offer for a job and took it, fully armed with the complaints and grouses that my friends fed me. Each of my assumptions fell flat on my face, like a sidekick in Bahubali.

I work for Microsoft, and write content for Game of Thrones – a series that I am obsessed with. My work involves watching older seasons of GoT, looking up conspiracy theories, and tripping on Wikia – the 2nd greatest website on earth after Reddit.

My boss has never come to see me work, he doesn’t even work in the same floor. On my first day, I came to work dressed in formals. I was shocked to find everybody else in shorts – looking like hippies in Dev Anand’s Hare Krishna Hare Ram. I travel using a cab-sharing app, get to travel with other people along the same route, having interesting conversations and making friends on a daily basis.

So what do I do all day?

Well, a number of things. Firstly, there’s an Amul fridge near my desk. I keep a close count on how many ‘Cool Kafes’ there are in the fridge, and give dirty looks to those who take more than one with them. I play Table Tennis for an hour a day, getting smashed by a homo sapien belonging to a new gender, race, and age everyday. I smile at the boy whipping up my salad, hoping he’d add a few pieces of chicken for free. He doesn’t.

It’s been a month now, and contrary to what I believed about myself, I have no qualms to admit I wait to come to work the office everyday.

However, if there’s one group of people who are unimpressed by my taking up a desk job, it is my stand up comedian colleagues. They look at me like I’ve let down the entire institution of stand up comedy by choosing to do a job. To rile them up further, I carry my tag even when I go on stage!

I have come to realise that having a job is not necessarily a bad thing. All the wonders of the modern world, all the tools you use to pursue your passions, were created by passionate people with desk jobs. They fused their passions with their professions so you could better pursue your passion!

And yet, all our films constantly push the same idea. Of not being ‘trapped’ in a job, to venture out and ‘seek’ your passion. It was with great catharsis that I read the news recently about a couple who quit their jobs to travel the world. They used to post breathtaking pictures on Instagram (created by hardworking people with desk jobs!). They are now cleaning toilets to survive!

Or look at Ranbir Kapoor’s films like Wake up, Sid!, which invariably involve him finding his passion in photography, videography, theatre, singing, and politics. I am waiting to watch a movie where Ranbir Kapoor’s passion is to find his passion!

What the fuck is this passion that our new-age India keeps talking about? I have followed each and every one of my passions, and honestly, I regret following half of them. I see this everyday. During my stand-up shows, I ask people where they work, and they mumble apologetically, ‘IT’ – like it’s a crime, it’s something to be ashamed of.

For some strange reason, we have made a whole generation of IT workers embarassed about their jobs. Made it seem like they’re taking the ‘easy way’ by doing a desk job. Fuck Ranbir Kapoor, and fuck his passions. Seriously.

I am happy with what I am doing. I can’t guarantee it’ll go on for too long, given my history of running away from jobs – but it’s been a month of fun. Of course, at the end of the day, while my ‘artist’ friends buy Sai Baba Beedi from the shop, I’ll smirk over my scotch. Suck on my passion, assholes!

When I look at my life, I realise it is a Ranbir Kapoor movie in reverse. I was pursuing my passion(s), and was beside the love of my life. Today, I’m single, and have a desk job.

I should call it Go to Sleep, Hriday!

                                                            ***

public-embarassment

To the teenager who mailed me about Masturbation

 

In the ten years that I’ve been running this blog, I get mails from a number of people on a daily basis. Some of them compliment me on the articles, and some of them put forth their requests (Bro, you need to write an article on Tushar Kapoor!). Some of the mails are strange requests (Bro, I’m coming to Hyderabad. Can you arrange some weed for me?’). And some are critical of the stuff I write (How the fuck can you write about Sachin Tendulkar? Kabhi jaake District cricket mein khelke dikha, chutiye).

I have always replied to these mails, and some of the friendships from the blog are intact to this day. But every once in a while, I get mails that make me sit up and take notice. And it was with some curiosity, that I opened a mail from a teenager a few months back.

He had written to me to say that he was masturbating regularly, and it filled him with shame and guilt. It had made him a recluse, and he stopped going out to meet friends and family. He sounded in pain, and I wanted to tell him that it would be okay.

However, I got caught up with the vagaries of life, and the post never materialised. So here it is, dear teenager who mailed me about masturbation.

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Firstly, thank you for writing to me.

You don’t know me in person, and yet, to open up to me about something like this means that my blog must have become an important part of your life. Or at the very least, you felt I’m the sort of person you could share your fears with. When I started this blog, I had no idea it would touch people’s lives like this. So thank you!

Now, let’s get to the topic at hand. Masturbation.

There’s no shame in saying it, no shame in doing it. Let’s just say the word a few more times. Masturbation. The act of masturbating. To pleasure oneself.

It’s not as uncommon as you think. Everybody does it. Literally, EVERYBODY.

Close your eyes and think of anybody in your life, or anybody in the world – and they’ve done it. Sachin Tendulkar? He’s done it. Steve Jobs? He’s done it too. Stephen Hawkings? Well…

Masturbation is completely natural. All your friends, their parents, their neighbours, and their parents have done it too. It is a completely normal and human thing to do. However, we live in a country that aims to become a developed nation, but chooses not to include sex education in schools. A government whose ministers dish out quasi-scientific facts in the year 2017, a government whose ministers believe sexuality is the subject matter of the state. How can you expect such a society to be accepting of homosexuality?

Which is probably why you feel such shame.

Which is also probably why elders peddle such lies regarding the act of masturbation. While growing up, we heard rumours that if you did it too much, hair would begin to grow on your palms. We were told that excessive pimples and acnes were a result of spending too much quality time with yourself. In fact, there was a book called Health In Your Hands which informed us that the half-circles on our nails were indicators of how much sperm we had, and if we spent it all, we might fall sick. I remember checking the half-moons on my nails after watching a Hindi film, or reading the latest edition of Filmfare. Other sources told us that doing it too much could give you AIDS!

As you might have guessed, these were desperate attempts by a prude society.

