What Blogging Means to Me: Shouting in a Deserted Street

I recently wrote a blog post and shared it with friends and family before publishing it. Since the topic was mildly controversial and referenced specific people, I wanted to be factually accurate and politically correct. 

They read it, approved it, and encouraged me to go ahead. 

The trouble is that most of them did not take any time in giving me the go ahead. Knowing some of them, I wont be surprised if a few just wanted to see what happens next!!! 

When the post finally went live and nothing happened, some of them sounded oddly disappointed. They asked why no one was reacting. I explained that I am not Chetan Bhagat or Amish Tripathi, and hardly anyone reads my blogs. That explanation disappointed them even more. But frankly, I was surprised they had assumed otherwise.

Since the expected 'explosion' never occurred, the next suggestion was even more interesting. I was advised to actively send the blog post to various people - including those who might be offended by it! 

Needless to say, I refused. 

For me, blogging serves two very simple purposes.

First, if there is a topic I feel strongly about - something that has been bothering me, unsettling me, or occupying too much mental space - I write about it. It could be a rant, a strong opinion, something that moved me or even plain cribbing. Writing helps me take it out of my system.

Second, once I publish a post, my opinion is out there. It feels like standing in the middle of a street and shouting at the top of my lungs. That, to me, is liberating. Now, whether the street is crowded or completely empty, it does not matter. Its irrelevant. I have shouted. People could have heard me. If they chose not to be there in the street, that is not my concern. 

And for some posts, I genuinely do not mind the street being empty!

What some of these friends expect is - since shouting in the street did not result in a Kambal Kutai (i.e., royal bashing) - I should now go knocking on doors and shout directly into people’s faces.

Sorry doston but I am not that stupid!! 🙂

I am happy shouting in my deserted street.

I Asked for an Image, Got an Experience

Creating images with AI can be both amusing and frustrating. While clear prompts are essential, even precise instructions do not always guarantee the desired outcome. In a recent attempt to generate an image using Gemini, I found the process unexpectedly cumbersome, frustrating but also hilarious! Below is my actual chat with Gemini, which illustrates the challenges I encountered during the image-generation process.

Me: Create an image of 2 friends running away from a shop with soft drinks bottles in hand. They are nervous. There is a scooter (lambretta) in the parking lot.Two male friends. One tall and one short. Running away from the shop. Each has a soft drinks bottles in hand.

Gemini: 

Me: Only one bottle each. Glass bottle.

Gemini:

Me: No. Each guy has only one bottle

Gemini:

Me: One guy is holding 2 bottles. Please remove one bottle

Gemini: 

Me: Now his hand is gone. Please fix that

Gemini:

Me: 😡😡😡 

A Tale of Two Soft Drinks: A Heist Gone Wrong

Watching a reel earlier today reminded me of an incident from 1997. My friend Gandharv and I had just cleared our Class 12 examinations and were roaming around the city (Ranchi), collecting admission forms for CA and CS courses. It is considered a 'deadly' combination for commerce students and people who know me, him or both would be surprised that we were interested in those two courses. To be honest, we had zero understanding of these courses but were were looking to get details regarding them because (a) we were clueless (b) Parents had begun asking the inevitable question about what would we do next and above all (c) it was a legit excuse for getting some fuel money and pocket money from home and roam around the city!

We were travelling on my scooter - the legendary Vijay Super, the Indian cousin of the even more legendary Lambretta. We did collect the forms. In at least one office, the official we spoke to gave us a condescending, almost suspicious look, as though he had already concluded that inka koi future nahi hai aur yeh maa-baap ke paise barbaad karenge (they have no future and will only waste their parents’ money)!!

After spending a fair amount of time in the city, we decided to stop for refreshments. Since we were using my scooter and fuel, Gandharv offered to pay - a fair deal. In any case, I had exhausted both my fuel and pocket money; my pockets were empty.

We went to the GEL Church Complex in Ranchi, a well-known shopping complex and a popular hangout spot in those days. At one of the confectionery shops on the first floor, we ordered two soft drinks - possibly Thums Up or Pepsi. Bottles in hand, we stood in front of the shop, engrossed in conversation.

At some point, Gandharv started walking, and I followed, still talking. We walked about ten meters away, turned around, and came back to the shop. We repeated this once more. On the third occasion, we walked even farther, almost reaching the staircase. Everything was perfectly normal.

Suddenly, in one swift motion, Gandharv placed the empty bottle down and sprinted down the stairs. I had no idea what had happened or what prompted this sudden action - until I saw him gesturing frantically for me to run as well. It then dawned on me that Gandharv had not paid for the soft drinks and had just fled!!

I neither had the courage to face the situation nor the money to resolve it. By the time I could decide what to do, Gandharv had crossed the parking lot and was already crossing the road in front of the shopping complex. I ran - more accurately, I galloped. In my nervousness, I fumbled with my scooter keys and dropped them. Picking them up, retrieving the scooter, starting it, and riding away felt far too slow and unsafe, so I abandoned that plan and ran after Gandharv, who by then was about 150 meters ahead.

When I finally reached him, I shouted words that cannot be written here and told him that he should have at least warned me. I then threw the scooter keys at him and announced that he would now have to now retrieve the scooter - and bring it back safely. The consequences of my army father’s wrath would have been far worse than getting caught by the shopkeeper.