If anything, masturbation is beautiful. It gives vent to your fantasies. Much like you, I grew up full of insecurities. I studied in a boys school and had no exposure to women whatsoever. And since we were growing up with each other, it was quite common for guys to shag each other off. What is a common practice in most boys school, became a matter of shame and guilt. Coupled with my own insecurities, I was a mess of nerves. When I encountered a pretty girl, I was both guilty and nervous.

Amidst such colluding complexities, it was ‘spending quality time with myself’ that helped me cope. And boy, I was a machine!

Your generation must be used to porn videos on your phones. Tap a button and a million options pop up in front of you. Unfortunately, I had to use both my hands and my imagination.

During compulsory meditation sessions, I would imagine imaginary situations with my crushes, which mostly involved me rescuing them (Sorry! I had watched a number of Dharmedra movies!) and then taking them to an abandoned haystack. I would play out the scene for hours, teasing myself, and then rush to the teacher and excuse myself to go to the washroom!

Magazines and newspapers, sunday supplements and Very Personal columns by Bina Ramani in The Asian Age – during my teen years, the entire world was an outlet of emotions. With the arrival of Internet, our focus shifted to poorly photoshopped images from film posters. Or Indian sex stories that had all the finesse and literary skill of a horny 14 year old from Ludhiana.

Stories that went ‘Mera naam Mukesh hai. Main ek din bus mein jaa raha tha. Mere side mein ladki thi. Maine usey jamke chod diya…’

When the Internet wasn’t available, there was television, and that blessing to teenagers across India – Zee Cinema! There was no stopping me!

Fact is, you’re at an age when your body, nature, and the entire cosmos – wants you to procreate. And it is completely alright for you to indulge in yourself. So go ahead. If you like reading, may I introduce you to the dark, sinful pleasures of fan fiction. If you have the aesthetic sense of Mr. Sanjay Leela Bhansali, there are sites that aren’t gross. If you are tired of porn sites (for they have a way of making one feel gross at times!), there are audio books. There’s a world wide web of options in front of you. So go ahead; give wings to your imagination.

Which then brings us to the most important question – how much is too much? Is there a problem with too much??

Medically, the side effects are fatigue, nausea and weakness. Honestly, coffee has more side effects. But there are other aspects to it. There is the issue of desensitisation. Especially if you watch Indian porn videos. Indian porn videos are the worst – they are poorly made, and most of them are regressive amateur/revenge videos. They are all shot without the girl’s permission, or are exploitative in nature. Guard yourself against that.

But there’s the more important issue of time management. You must be at an age where your decisions might impact you. Don’t let the habit take over your life. Once you understand that it is completely normal, you will probably learn to regulate yourself better. Step out, make friends, develop a hobby. (Sorry about the generic gyaan! :D)

If you need to take a break, may I introduce you to the fantastic people at NoFap – a Reddit community dedicated to people like you – who touch their member too many times to remember (sorry about the puns too!).

So get rid of the guilt, and go ahead and indulge. Just remember to treat it like a treat to yourself – like gaajar halwa. Don’t make it daal-chaawal, ‘cos what’s the fun in that?

 

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I hope this post helps you get rid of your guilt in some way. I hope you become happy and confident and find yourself a girl (or boy!), and I hope you continue to read my blogs. If you still have issues, please feel free to write to me.

Happy fapping! 🙂

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(If you have an issue that is troubling you, and want me to respond, please feel free to write to me. I have been running out of issues to write about, and generally find that I like counseling (even if I am terrible at following my own advice!). You can write to hriday at writetohriday@gmail.com – I know, I know! :D)

Saif Ali Khan dancing in Keemat

I want to smoke what Saif is smoking

I always thought Saif Ali Khan was a chill dude.

Just going about his job as a 50 year old man playing a 25 year old man. A man who stayed away from Bollywood bullshit. Who sits in his haveli and plays the guitar, sips on French wine and probably wears satin underwear – a nawaab among kabaabs.

I don’t care too much about the ‘Nepotism rocks’ controversy. Or for any controversy for that matter. I am at an age where nothing can faze me anymore. When Linkin Park’s frontman died, I felt bad for a few seconds. As mourning, I ate one idli less and didn’t ask for onion chutney. My cold heart has been turned to stone in the heartless world we live in.

Also, I understand that scripts for award shows usually begin pure like Gangotri – and end up like the Hussain Sagar lake, thanks to the inputs of actors, writers and event producers. I wrote the script for Filmfare South Awards this year and somehow, we ended up having a dark guy dressed in a saree on stage accepting the ‘Black Lady’. So I know. I get it.

I am also familiar with the life of a controversy.

A controversy first erupts on Twitter, and is picked up by BuzzFeed and ScoopWhoop, those two beacons of journalism who put the ‘nali’ in journalism. It appears on my news at 9 AM, fresh and hot like blessings from Gomata on a national highway.

Slowly, opinions are shared. First, from that one person who is unnecessarily vocal about issues (if you’re on my list, I’m that guy!). Then the issue slowly dissipates to second level social news aggregators – like Being Indian, Sarcasm, and Bahut bhook lagi hai, subah subah thoda tatti khila mujhe. By lunchtime, it has become the OUTRAGE OF THE DAY. Our half an hour contribution to nation building under the Pradhan Mantri Jio Phone Lo, FB pe haggo Yojana.

By the next day, nobody gives a shit.

*

Then I saw the open letter and was tempted to read it.

I imagined the letter to be a nuanced, thought out treatise. A well-read man writing out a regal letter, sitting on his porch with his pooch while twirling his mooch. Royalty coupling with satin underwear to produce a beautiful, thoughtful letter.

What it was though, was a man sprawled on the footpath after gulping down a bottle of Director’s Special Premium XXX Brand Whiskey. A man who has run out of cigarettes and has had to smoke a pack of Ball Beedi.

saif dopp main

His retort was absurd, fantastical and tangential to the point where it got excruciating. It was so full of shit, I had to cleanse my screen with Harpic Powerplus Toilet Cleaner.

Screen Shot 2017-07-24 at 2.22.14 AM

So far so good. But Nawaab has just lit the joint and taken a puff of the strong stuff. He inhales deeply, his royal lungs filling up with the white smoke, only to float out of his royal nose gracefully.

Nawaab saab closes his eyes for a few moments, ponders on the meaning of life and then wonders what he has to say. Kya Kehna?

Let’s see…

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This is where things get a little icky. Firstly, the analogy of race horses doesn’t make any fucking sense. Race horses are bred with the single aim to run courses. Are you seriously telling me that’s what goes in human’s minds when they look for partners? That we think not with the nuanced intelligence and empathy of human beings, but in terms of pedigree of race horses? By that logic Kim Sharma and Umesh Yadav must produce the finest children in the country? Are you even fucking serious?

Not only is Saif pleased as punch with his philosophical analogy, he goes on to give some shit to a poor reporter from Elle. To read a book and improve her vocabulary – which is all fine advice. Only, she’s a writer who contributes articles to internet magazines. You own a town.

A fucking town! You’re the ruler of a place in the largest democracy in the world! Anybody who is the Nawab should stay away from discussions on nepotism, man. And you’re lecturing a girl some 20 years younger to you to read books? Could you be a little less cocky, Mr. Dicky Malhotra?

Saif Ali Khan then proceeds to light the joint again (for it might have gone off with all the brainwaves that crash at the banks of his brain. So he lights the joint and comes up with more gems through the night.

Like this bit:

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What the fuck are you talking about? Three systems at play? Aristocracy, meritocracy, democracy? What the fuck is this? Chandrakanta??

I always thought Saif Ali Khan was a deep, philosophically intelligent man, but now I realise it was always Kareena Kapoor who said so! And her opinion can be taken with bags of NaCl. But then NaCl ke liye bhi akal chahiye!

Nepotism cannot work in the film industry because it is a democracy? So where will nepotism work, wise one? The People’s Republic of North Korea? Do you even read what you write, O! Nawaab of Kabaabs?

What genetic investment are you talking about?

You of all people shouldn’t be talking about nepotism. Your debut film was symbolically called Parampara. In a space of four years, your character was named ‘Raja’ in four films, ‘Prince Vijay’ in one, and another film was called Ek Tha Raja! And you own a fucking town, man!

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What sort of genetic investment went into Bambai ka Babu, Surakshaa, and Aao Pyar Karein? What investment philosophy is this? Rich Dad, Poor Dad??

You won a National Award for Best Actor for Hum Tum. Not Manikchand Superstar of the Year Award – the NATIONAL AWARD. For Hum Tum, a film that was shamelessly copied from the legendary Hollywood rom-com When Harry Met a Shitty Scriptwriter. Your mother Sharmila Tagore was the Chairman of the Central Board of Film Certification. Hum Tum? Are you fucking kidding me? 2004 was the year of films like Swades, Lakshya, Yuva, and Ab Tak Chhappan. And you won it for Hum Tum. And you’re lecturing a 20-something writer to read more books?

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What does that bit about Johnny Depp’s advice even mean? Never complain and never explain? You just complained and explained a fucking 1000 word slob-fest. And what do you mean when you say you have forgotten his advice and you’re never going to forget it again? Does that sentence make sense in a different dimension? The one in which Kachhe Dhaage exists?

And now we are supposed to root for fucking Arjun Kapoor? The guy has the acting range of a drunk hippopotamus? Why don’t you just go ahead and tell us which design of Amul Macho underwear we need to buy too?

You get to play the lover boy opposite actresses half your age, even though the film has all the realism of a Saavdhaan India Weekend Dhamaal episode. You get to play guitar with Parikrama with skills that are marginally better than a 3rd year IIT student’s. You get to strum G-A-D-C chords on a guitar and pretend to sing songs along with Pritam Chewbacabarty on a music awards show. AND, YOU’RE THE KING OF A FUCKING TOWN!  

The truth is, you got to act in 25 films before Dil Chahta Hai. 25 films! Most actors in the country would give their arms, balls, and liver to get to act in 25 films. You got to live the life of a superstar while sucking gloriously at your job. And I don’t know if you realised it along the way of all the beautiful books you read (which the writer for Elle didn’t). That you lead a life of privilege.

Kangana Ranaut has no such luck. She will not get producers making ‘genetic investments’ in her career for twenty years, while she pathetically flaps about with bigger stars for a hit. To go up on stage and perform a gag is one thing. But to write an open letter from a closed mind, to give vague analogies of race horses and genetic investments – proves you’ve clearly been reading the wrong books. May be if you picked up the latest edition of Elle, you would see the number of actors who struggle to get films.

So kindly shut the fuck up about nepotism. Smoke some cigars, order satin underwear on Zivame, and go the fuck to sleep.

And oh, pass me your dealer’s number, will you, Raja?

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Indian Womens Cricket final PC- sportswallah.com

Stop Patronising the Women’s Cricket Team

After decades of single column articles in newspapers, Indians suddenly started watching women’s cricket.

After decades of pay disparity, subpar facilities, and step-motherly treatment, Indians suddenly woke up, had a lazy Sunday lunch and decided to do their bit for the nation by watching the finals of the Women’s Cricket World Cup. There can be two explanations for this.

  1. The recent rise in jingoism among India’s urban middle class. The habit of going online and screaming slogans and bullying everybody who criticises the country. A lazy, shitty trend where Indians think they’re protecting the nation’s image by spewing venom on social networking sites, while Mark Zuckerberg smiles in his bed every night.
  1. Mostly sexist or patronising bullshit about how ‘India’s daughters’ are no less than India’s sons, or articles and videos about how pretty the women cricketers are.
Winner of the Miss Malini Terrific Journalist of the Year award

                                       Winner of the Miss Malini Terrific Journalist of the Year award

 

Or take for example this tweet by Rishi Kapoor – a man who is 10th pass, has led a life of privilege, and spends his evenings drunk on Twitter – but has been made a social commentator by the brains in Indian media.

Aila! Barfi ka baap sexist gaandu hai

                                                  Aila! Barfi ka baap sexist gaandu hai

Stuff like this makes you question if the following Indian women’s cricket is receiving is actually for the better. If it’s worth it. So when my friend switched on the Indus Valley civilisation television in the room, I began watching the match with mixed feelings.

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By evening, my timeline was flooded with a mishmash of hashtags, pictures, and wishes for India’s daughters. Mostly patronising bullshit on the lines of ‘Hey good job, we are proud of you’ and ‘Mhari chhoriyaan chhoron se kam nahi’.