He had no choice but to reluctantly return to the shopping complex. In his nervousness, he pulled the fuel knob - something that was meant to be turned - with force. And poor Vijay Super’s fuel knob gave way and now there was no way the scooter would have started or at least gone the distance. So now he had to run back but this time - with the scooter.

He did manage to return safely. Perhaps the shopkeeper had not even noticed the two jokers running away without paying. 

It was a great relief.

There was only one problem - the broken fuel knob. Since Gandharv had broken it, he had to get it repaired - which, like an honest and true gentleman, he did. Ironically, the repair cost him more than the two soft drinks he had tried so hard not to pay for.

More Than Six Sixes: Yuvi, the Fighter Within and Beyond the Boundary

Recently I read The Test of My Life, the ‘autobiography’ of Indian ex-cricketer Yuvraj Singh. While a lot of cricketers write autobiographies and take some help from more accomplished writers, this book must have required much more than ‘some’ help from his co-authors. The writing is vivid, soulful and engaging, making it easy to visualize events. The simple language ensures an effortless and immersive reading experience. Yuvi’s was extremely skilful with the bat, but I really don’t think he is even remotely as skillful with the pen! So, credit for the writing would go to the co-authors - Sharda Ugra, a respected sports journalist and author known for insightful cricket writing and Yuvi's friend, Manager and ex-journalist, Nishant Jeet Arora is also a co-author.

While the book touches upon Yuvraj’s childhood, his family, the role his father played in shaping his cricketing journey, his domestic performances before making his debut, the limited opportunities he received in Test cricket, his friendships, and his relationships with fellow cricketers, its primary focus remains an honest and deeply personal account of his battle with cancer.

Who is Yuvraj Singh? I recall Yuvi as one of the cleanest hitters of a cricket ball. Every cricket fan, of course, remembers the six sixes he smashed off Stuart Broad in an over during the 2007 T20 World Cup. He is also one of the few Indian cricketers to have won three ICC events: the Under-19 World Cup in 2000, the ICC T20 World Cup in 2007, and the ICC World Cup in 2011. And he did not just win them - he was Player of the Tournament in the Under-19 World Cup (2000) and the ICC World Cup (2011) and missed the same honour in the 2007 T20 World Cup by just one point. While his performances in 2000 and 2007 were outstanding, it was in 2011 that he truly carried the team, winning us the World Cup with a series of splendid all-round performances, both with bat and ball. I call him the man who won us the 2011 World Cup. (It triggers my father, who immediately jumps in to defend Sachin Tendulkar’s performances - and rightly so, as he too had a great tournament. We are both big fans of Sachin, but I firmly believe it was Yuvi who truly won us the World Cup.)

I also recall Yuvi as a gun fielder. Before he burst onto the scene, Indian fielding was largely mediocre. It was he, along with Mohammed Kaif, who truly raised the bar.

If I had to pick an all-time India limited overs cricket team, I would always include Yuvi.

Post the 2011 World Cup, when it emerged that he had played the entire tournament under extreme physical duress due to a tumour between his lungs - unaware at the time that it was cancer, a diagnosis that came much later and almost too late - the respect for his World Cup performances only grew stronger.

Hence, I was keen to read about his cricketing journey as well as his personal account of battling cancer. I read the book with great interest and came away with several key takeaways. They have been discussed below but in no particular order.

I was quite impressed that even while battling the disease, he did not blame his luck or ask the inevitable ‘Why me?’ Instead, he reflected on how he had never attributed his successes to luck either. He never asked the God 'Why me' when he scored big runs, took wickets, had the big moments, won the awards. If he had never questioned why good things came his way, he felt he had no right to question why adversity did. It is so natural and easy to blame luck and play victim. It is not fair and It does not help. It is important to pick ourselves up and fight.

I feel Indian cricketers are often unfairly criticized for having a flamboyant lifestyle - going to nightclubs, being seen with girls - and I find it extremely unjust. What a cricketer (or anyone) does in their personal time is nobody else’s business. Everyone likes to have a good time, yet some are branded as ‘bad boys’. On this Yuvi makes an interesting point in the book that “It is well-known that I love having a good time, isn’t it? I’ll tell you what. I go into clubs and restaurants through the front door, not hiding through the back, because I believe at a certain age, it is fine to want to go out and have fun and be normal. It is normal to be normal”. I completely agree. We demonize parties and people who enjoy them for no good reason. Yes, if the cricketer goes out for form then talk about his poor performances and drop him if required. However, if a player is able to balance both, no one should have an issue. There is a difference between being fun and being indisciplined. We somehow fail to segregate the professional and personal lives of celebrities.

The book is also a reminder of how often we fail to see the pain behind a smiling face. I remember during his cancer battle, Yuvi had started sharing messages and pictures on Twitter, often showing him smiling and laughing - and honestly, it was such a relief to see. Yet, I don’t think any of us truly understood what he was going through. The book reveals how weak he had become, his desperate urge to get back to India and to the dressing room, and the self-doubts that had started creeping in. We never realized this because Yuvi chose not to show it. I found it deeply relatable.