Honestly, I don’t know if these guys really watched the match, or have any understanding of the sport of cricket. Because the finals was actually a terrible match. India worked hard to wrest the match from their erstwhile colonisers, only to squander it all away with amateurish strategy in the final lap.

In case you missed the match, this is what happened.

England opted to bat first, scoring 228 – a score many would consider sub-par with India’s in-form batting line up. In response, India’s innings played out like a Sanjay Leela Bhansali movie – interesting in the beginning, but making you question your time management skills by the end.

There couldn’t have been a better example of ‘throwing away a match’. Mithali Raj had to sprint for a dangerous single, and didn’t bother even dragging her bat or putting in a dive. Smriti Mandhana looked like she had taken the earlier article seriously and sent in Disha Patani to bat for her. Harmanpreet Kaur played an almighty heave just after reaching her 50, in a final no less! Veda Krishnamurthy’s innings would have given Sehwag a few heart attacks, and Deepti Sharma gifted her wicket when the team needed it most. The rest of the team hacked mindlessly at deliveries without a care in the world, and a match that should have been won in 43 overs was left to rot and go sour.

In all honesty, India threw away a match that was right in their pocket.

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If anything, I feel bad for Mithali Raj, who deserved to win the tournament. Mithali Raj owns a string of cricketing records, including the most runs scored by a woman ever. She’s been playing for India since 1999 but has admittedly been let down by a team that never was good enough. Mithali Raj deserved to go out with a bang!

They said that this match could change the face of women’s cricket in the country. Probably. But I wish we Indians weren’t so patronising to the women’s cricket team. If anything, they need sponsors, better facilities, and following. Lots and lots of following. If you truly want to support the team, watch their matches. And take your patronising statements and shove them up your ass.

The Indian men’s cricket team is not followed due to an inherent sexism, even though we ARE a very sexist society. From the shaky 90s to the semi-confident 2000s, to the terrific 2010s, the craze for cricket has coincided with improved performances from the men’s team over the decades.

If people follow you and you do not perform, the following will wane. Look at our hockey team, now watched by lesser people than Bajrang Dal activists on Valentine’s Day. Or Altaf Raja – once the heartthrob of millions, now relegated to gutkha wrappers and pencil boxes.

On the other hand, look at sports like badminton, where women enjoy far greater following because they’ve outperformed men. The most famous male badminton player in India unfortunately, is still Jeetendra in Dhal Gaya Din, Ho Gayi Shaam.

Winner of Chennai Badminton Open

                       Winner of Chennai Badminton Open wearing Abbas Mastaan Spring Fall Collection

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After the match, I sat down to write a blog on the match. And it read like the rough draft of Dangal, on our daughters bringing pride to Mother India. But it felt wrong to post it. Because if the men’s team had lost to England in a World Cup final, I’d be furiously attacking my computer. Typing out hateful, trolly post. I’d make fun of Shikhar Dhawan’s tattoo and accuse X player of sucking K player’s cock. So why was I being Sant Tukaram now?

Trolling Sanjay Manjrekar doesn’t change the fact that Indian cricketers messed up the match big time. It doesn’t change the fact that India should have steamrolled England in the finals.

I wish the women cricket team achieves great heights and wins many tournaments in the future. But let’s face it, India’s daughters made a complete mess of this match.

***

Featured Image courtesy: www.sportswallah.com

Picture showing a group of hybrid, super-efficient zombies who pass off as the Indian team today.

Why do all Indian cricketers look like each other?

Nostalgia, is a tricky monster.

Nostalgia makes people romanticise the trivial and the unpleasant. People glorify the agony of waiting a month for a telephone connection and LPG cylinder. Processing and accepting those emotions as some hogwash cathartic, life-coming-full-circle bullshit.

Cricket isn’t exempt from the vile clutches of nostalgia either.

I have met erstwhile fans who glorify the tension of watching the Indian cricket team in the 90s. Celebrate the anxiety of watching the Indian team totter and stutter their way to rare victories. ‘Glorious uncertainties’ – that term that Sunil Gavaskar dished out when we snatched defeat out of the jaws of victory in Bahubalean fashion. When S. Ramesh T. struggled to string together the winning runs while his partners strolled in and out of the pitch like drunk baaraatis. Most fans tend to romanticise these days of uncertainty, bracketing them unnecessarily under the umbrella of ‘nostalgia’.

I am not one of them. Give me ‘predictably good’ over ‘glorious uncertainty’ any day. Perhaps my brain had a premonition about my weak heart’s incapability to deal with these days for too long!

Cricket today is not just competing with Amul Surabhi and Chitrahaar. It’s competing with Netflix and Facebook and Tinder and Zomato. You don’t just have to win, you have to win while blowing my mind, or I’ll switch off. I’ll switch channels and devices and playlists and crawl far, far away from you.

I am happy with the state of the Indian cricket team today. I love the fact that after 80 years of international cricket, India is now feared and respected as a worthy adversary, like the Australian team we grew up watching. That we are counted among the top; that to beat us, you have to be top-shelf, surpass our strengths and exploit our weaknesses.

That you can’t beat India just because Sachin got out and the rest of the team has the batting skills of woodcutters. Not because chasing a big score in a final was ‘always going to be a difficult ask’. Not because, like my neighbour would say, ‘Today is Friday, Muslims will always win’.

To beat the Indian team of today, you have to be bloody good, play out of your skin. Elevate your standards to meet those of our many gods.

It’s a wonderful feeling. I am thrilled with with the state Indian cricket is in today. None of that nostalgia-vostalgia for me, thank you very much!

*

However, I would like to lodge a minor complaint.

It is human nature after all, to lodge such minor complaints from time to time. Jackie Shroff essayed the role of the legendary Ram in Teri Meherbaniyan, but is only remembered for the Bidu caricature. Bob Dylan lodged complaints against the times he lived in using cutting letters and biting phrases. Chenghis Khan complained about the size of his kingdom and went about redefining the meaning of ‘Father’s Day’ for most of Asia. The British complained about the lack of spices in their salads, and I’m sitting here thousands of miles away writing articles with clickbait headlines. It is human nature to complain.

My complaint is the headline of this article. The words you saw on your Facebook feed and decided to give a chance because you saw potential – much like the selectors did with Amay Khurasia years ago –

‘WHY DO ALL INDIAN CRICKETERS LOOK THE SAME?’

The Indian cricket today is a clone army of supremely fit, spiky-haired, tattoo-sporting, muscled athletes. Their beards are all perfectly trimmed and shaped, their hair spiked to perfection, vague tattoos on their left arms – everybody looks like everybody else.

How did a nation with as much diversity as ours, all those races and ethnicities, the chutney of languages and foods and dialects – how did our entire team morph into one another?

Kohli looks like Rahul who looks like Jadeja looks like Rahane looks like Dhawan looks like Pandya looks like Rohit Sharma. Even Ashwin, who till a few years back resembled the topper who eats three tiffin compartments of curd rice in the last bench, has morphed into the army. Suresh Raina, who looks like his father owns a sweet shop on MG Road, has also gone for the beard-spike look. Dhoni, who was once a long-haired Samson who sported a paunch but ran like Minotaur, has also bought into the scheme.

Picture showing a group of hybrid, super-efficient zombies who pass off as the Indian team today.

Picture showing a group of hybrid, super-efficient zombies who pass off as the Indian team today.

Don’t get me wrong! It’s great that the Indian team is faster, stronger, sharper. But at a narrative level, it is devoid of personalities. The Indian team I grew up with was a motley crew of distinctly different personalities. Like a pirate ship with cast-away crew from different lands. You could be watching the match on a grainy 7’ x 8’ black and white television in a paan shop, but you knew who was who. You could recognise them by their gait, their posture, their throws from the boundary, their hobble across the 22 yards.

They were uncle cricketers – who could vanish into any Indian crowd. They could be members of a summer picnic of SBI employees, or a Ganesh procession.

Group of Indian men waiting for traffic police to give permission for their Ganesh to start from the colony (PC: Cricinfo)

Group of Indian men waiting for traffic police to give permission for their Ganesh to start from the colony (PC: Cricinfo)

There were the paunchy, middle-aged men – Manoj Prabhakar, Saba Karim, Ashish Kapoor – whose moustaches and mullets served as tributes to the likes of Suneil Shetty and Sudesh Berry.

Then we had the Decent Gentlemen’s Club of South Indian bowlers – Srinath, Prasad and Kumble. Tall, gangly engineers who worked hard because they had to withdraw their PPF account before Diwali.

Anil Kumble, who with spectacles and moustache, slayed opposition tailenders like they were calculus problems. Srinath, who would come running in from the 30 yard circle, apologise to the batsman for hitting him on the head, and run back to his bowling mark sweating like a marathon runner. Or Prasad, who had the legs of a giraffe and the hands of a sloth. Who woke up early, wore a digital watch, bowled his 10 overs and retired to bed early (unless you were a certain Ameer Sohail).

Picture showing Indian men having a house party when their wives are away.

Picture showing Indian men having a house party when their wives are away.

There was Sunil Joshi, whose moustache was more glorious than his bowling average. Sanjay Manjrekar with his aadarsh-baalak white helmet. Robin Singh, who looked like an honest (and hence) harassed SBI employee – hard-working, sweating, his receding hairline a reflection of his worries. There was Sidhu with the 5 Ks of Sikhism, and one ‘G’ – Grin. Sachin with his curly mop of hair. Venkatpathy Raju and Vinod Kambli, who looked like boys who hung out with the seniors in the colony. Nayan Mongia, who looked like the guy who dropped out of school after 10th and was now doing a vocational course in Industrial Technology Institute.

Schoolboys clicking a picture with their class-teacher on a picnic. PC: Reddit.

Schoolboys clicking a picture with their class-teacher on a picnic. PC: Reddit.

There were the cricketers from Mumbai, their young shoulders drooping with the burden of legacy – Pravin Amre, Sairaj Bahutule, and Sameer Dighe. There were the south Indian batsmen – Sujith Somasunder, Vijay Bharadwaj and S. Ramesh – hardworking and honest (except when Ramesh faked an injury certificate and got booted out of the team!).

And then there was Ramesh Powar, who famously declared in an interview that he was ‘fat, but fit’. Who with his portly paunch and his gold chains and coloured sunglasses looked more capable of hypnotizing batsmen than bamboozling them. Who was probably given two Test matches to play because selectors placed bets on his ability to stand for five days!!  

Then there was the boss man – shoulders hunched, latching onto the ball like it was a golden snitch, flipping the ball with his shoe and catching it – all swag and coolness – Mohammad Swaggeruddin. The man who had his collar up all the time, like the World Cup semi final was just another ‘bet-match’ between Charminar and Begumpet.

You just didn’t follow cricketers, you aped their mannerisms. I tried to flick the ball up like Azharuddin all through my childhood and only learnt to do it at age 30. Ajay Jadeja’s ‘throw the ball quickly and smile’ trick was never possible because I suck as a fielder, and smiling after a misfield makes me look like a lunatic. Laxman’s tapping on the pitch was followed by millions of kids in India.

*

You can’t do that with today’s team. KL Rahul has Virat’s beard and Dhawan has his tattoos, and they’re all fit and springy and quick and efficient. Their beards are all cropped to perfection and their tattoos are all dark-green mumbo-jumbo, and they all field well and rattle opposition batsmen.

I can’t tell one from the other. Even when I watch cricket on pimple-revealing HD clarity, I have to put my bottle of beer aside, and wait for the replay to curse the rare misfield. I have nobody to ape anymore, falling back upon Mohd. Swaggeruddin’s ball-flick, and Venkatesh Prasad’s sublime fielding skills.

It’s only a minor complaint, I know. But I’m only human, saar.

Like Sadagopan Ramesh.

***

Nightmare

Dreams of Terror

I have a strange association with dreams.

Since my childhood, I have had dreams that are horrific, and keep returning to me like somebody’s cruel idea of a recurring deposit. When I read my diaries dating back to 1997, one common feature I find in them is warped dreams that blur the line between wet dreams and nightmares.