I was also impressed by the professionalism of the doctors and experts Yuvi consulted. When his cancer was detected, he had initially planned to get treatment in London and had met a senior doctor, Dr. Harper. However, before chemotherapy began, the family decided to shift the treatment to the United States - under Dr. Lawrence Einhorn at the IU Simon Cancer Center in Indianapolis [The reason for the change in location is also interesting and divine]. What struck me was Dr. Harper’s reaction. He did not question the decision or -  intentionally or unintentionally - instill doubts. Instead, he said that the treatment in London would have been identical, but "if it happened to my son, I would send him to Dr Einhorn." I cannot imagine many doctors in India responding that way.

It reminded me of an episode in my life - back in 2007 - when I consulted several doctors in New Delhi for a spinal tumour my father had been diagnosed with. Some doctors in Kolkata had said surgery was the only solution but warned of high risks, including paralysis or death. That of course psyched out my father and all of us. I travelled to New Delhi to consult doctors there. I wanted opinions on the next steps, the type of treatment, and where to get it done. Almost all the doctors insisted the treatment should be under them; one even started showing videos of the surgeries he had performed. When I mentioned that my father was seriously considering the Army Research & Referral (R&R) Hospital, most of them discouraged the idea. Eventually, my father was successfully operated on at R&R Hospital, and the surgeon there was highly professional.

Reading about Yuvi, I could imagine the relief and confidence he must have felt with Dr. Harper’s words - a level of honesty, respect, and professionalism that is rare and deeply reassuring. 

One more thing I found extremely relatable was how Yuvi, before his cancer diagnosis, ignored all the warning signs his body was giving him and delayed tests and treatment until it was almost too late. He kept convincing himself it was just exertion, lack of sleep, something he ate, or some minor medical issue. When the tumour was finally detected, and before it was confirmed malignant, he ended up trying acupuncture on the advice of a so-called well-wisher with their own agenda! Honestly, that’s probably the most bizarre tumour treatment I’ve ever heard of. Yet, I found it completely relatable, because I too suffer from FOFO - Fear Of Finding Out.

The book also discusses in detail the role of his father, Yograj Singh, himself a former Indian cricketer. Yograj comes across as a temperamental man who speaks his mind and does not care for political correctness. While I’ve never seen him play, everything I’ve read and heard suggests he was a fairly decent fast-bowling allrounder - a rare breed back then, and one that remains rare even today. Why he did not play more for India remains something of a mystery. He attributes it to politics, which could well be true. It could also be his temperament. After all, honest and straightforward people don’t always win popularity contests.

It is easy, therefore, to see why many view Yograj Singh as a frustrated and bitter ex-cricketer. Yet, what cannot be denied is that Yuvi would not have become the player, match-winner, and warrior he did without his father’s relentless effort, strictness, absence of indulgence, and constant demand for more. In many ways, Yograj Singh gave Indian cricket a gem and played a crucial role in our World Cup triumph.

I will admit, I personally lack discipline, and while reading the book I found myself wondering what it would be like to have someone like him pushing me to fix my flaws. Even imagining it was terrifying!

Lastly, the book made me think about something Yuvi himself acknowledges - that his recovery and comeback would not have been possible without the support of the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI). The BCCI stood firmly by him, protected his privacy, monitored his progress, kept track of his treatment, and took care of the financial aspects. It was also because of the world-class facilities and support available through the BCCI that Yuvi could make a comeback.

I cannot help but imagine that had this happened to an athlete from a ‘less privileged’ sport, the story might have ended very differently. Without financial backing or institutional support, survival itself would have been a challenge, let alone a return to professional sport. The BCCI is often criticized for being political, power-hungry and overly capitalistic, and to a large extent that criticism is valid. But it is also true that it has built a system capable of genuinely taking care of its cricketers and stakeholders. And for that, credit must be given where it is due.

Towards the end, Yuvi talks about his comeback journey, and it was genuinely moving to read. I admit that my own memory of his comeback is a little fuzzy, and I cannot recall too many standout innings after his return. But reading this section made me realize that the comeback was not really about numbers or scorecards. It was about simply finding his way back.

He writes about how difficult it was to lose the weight he had gained, rebuild fitness, and push his body every single day. There were moments when his mind asked him is all the effort worth it, what else does he want to achieve, what does he want to prove. But he came to an important realization - that the mind’s questions were actually the body’s protest. "A few hours of rest and the body would be silenced and the mind could easily win the debate." That line stayed with me. (Just stayed with me; do not think that I am going to hit the gym tomorrow!)

While training at the NCA, he recalls hitting Ishant Sharma for a six - probably his first six after cancer, even if it was with a tennis ball. That one shot gave him immense joy and confidence. He describes it as 'muscle memory' kicking in, as if his old life was linking arms with the new one.

Later, after making his way back into the Indian team, he remembers a moment against New Zealand when Daniel Vettori floated one outside off stump. Without overthinking, his body took over. A decisive step across the crease, the bat coming down, arms following through, and the ball sailed over wide long-on for a SIX.

Was it a big deal for someone who had hit countless sixes in his career? Maybe not on paper. But this one was special. It made him (and me) emotional. It symbolized that there was life after cancer. The life post his cancer battle is his second life and Yuvi did not just return to cricket - he learned to cherish each baby steps in his new life - the first match, the first six, the first Player of the Match award, the first 200-plus score in domestic cricket. By any measure, it was a remarkable comeback.