Most of my dreams play out like Vikram Bhatt movies. They begin with a lot of sex and action, and slowly descend into chaos and terror. Like the protagonists of Bhatt’s movies, I can’t get out of the situation because I had invested myself emotionally, mentally, and physically in the first half. Unfortunately, dreams do not have intermissions where you can take your Coke and get the fuck out of the hall!

The other thing about my dreams is that I die in them, and then continue to see things like a ghost. Like an online multiplayer shooter game where once you’re dead, you can still see what’s going on with the rest of the game. Sometimes, when the danger is too much, I am able to shake myself off and wake up in the middle. But there are a few dreams I can’t wake up from, ones I like to call ‘unshakable dreams’.

In the last few years, I have two consistent unshakable dreams.

NIGHTMARE NO.1 : I meet an ex of mine, one to whom I’d proudly said ‘You’ll never get a guy like me’ in a moment of madness; one who’s probably the greatest woman I’ll ever be with. She meets me when I am 50 years old. She hasn’t aged a day, still looking heart-stoppingly beautiful, her eyes carrying the spark that took my breath away years ago.

I, on the other hand, have become a fat, sad, unpublished author, sitting amidst flying papers and old beer cans, tears of shame and regret flowing down my face. I try to explain, to talk to her – but mangled gibberish comes out of my mouth. She looks into my eyes, waiting for a response, and then walks out of the room. I struggle to get up, call out her name, and wake up in a sweat.

NIGHTMARE NO.2 : I am standing in front of a Roman Colosseum, dilapidated and destroyed. It must have once been beautiful, but its jagged edges now look like the skeleton of a dinosaur. In the middle of the Colosseum, there’s black water hissing and raging.

There are countless men standing on the edge of the structure, and there isn’t enough space. People are jostling, and pushing, and shoving – and I see them fall into the black waters, dissolving into nothingness, their screams of agony echoing through the building like a gigantic migraine.

Outside the building, there are masked men dressed in black, hacking away at everybody in sight. There are two options – get hacked to death, or jump to your death. Either way, all that remains of you is a haunting echo of pain.

*

I don’t know if it’s the dreams, but I’ve become a little paranoid these days.

Every time I visit a crowded place, I make sure to stay near the exit doors. If it’s a mall, I am calculating my moves in case there’s an attack. While booking flight tickets, I choose the ones near the Emergency exit; same with movie tickets too!

Last night, I had another of these nightmares.

I was at my school, nearly everybody I know chasing each other in the dormitory that seemed to have magically expanded to fit everybody. Everything’s hunky dory, when I notice a young girl – about 5 years of age – her blond curly hair making her look like Shirley Temple. She is running among the crowd when, suddenly, she opens a window, ties a rope around her waist and fastens it to the window bar, and leaps out.

Nobody but me notices this, and panic begins to flow through my veins. All around me, people are laughing and chasing each other, but I know something rotten is looming ahead.

I run to the bathrooms, look for a ventilator and plan my escape route. I’ll have to climb up the bathroom wall, and make a Bahubalean leap to the ventilator, and then climb out.

I stand near the bathroom, wondering if it is all a dream. Why didn’t anybody else see the girl? Why does everybody else seem happily oblivious?? And then, I hear it.

Screams of agony, crashing in like waves. Everybody I know, running away from the doors, as masked men in black spray bullets into flesh. I see the faces – friends, relatives, teachers, kind strangers who lent me cigarettes years ago – running in my direction, their faces full of horror.

Without a thought, I leap on top of the bathroom door, take in a deep breath and jump towards the ventilator. The pane shatters, and I feel the pain in my flesh. I quickly grab the ladder, balance myself on it, and climb down as quickly as my shaky legs permit me to. Just as I land, the bamboo ladder wilts, and cracks.

I look up, and there are people screaming out to me. Their eyes bloodshot, their faces convulsing with terror and hatred. More and more people line up at the window, till they are only a bloody mash of flesh and blood.

Instead of arranging for a ladder, I run away.

*

I woke up sweating, and looked for my phone.

There was a missed call from a friend I’m supposed to meet. We were to meet at Inorbit Mall, but fuck that!

I call him and suggest we meet at a bar nearby. Any bar, doesn’t matter. But not a mall.

Jio Filmfare South Awards

Writing for the Filmfare Awards

Alright, let me clarify.

I wrote the script for Filmfare Awards South 2017. Not the one where Shah Rukh Khan makes fun of the rest of the industry. Nope.

This is the Filmfare South Awards, where all the four industries are brought together – a gigantic jaagran where 58 awards are given in one night. In the span of the one show, you could watch Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham thrice, complete with the Mera Naam Mukesh Hai campaign and the Vicco Vajradanti advertisements.

The Filmfare South Awards are also different because stars south of the Vindhyas are very touchy about themselves. Take for example the Telugu film industry, where the biggest stars are not followed because of their acting skills, but their CASTE (I know! It’s fuck-all). There are reports every year of fans of one actor clashing with fans of another actor. Just last year, there was a report where a fan of Pavan Kalyan was fatally stabbed by a fan of Junior NTR for a fight during …hold your breath… an organ donation drive!

Half of my jokes got self-censored when I read up on this.

*

The brief from Filmfare was simple. The Awards had been a bland affair so far, and this year they were looking to make it lively and fun, which is why they wanted someone from a stand-up background to script it.

I went through last year’s script and found that it had been hosted by the same couple for the last five years. The script for last year was so interesting, I went to sleep and dreamt of having cervical cancer! So clearly, I had my work cut out.

The hosts for this year’s awards were Vijay Devarakonda, a rank outsider who shot to stardom with Pellichoopulu (coincidentally the only Telugu film I’ve reviewed), and Allu Sirish – younger brother of Allu Arjun, whose films can be found dubbed on Zee Cinema as Main Hoon Lucky the Racer, Veerta the Power, Bunny the Hero, and Natraj the Pencil. 

Surprisingly, the two hosts agreed to make fun of themselves. I was confident that Vijay would be fine with the jokes since we both studied in the same school, and he had also agreed to come for one of the stand up shows I directed, completely around offence humour.

But when Allu Sirish agreed to the jokes, which were mostly about nepotism and the lack of talent among star-kids, I thanked my stars and quickly went on to draft the rest of the script.