Eventually, Yuvraj Singh retired in 2019, and he recently mentioned in an interview that he stepped away because he no longer felt backed or respected. He had hoped to be selected for the 2019 World Cup but was overlooked. I can understand the disappointment - everyone wants a final hurrah (his father actually wanted him to continue for another 5 years!!). At the same time, it is also fair to acknowledge that by 2019 he was 37 years old and no longer the fit, destructive batsman he once was. His non-selection for that World Cup was not entirely surprising.

What I do find unfair, though, is that he was overlooked for the 2015 World Cup. He should have been picked purely out of respect and as a salute to his contribution. His domestic performances were not poor, and he could easily have been included. Big-match players like Yuvi have a habit of surprising oppositions when it matters most. The fact that he was not considered in 2015 only reinforces a familiar feeling - that we are an ungrateful nation.

I strongly recommend The Test of My Life for its honesty and emotional depth. It is a deeply moving and relatable account that goes far beyond cricket, offering valuable life lessons on resilience and discipline. While cricket fans will naturally connect with the sporting journey, the book is equally relevant for anyone who has faced illness, adversity, self-doubt, or major life setbacks. It is particularly worth reading for those seeking perspective, strength, and inspiration in difficult phases of life.

On Respect, Recognition, Biasedness and Overreaction

Recently, I came across clippings from a television interview of Mary Kom on 'Aap Ki Adalat with Rajat Sharma'. The interview attracted widespread criticism, largely due to the tone she adopted and certain remarks she made while speaking about her ex-husband. As someone who has long admired Mary Kom, I found the interview deeply disappointing.

Mary Kom’s achievements need no reiteration. She is one of the most accomplished athletes in Indian sporting history: a six-time World Amateur Boxing Champion, an Olympic bronze medalist, Asian Games and Commonwealth Games gold medalist, and a recipient of India’s highest sporting and civilian honors, including the Padma Bhushan, Padma Shri, Rajiv Gandhi Khel Ratna, and Arjuna Award. Beyond boxing, she has served as a Member of Parliament and is widely regarded as a pioneering figure who helped bring visibility and acceptance to women’s boxing in India. 

Several of Mary Kom’s major awards and victories came after she became a mother, and this is widely regarded as one of the most remarkable aspects of her career. Her journey from humble beginnings in Manipur to global sporting acclaim is inspiring enough to have warranted a biographical film. I have been a big fan of Kom.

It is precisely because of this stature that her remarks felt jarring. Publicly discussing personal disputes is rarely dignified, and in this case, it seemed unnecessary. More troubling was the manner in which she questioned her ex-husband’s role and contribution, making statements along the lines of “what kind of man lives off a woman’s money,” alleging that he withdrew money without her consent, and mentioning that he never had a successful career. These remarks were tasteless.

One could argue that this was a case of being caught off guard by the media. People who are not media savvy, can get sucked into a drain in front of cameras. Television seeks headlines and can exploit personalities; Mary Kom did seem to have been drawn into that trap, which did not favor her long-term reputation. However, after watching the clips, it is difficult to attribute everything to lack of media training. The remarks did not seem accidental; they appeared to reflect genuine beliefs. There seemed to be a clear lack of respect for her ex-husband as he did not earn much and, during their marriage, remained dependent on her earnings.

The videos and comments of Mary Kom triggered several thoughts and emotions. For example, it immediately reminded me of a remark made by actor and stand-up comedian Chris Rock that “Only women, children, and dogs are loved unconditionally. A man is only loved under the condition that he provide something.”

It also raised a hypothetical question. What if the comment was made by a successful man for his wife who, quit her job and set aside her passions to take care of home and children? What if the man had said that his wife was not successful and had belittled her contribution? What if the man had questioned her for withdrawing money or spending money without his permission?

All hell would have broken loose. The backlash would have been swift and severe, ...and rightly so.

This also brought to mind a personal anecdote involving two people I know. One of them is an entrepreneur - intelligent, driven, and successful. After a strong career in financial services, she pivoted to start her own business, which is now doing well and receiving media attention. She is married to someone I know, and both are part of a common WhatsApp group. Lets just call her - Sierra Kilo.

On one occasion, Sierra Kilo shared a news item or media coverage related to her business in the WhatsApp group. It naturally triggered a wave of congratulatory messages. Everyone applauded her success. One member of the group – the second character in this anecdote – congratulated her 'and her husband' in his message. In my view, it was a jovial, light-hearted, and seemingly harmless comment, likely sent out of courtesy since Sierra Kilo's husband is also a member of the group...though it certainly could have been avoided.

He referred to the husband as a “sleeping partner,” which, in my interpretation, served a dual purpose: to include the husband and at the same time, not take anything away from Sierra Kilo. I DO NOT believe the term was used in a formal business sense (Sleeping partner (also called silent partner) refers to a person who invests capital in a business but does not take part in its day-to-day operations or management). She, however, did not appreciate the message and objected on the WhatsApp group, clarifying that the business is a 'sole proprietorship'; she is the 'only Founder' and she runs it 'single-handedly'. 

It did not need clarification but its okay.

However, the matter did not end there. She subsequently wrote a 200+ word LinkedIn post on the subject. In it, she questioned why, when a woman entrepreneur succeeds, people say, “Congratulations to you and your husband.” She questioned why “educated, well-meaning individuals struggle to fully acknowledge a woman’s independent professional journey?”. In her words, “I was taken aback. But only briefly. Because, truth be told, this isn’t new. So I did what I always do – tuned out the noise, focused on the work, and kept going.”

The post got some ‘Likes’ and supportive comments, predominantly from women.

I found the <over>reaction immature, over-the-top and reflective of a tendency to frame the situation through a victimhood lens, while simultaneously projecting an image of being brave and unfazed.

What about the common phrase men have heard for generations: “Behind every successful man, there is a woman”. This has been said about business leaders, sportsmen, and almost every man 'who made it'...if he had a female partner. It has even been suggested that gallantry award winners from the military could fight for the country as there was a woman taking care of the home. How many men have posted about it and tried to play the ‘Victim Card’? How many say that why are you taking some credit away?

I feel that whenever it is said that “Behind every successful man, there is a woman”, it is meant as a compliment for the woman, acknowledging their emotional, domestic, or logistical support. I admit it is a big support and must be acknowledged. That is why, most logical men would never take offence, whenever they hear this.

This brings the discussion back to Mary Kom. Was her husband not providing similar support? I cannot claim personal knowledge of their marriage, but in several earlier interviews, Mary Kom herself openly credited her husband, Onler Kom, for standing by her, managing the household, and caring for their children while she trained and competed. She had repeatedly said she could not have achieved what she did without his support.

Why, then, does that support no longer merit acknowledgment? Is it because they are no longer together? Because the gap in their public and financial stature has widened? Or because personal grievances have reshaped her perception of his role? Whatever the reason, it appears that she is no longer comfortable sharing even a fraction of the credit she once willingly attributed to him. That is entirely up to her but she has no business mocking him in front of millions.

Let me make it very clear that the intention of the post is not to bash women (yeah right...too little too late) but I admit that I am getting dangerously close to that territory. I am just sharing my views on avoiding over-reactions, acknowledging your partner (if and wherever possible), being respectful and .....not having the 'Feminism ka Suleimaani Keeda'. (Oh no! I was this close to de-escalating the situation and I screwed up again!!)

On a serious note, my observations are not about any particular gender; I fully acknowledge that men are often insensitive and frequently discount women’s contributions, at times quite blatantly. Another real-life example illustrates this, involving people I know (examples, it seems, are closer than we often think).

A woman I know is married into a family that appears to be well-off (not certain as I am yet to ask them for their bank statements). They are into several businesses - including a two-wheeler dealership, possibly with multiple outlets. She and her husband slogged their asses off to establish and grow the two-wheeler business. While it may have appeared to several people (or they assume) that the husband has done everything, I know for a fact that she also managed several aspects of the business along with managing home and kids. I am not alien to the automotive industry and I had several discussions with her and was always impressed by her understanding and inquisitiveness. They were also planning to expand into a four-wheeler business, and both devoted immense effort over the years to make it happen.

Despite her relentless work and juggling of responsibilities, which included businesses, home, children, husband’s health, in-laws, another person (I know him too) repeatedly made disrespectful remarks. He would often suggest that she is all set, what does she have to worry about, she can chill and enjoy the fruits of her husband’s hard work and enjoy his wealth. 

Highly insensitive (Buddy, you make all of us look bad). In this case, a question similar to the one asked by Sierra Kilo - why educated, well-meaning individuals struggle to acknowledge a woman’s hard work - is entirely valid.

So, stupidity clearly has no gender.

Anyways, much has been said already. Ultimately, this discussion is not about taking sides or keeping score. Contributions, whether professional, emotional, domestic, or logistical, should neither be belittled nor exaggerated to suit a narrative. Acknowledging a partner’s support should not feel like a dilution of one’s own achievement. Genuine insensitivity should be called out but at the same time, if you do not like a comment, do not over-react turn it into a public outrage. 

The real maturity lies in balance: recognizing effort and support where it exists, calling out bias where it is real, and resisting the urge to turn every imperfect interaction into a larger battle.

(NOTE: If you are curious about how the individuals in the two anecdotes responded, here is what followed. The man in the first instance chose not to react to Sierra Kilo’s response; he was taken aback but decided to let it pass. In contrast, the woman in the second instance addressed the remark directly and firmly at an appropriate moment. She is no abla naari - in fact she is quite the opposite - which is precisely why I fondly refer to her as Jwaala Daaku!!)

Six Books In, and Counting

My resolutions for this year included 'Reading More' and 'Writing More'

Writing is limited to this silly blog. The primary intention is: stress busting, and also to speak to anyone who is reading. 

Reading, on the other hand, feels deeply productive. I am enjoying immensely and far more than I expected. I have been fairly disciplined about it too. I have already finished six books (image above) this year (one was started in late December though), and I am currently on my seventh. Actually, not exactly the seventh - I am somewhere between the seventh, eighth, and ninth as I am reading three books simultaneously! 

Hopefully this good habit would not fade away as we march ahead in the year. 