The show in itself is a nightmare to write for, as there are about 58 awards in all the four South languages (No, C++ is not a South Indian language, fuck off!). I am not really connected to the movies intellectually or emotionally, and it helped me have an outsider’s point of view to the proceedings. I was told not to make fun of senior actors or popular stars, which meant I could only write jokes about the hosts, which didn’t seem too bad after reading the news about fans stabbing each other!

Finally, we had a reasonably funny script, two hosts who were willing to take a joke on themselves, a video that would be played at the live event, and a couple of gags that would make people wake up from their slumber and hopefully laugh.

*

Since I am not too attached intellectually or emotionally to films and their stars, I didn’t have too much work to do backstage. Apart from announcing the beginning of the show, and making sure I didn’t screw up the words ‘Please rise for the National Anthem’ in English and Telugu, I had no real work to do.

The format of the show is rather treacherous, and after a point me and Sai Santhosh (my writing buddy) nearly zoned out. It was just a haze of one actor after the other getting up on stage and thanking the Almighty, their director, their parents, their children, their neighbours, the weather, the North Pole.

That was until I noticed Rahman!

If you’ve read my blog, you’d know I am not a fan of Rahman, I am a devotee. I realised this might be the closest I’ll ever get to the man, and the moment I noticed his chair empty, I ran to the washrooms, just in case he wanted to sa re ga ma pee.

Unfortunately, Rahman was nowhere to be seen. What I got instead was a Malayalam singer looking around with his Filmfare award. Our eyes met awkwardly and I congratulated him on the award. He immediately handed me his award to hold while he went to pee!

*

It was 1 AM by the time the show ended, and the two of us went back home.

It had been a fun week, hanging out with all these famous stars like I was one among them. But one cannot fight one’s true destiny. It was time to return to writing articles on the 10 Benefits of Mosquito Repellents.

One day, I'll be there for Best Story. Till then, for writing silly jokes for the hosts, I guess.

A post shared by Hriday Ranjan (@heartranjan) on

quitting weed

Going a fortnight without smoking weed

It’s been a week since I quit weed.

I know, I know.

*

Before you express displeasure or disapproval, kindly allow me to explain. There are a few reasons for my decision. I have listed them down below:

  1. I was in bed with a lady recently, and my performance reminded myself of Devang Gandhi in Australia in 1999. I have been swimming recently, and am reasonably fit, so it must have been all the smoking. Also, isn’t it funny? Smoking before sex makes you bad at it, and yet we light up a cigarette once we are done?

But wait, the reasons aren’t as shallow as lasting longer in bed.

  1.    I have been getting high EVERY SINGLE DAY for the last decade. Every single day, without any exceptions. It made me realise that my idea of reality could be distorted. My entire day revolved around scoring weed, rolling joints, smoking weed. I had positioned myself as some sort of a Baba for my friends, and I realised I was living up to my own image without bothering to question it.
  1.   I have been rather infatuated with a beautiful young woman, and would like to sort my shit out for a while so I don’t have to run away from another relationship again.

Alright, the reasons DO sound shallow, not that I think about it.

*

Be that as it may, the last fortnight has been quite pleasant.

I have a habit of hyping things up, so I had to give myself a few days before typing away a blogpost on the topic. These are the major effects I found in myself since I quit smoking pot.

  1. There’s just so much time!

 

My days usually began with me looking for the rolling paper and roach, to roll myself a beautiful morning joint. After which, I spend my time pouring over the joys of the Holy Trinity – Reddit, Facebook and X-art.

Since I quit pot, there’s so much time on my hands, I do not know what to do with it all. I sometimes treat myself like a British officers in the Raj. I step out for a morning walk, have myself a cup of tea and ponder about the meaning of life!

  1.   The ability to plan my day out

I am not big on planning. I have never planned anything in life, except probably when I used to work in an STD booth during my +2, and I made sure I finished all my work before the Friday night movie on DD1.

These days, I bring out my pen (Luxor V7 Hi-Tecpoint, in case you’re curious!) and my notebook (Classmate, cheap 25 Rs.) and chalk out my plan for the day. Of course, I am unable to finish all the items on my to-do list, but it’s better than not having a to-do list at all.

  1.   Withdrawal symptoms? I have Deposit symptoms

I was told that I’d feel a number of symptoms of quitting weed after such extended periods of usage. On the contrary, I feel perfectly fine. I wake up early and do not have to wait for my asshole stand-up comedian friends to get free so I can roll them a joint. Forget withdrawal symptoms, I am showing deposit symptoms!

  1.   Calming of ‘em nerves

I used to live under the impression that smoking weed calms me down. I used to smoke joints before I went up on stage, before I started writing, and before going to bed. Since I’ve gone cold turkey (quit cigarettes too!), I feel calmer before going up on stage.

Instead of the 15 minutes I used to smoke 3 cigarettes before going up, I now calmly run through my content. If anything, I feel a sense of tranquility, a sense of surety.

 

*

I don’t mean to preach at all.

I don’t believe marijuana is harmful (except the damage to the lungs, of course), and don’t mean to stop you from smoking up. In fact, I still roll joints for all my friends because of the sense of power and abstinence it gives me. Please feel free to smoke up as much weed as you want.

However, if you decide to quit, remember it’s not that difficult. Marijuana has a number of magical properties, but perhaps the most magical of them all is the complete lack of dependency on the substance itself.

So if you’re looking to quit, please do so by all means.

(Issued in public interest. If you have any issues with quitting weed/cigarettes/your job, feel free to write to Hriday at writetohriday@gmail.com! :D)

***

(Featured Image courtesy: wikihow.com)

To be in love with a ‘committed’ woman

At 31, I have nearly given up on love and companionship.

While love is determined on dreamy foundations in your early 20s, as you get to your late 20s, it is about pragmatism and practicality. I have the discipline of a drunk sloth, and do not aim to ever have a job or get married.

At 31, friends do not try to link you up with their friends. Tinder is too shallow for my tastes, and going to meet somebody is too deep for me. My game is not really that of looks – you need to speak to me for a few days before even considering meeting me. Most people have that ONE bad relationship in their lives, all of my 9 relationships were disasters. And I don’t even mean flings, I mean proper relationships.

(Wow, I sound depressing!)

I spent the last one year sleeping around, but how long can a man keep doing that? Flings are great when the night is long and sinful. But once the sun has risen and you have to discuss realities like ‘How do I get back home?’ or ‘When will he be back?’, I feel terribly cheap.

And so my life was hurtling along, when I met this woman.

And thus, the saga began all over again.

*

Call me soppy, but most of my relationships begin when I dream about the person (I know, I know!).  

In my dreams, I am super confident about myself, a healthy mix of Dev Anand and Shammi Kapoor who can serenade and sweep off nimble feet. All the women I have dated have been stunning, and I look like the actor Harish having a bad hair day. Which means I require high levels of confidence before taking my stance.

And just when I had given up on myself, I came across this woman.

There is a distinct pattern to all the woman I had the chance to spend time with. For some reason, they all love dogs, Harry Potter and marijuana.

Talking to a woman you like for the first time is like doing acid. You pop the tab and wait for it to take effect. You smile and you grin and forget that you’re a monster deep within. The world around you opens up in beautiful, vivid colours. Your broken, jagged soul fits into the horizon like a jigsaw puzzle.

Only problem though, she has a boyfriend!

*

When I meet a woman I like who’s committed, there are two paths to take. One, a completely physical, wanton ‘Wham, bam, Bol Bam’. The second, I avoid them completely.

That was the plan. The plan was to forget her and move on, try to be a better person.

But I cannot stop thinking about her. I keep checking out the timezone she is in, wondering what she might be doing at this moment. I keep checking to see if she is online, keep fighting off those dark, evil thoughts that knock on the outside of my brain.

To be in love with a woman who is committed to someone else feels like injustice. Like pain somewhere deep within that cannot be diagnosed. Like running for miles like a maniac, and discovering you’re on a treadmill.

I long for a time when we were all early men and women. When society hadn’t drawn up these lines and divisions. When the only ‘commitment’ humans had was to hunt for the deer that evening.

Of course, I could put an end to all this misery. I could ask her if she wanted to be with me, and she might probably agree. Might. But I have zero confidence in my own abilities. In my morals and ethics. What if I go back to being the lazy sloth that I am? What if I cheat on her too?

Do I have the right to uproot her from her magical life and bring her into mine, full of monsters and demons?

And so I sit here in my shallow pit and wallow in self-pity.

For being in love with a committed woman, is worse than being in love at all.

***

Sachin A Billion Dreams

‘Sachin: A Billion Dreams’ is two and a half hours of Tendulkar Porn!

As I stepped out to buy overpriced Coke and oversalted popcorn during the interval, I overheard a father explaining to his son—”It’s not a movie, beta. It is a documentary.”

I could empathise with the kid. Sachin: A Billion Dreams is a film that works only if you were born before 1995. The film has no hero, no antagonist, no songs or dances. In fact, the film sits more comfortably in the domain of documentaries than cinema.

If Sachin is God, his life is a mythological epic.

*

The story is known to all, told and retold, written and rewritten, over and over. His childhood stories are similar to Krishna’s exploits in Vrindavan. When he looked at the skies, scoring a century after his father’s death, Indians wouldn’t be shocked if flowers came falling from the sky, reminiscent of Bheeshma’s terrible oath.

Sachin fulfils every single criterion of being an Indian adarsh baalak. Fair-skinned, immensely talented, honed by the right people, had the world eating out of his hands. But most importantly, Sachin is humble and soft-spoken. We Indians love humility and soft-spokenness—we’d prefer Harishchandra over Howard Hughes, Ratan Tata over Warren Beatty. In Sachin, kids saw what they wanted to become, and parents saw what they wanted their kids to become.

The thought often rankles me—would India have loved Sachin as much if he was flashy and proud? I doubt it. They’d wait for him to fail, and tear into him—”Told you! His success got to his head!” they’d say! But Sachin remained humble, and joined our long list of gods.

When every single detail of a man’s life is known, how do you make a film? You hire a foreigner to do it! When Indians make films on Indian cricketers, they’re either too fawning (Dhoni: The Untold Story), or mind-numbingly dumb (Azhar).

Director James Erskine uses Sachin and his wife as narrators, using home videos and wedding clips to create a personal bond. There are clips where he’s playing with his daughter, teaching her the umpire’s signals for boundary, sixer and out! This is a portrait of a man who knows nothing but cricket, being worshipped by a nation that follows nothing but cricket.

*

But if you’re a cricket buff, you begin to notice the details. Take for example the Sachin of 1994-1997, when there’s swagger in his stagger—he wears Suniel Shetty glasses, a thick gold chain, and a superstar gait. The swagger quickly vanishes when he’s made the captain, and he’s the obedient adarsh baalak once more!

Like Sachin himself, India grew into a generation which likes to date before getting married. Where the wife calls him by his name, instead of silly words like “woh” and “unhein.” Like the India of today, we find out that Sachin goes through depression too.

Within an hour, you begin to feel like a part of the dressing room. You begin to feel for players like Dravid, who put in hours of blood, sweat and tears. For Shane Warne, who has graciously contributed to the legend of Sachin, in spite of being no less of a genius.

*

The masterstroke though, was getting AR Rahman to create the background score. They’re not too dissimilar, Sachin and Rahman. Short, stocky, curly-haired, immensely talented, humble to a fault. Rahman’s background score is like a Rahman background score—rousing, thumping, an army of emotions charging forward. A Rahman soundtrack can make mating anteaters look graceful, so imagine the effect it has on childhood nostalgia.

By the end, as Sachin stands on a beach in shades and shorts, it feels like a trip to the planetarium. To a museum of innocence, where ugly relics of match-fixing and controversies are locked up in the attic.

*

How much you enjoy Sachin: A Billion Dreams depends on when you were born. If it was before 1995, you can’t stop looking at the man who personified the nation you grew up in. If you were born after 1995, you begin to wonder about this strange obsession with this man!

The film is a heady cocktail of two of our obsessions—cinema and cricket. Now, if only Sachin would go back to the Rajya Sabha…

***

This post first appeared on Huffington Post.