Border 2: Nostalgia, Nationalism, and the Weight of Legacy

I watched Border 2 earlier today. I must admit that I was not particularly impressed by the trailer, and my reservations were many.

The first was the casting. Varun Dhawan and Ahan Shetty are, in my view, not among the strongest actors of their generation. In fact they do not even come remotely close, though I liked Varun in 'October' and 'Badlapur'. I feared that even if the movie and storyline was compelling, weak performances could dilute its impact. 

My second concern was more fundamental. I am not a big fan of sequels that are made to cash-on the success of the 'original'. This felt like one of those cases. Sunny Deol, after a long time, witnessed significant success with Gadar 2 (again, not even remotely as good as original Gadar) and he and everyone else wanted to use the opportunity. Border 2 made a lot of sense and they went for it. Whether it would translate into a good cinematic product was uncertain.

The third concern was Sunny Deol himself. At 68, playing a Lieutenant Colonel is not easy to pull off convincingly. I had no doubt about his ability to bring intensity and emotional energy to the role - few can do that better - but age is a reality, especially when portraying a serving combat officer.

Despite all this, there was one thing I was absolutely certain about: I would watch Border 2, and I would watch it on the big screen.

When the original Border released in 1997, I was seventeen. I grew up in army cantonments, surrounded by officers and army kids, and I wanted to join the army myself. I watched Border on 'First Day, First Show' - and then again the second day first show, and the third day first show. Seems I used to be quite busy in afternoons and evenings!! 

The film was not cinematic genius, but it was raw, energetic, unapologetically patriotic, and full of Pakistan-bashing. 

Also, this was before multiplexes became the norm. Watching a film like Border in a single-screen theatre in a small town was a completely different experience. The audience whistled, clapped, shouted slogans, hurled abuses at Pakistan, and roared “Bharat Mata ki Jai” It was electric - comparable to watching a limited-overs cricket match at Eden Gardens (Kolkata) or Chinnaswamy (Bengaluru) or Chepauk (Chennai). In contrast, watching such films in multiplexes today feels like watching Test cricket at Lord’s. Audience is civilized and restrained and atmosphere is quite.....dead. Later, I watched Border for the fourth time on the big screen, and the experience was particularly special as it was in a military theatre, surrounded by an army unit.  

Out of respect for that legacy, I wanted to experience Border 2 in a theatre, regardless of my initial disappointment with the trailer.

So, how was the experience?

The film is not for purists. It takes several creative liberties in order to further glorify the soldiers and heighten dramatic effect. It is inspired by real incidents and real heroes, but not all portrayals are historically precise. 

• Sunny Deol plays Lt. Col. Fateh Singh Kler - a fictional character believed to be inspired by Brigadier Hardev Singh Kler, MVC, who later retired as a Major General. 
• Diljit Dosanjh portrays Flying Officer Nirmal Jit Singh Sekhon, PVC (1945-1971), whose story was one of the primary reasons I wanted to watch the movie. Sekhon is a towering inspiration. As I have mentioned in an earlier blog, while I deeply admire all military heroes - especially gallantry award recipients - Flying Officer Nirmal Jit Singh Sekhon is one of the three I find particularly remarkable. Flying Officer Sekhon attained martyrdom on 14 December 1971 while defending Indian airspace during the Indo-Pak War. He was posthumously awarded the Param Vir Chakra, India’s highest gallantry award, and remains the only officer of the Indian Air Force to have received this honour. Confronted with overwhelming odds, Sekhon displayed exceptional courage and composure, choosing to engage the enemy rather than withdraw. In a lone defensive action, he disrupted and repelled a Pakistan Air Force attack, forcing multiple enemy Sabre aircraft to disengage. His determined resistance significantly blunted the assault and safeguarded vital assets. Sekhon's extraordinary courage and flying skills earned him praise even from the opposing side. The PAF pilot who eventually shot him down, Salim Baig Mirza, is reported to have later praised his opponent's valor in an article, leading to the expression, "some enemies are also respectable".
• Varun Dhawan plays Major Hoshiar Singh Dahiya, PVC (1936-1998). Major Hoshiar Singh was my father’s instructor in 1975 at the Indian Military Academy (Dehradun) and later retired as a Colonel. He is celebrated for his extraordinary bravery and leadership during the 1971 Indo-Pak War, notably in the Battle of Jarpal. He captured a heavily fortified enemy position and, despite severe injuries, successfully repelled multiple counter-attacks. Leading from the front and refusing evacuation until the ceasefire, he inspired his troops to victory and inflicted heavy casualties on the enemy. His valor earned him the Param Vir Chakra, cementing his legacy as a legendary war hero.
• Ahan Shetty essays the role of Lieutenant Commander Mahender Singh Rawat, inspired by Captain Mahendra Nath Mulla, MVC (1926-1971), who was posthumously awarded the Maha Vir Chakra, India's second-highest wartime gallantry award. Captain Mulla displayed exceptional bravery during the 1971 Indo-Pak War as commanding officer of INS Khukri. When the ship was fatally damaged, he refused to abandon it, ensuring the safety of his crew first. He went down with his ship, exemplifying supreme leadership, sacrifice, and devotion to duty.

Yes, several scenes are fictionalized and inconsistent with strict military history. Did that spoil the movie? No, I enjoyed it.

Yes, the war sequences are lengthy, but understandably so. The filmmakers wanted to showcase the heroism of multiple military icons, and that demands screen time. Performances across the board are commendable - including those of Varun Dhawan and Ahan Shetty, who pleasantly surprised me. The makers ensured several connections - in terms of character names, dialogues, songs - with the original Border and I particularly enjoyed those parts. 

Some scenes were quite emotional, even tear-jerking. Perhaps they may not affect everyone the same way, but having seen the lives of military personnel up close, many moments resonated deeply with me. To my embarrassment, the tears did not go unnoticed - my wife on my right and a dear friend on my left both saw them. My wife even handed me a tissue, making matters worse! Its okay, grown men are allowed to cry - secretly, in a dark theatre, hoping to go unnoticed.

Overall, Border 2 is not a brilliant film. It is lengthy, and takes more than a few creative liberties. Yet, it deserves to be watched. It makes a sincere effort to bring to the mainstream audience the stories of several military heroes - some of whom are not widely known outside defence circles. For that intent alone, the film deserves appreciation. It may not match both - the Indian military history as well as the legacy of the original Border - but it respectfully salutes it. Sometimes, that is reason enough.

'12 Years - My Messed-Up Love Story': Ending We Once Hoped For

 

Recently, I picked up a Chetan Bhagat novel after a long time, and the book was 12 Years: My Messed-Up Love Story. I have always liked his writing. It is simple, direct, and easy to read. I do not approach his books expecting literary brilliance. I read them because they feel familiar and because they often echo emotions and situations that many of us have encountered at some point.

The story follows Saket, a divorced man in his early thirties, and Payal, a young woman at the beginning of her adult life. Their relationship unfolds through a series of emotionally charged moments that reflect confusion, attachment, and vulnerability.

The writing is fast-paced, which worked for me. I read the book in long stretches without much effort. Some parts, however, felt childish. The episode where the couple gets caught stood out in particular. It felt exaggerated and immature, and it momentarily weakened the emotional credibility of the narrative.

The ending, too, felt unrealistic. Yet, interestingly, it was the ending I found myself hoping for. There was a phase in my life when I believed such endings were possible, when I imagined that time, success, or circumstance could rewrite unfinished stories. Looking back, that hope feels naive, but it was sincere. I no longer think that way, but reading this book reminded me of that younger version of myself who did.

12 Years: My Messed-Up Love Story may not be a book I revisit, but it quietly brought back a version of my own thinking that I have long moved past. For me, that is what stayed after I turned the last page.

R Ashwin Responded 😊

If Life Had a Restart Button

If people could have a background score, mine would definitely be.... 

🎵Give me some sunshine, give me some rain, give me another chance, I wanna grow up once again...🎵

Sometimes I wish life were a video game - one where, if you were happy, you could simply continue playing. And if you were unhappy, or felt you had made an error, you could return to a previous stage and replay it.

Or perhaps the game could offer two lives. The first would be exactly as it is now: unplanned, instinctive, and imperfect. A life where we make mistakes, where regret and joy coexist, where happiness arrives unexpectedly. Everything happens organically.

But there would be an option of a 'second life', which would still be played by us - the same person who lived the first life - but this time with the knowledge, and learnings earned in the first life. We would move through life with a clearer awareness of what hurt, what mattered, what we should have done, what we should have avoided, and what we should have let go. Choices would be more deliberate, and hopefully, the mistakes would be fewer.

I agree, it is a weird and random thought. But then again, isn’t that exactly what my blog is all about? Random thoughts. As if I make sense in other posts!

Not sure how would I play the game but ya, I have too many regrets and would be tempted to replay or use the second life.  

A Breezy, Relatable Read: Musafir Cafe

Recently, I read a Hindi book after a long time, and the book was Musafir Cafe. I had been seeing frequent recommendations for it on Instagram, likely because I am always on the lookout for good Indian writing. I find books by Indian authors, or stories set against an Indian backdrop, far more relatable.

Musafir Cafe is a fiction novel by Divya Prakash Dubey. It revolves around a relationship between a confused man (someone I could easily relate to) and a woman with a devil-may-care attitude. The characters undergo an emotional journey, and the story is distinctly contemporary in its setting and sensibilities.

The book does have its shortcomings. Perhaps intentionally, to maintain a fast pace, the characters feel somewhat underdeveloped and the story lacks depth in parts. Certain episodes unfold too quickly, making them appear unrealistic and rushed.

That said, I found the story relatable and emotionally resonant on multiple levels. It transported me back to a phase in life when everything felt exciting and beautiful - largely because of my naivety. Are we not all naive when we are young? We believe we understand love. We think our story is unique and our partner is different. Inevitably, my own hawai kila (castle in the air) came crashing down not long after, and I probably deserved that rude awakening. Yet, in retrospect, life felt beautiful then, much like the intensity of a first crush or first love in our teenage years.

I was so engrossed in the book that for two consecutive nights I kept reading late into the night - what some sarcastic people like my wife and friends would call early morning - until I finished it. I wanted to know what happened to Sudha and Chandar and simply could not sleep without closure.

I agree that the book is not a “piece of art” and does not come even remotely close to being considered an outstanding or highly artistic literary work. However, the fact that it hooked me and I was restless till I completed the story shows that - I have an average taste...but that aside - the book delivers what it intended. A portion of the story hit the rewind button and I felt a strange pain in my chest, the kind I last remember feeling about 20-25 years ago, or perhaps even earlier. 

Musafir Cafe is a breezy read with a simple story, one that I believe will resonate with people who have 'grown up' but were in love during their teenage years or early twenties. If you are one of them, I would recommend reading it. 

'R Ashwin's 'I Have the Streets': Not Your Usual Cricket Autobiography

(Image Source: https://brokencricketdreams.com/2025/06/07/r-ashwins-i-have-the-streets-book-review-refreshing-honest-unexpected/)

Recently, I read I Have the Streets by Ravichandran Ashwin, which is his autobiography (Co-authored by Sidharth Monga). Having read several sports and cricket autobiographies and biographies, I was a little unsure about this book. That is because, many a times, cricket biographies or autobiographies (lets broadly call them memoirs) are not much more than match-by-match or series-by-series narrations. In a cricket-obsessed country like India, where most readers already know what happened in those matches, such books often add very little incremental knowledge and, frankly, can get a tad boring. I Have the Streets does not have such issues. In fact, Ashwin has hardly talked about his performance in International matches.

Instead, the book focuses more on his journey, struggles, friends, the local and street tournaments, how he made it to the Indian team and the efforts and sacrifices of his parents. I particularly enjoyed reading about his parents; it once again reinforces how critical parental support is in shaping the journey and success of a cricketer or any sportsperson. It also shows how Indian parents parents help their children stay humble, disciplined, and connected to core values. Rather than focusing only on match statistics or celebrated victories, the book emphasizes Ashwin’s thought process, discipline, and continuous self-reinvention. 

I recall that when Ashwin started playing for India, several questions and doubts were raised. The general sentiment was that he had made it due to backing from certain people in the board, his association with CSK, and, of course, MS Dhoni’s support. The book quashes all those myths. 

His action was also quite different and attracted attention and debates. I remember a discussion with friends where I confidently pointed out that Ashwin had an “ugly” action compared to other off-spinners who supposedly had more “flowing” and “rhythmic” actions (whatever that actually means). I even cited Erapalli Prasanna as an example of a beautiful action. I remember the discussion and my arguments but honestly, I am not sure I had ever actually watched Prasanna bowl!! (Its okay, who has not made up stories to win arguments?!!) Ashwin’s tendency to tweak his action frequently and almost pause in his delivery stride made me think he was more of a 'containing' bowler, perhaps better suited for limited-overs cricket. 

Did my impression of Ashwin change later? Of course. 

While he was successful and miserly in limited overs, he turned out to be a completely different beast in red-ball cricket - not only as a bowler but also as a capable batter. Five Test centuries is no small achievement! 

Over the years, it also became evident that Ashwin is a thinking and 'street smart' cricketer: constantly analyzing his own strengths and weaknesses, studying the batsman, and adjusting accordingly. He would not shy from trying everything. He would modify his run-up, arm speed, release height, flight, length, and more. In order to stay ahead of the batsmen, he also added several variations to his arsenal - the sodakku ball (carrom ball), arm ball, top-spinner, even leg-spin. He had the ability to bowl six different but robust variations in an over. 

Ashwin also received considerable flak for 'Mankading', a controversial cricket dismissal where the bowler runs out the non-striker for leaving their crease early. The term itself annoys me, as it unfairly gives a negative connotation to a perfectly legal dismissal and, in the process, maligns a great Indian cricketer, Vinoo Mankad. I see absolutely no issue with this form of dismissal. A non-striker has no business leaving the crease early to gain an unfair advantage. All arguments about it being against the “Spirit of the Game” are, quite frankly, horseshit! I fully supported Ashwin during the controversy - after all, what is sport without the hunger to win - but the issue was that I supported him while sitting on a couch at my home and somehow he did not come to know about my complete, total, unwavering, and unequivocal support!!! 

I was so impressed by Ashwin skills and overall attitude that I often say that Ashwin is one of India's best test captains - that we never had. Once again, no one has ever heard that as I say that from the same couch!

Coming back to the book, I found the book extremely engaging, relatable and compelling. I am usually a slow and somewhat strange reader (as covered in a recent blog), but this book was genuinely hard to put down. I finished it quickly and enjoyed every bit of it. The book offers interesting personal insights and genuine stories rather than just a dry sporting memoir. 

It is also and an 'easy read' i.e., the author has not switched on the 'Shashi Tharoor mode' and the language is simple and effective. I would highly recommend this book to everyone, especially young and aspiring cricketers or sportspersons, and their parents.

Overall, I Have the Streets stands out as a thoughtful sports memoir. It is ultimately a story about perseverance, learning, and professional growth—making it relevant not only to cricket fans but also to readers interested in personal development and high-performance mindsets.

Finally, one aspect I particularly liked is that the book ends with India’s ICC World Cup victory in 2011. This leaves ample room for a 'sequel'. Ashwin achieved so much after 2011, right up to his retirement and he is still quite young. So a Part 2 (and even Part 3) of his story is plausible and if it happens, it will almost certainly be worth reading.