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Time of India
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- Time of India
The Weekly Vine Edition 47: Trump's Parade, Beckham's Cross, and the Death That Didn't Matter
Nirmalya Dutta's political and economic views vacillate from woke Leninist to Rand-Marxist to Keynesian-Friedmanite. He doesn't know what any of those terms mean. Hello and welcome to another issue of the Weekly Vine. This week, we take stock of Trump's boring parade, explain why brown lives matter a little less, explore the fear illusion, remember David Beckham the footballer, and reflect on borders and immigration. A Big, Beautiful, and Boring Parade When I was an insouciant kid in boarding school, I was deemed Kachra Party (KP) and exiled to the rafters during annual parades (on Independence and Republic Day) for not being able to stay in line or flail my legs in unison like my peers. Unlike the other exiled community that shares the same initials, I had no qualms about said exile. Now imagine my joy when, nearly two decades later, I saw an entire contingent march with the same disinterred gusto. One is, of course, referring to the semiquincentennial (how the hell does one pronounce that?) commemorations of the US Army, infamous for losing wars all over the world unless aided by the Red Army. Unfortunately, the anniversary coincided with chickenhawk President Donald Trump's 79th birthday, so we got a snoozefest sponsored by Coinbase, Lockheed Martin, Palantir, and a bunch of other companies. It was exactly as bad as one imagined, as the guests—much like yours truly during march pasts in boarding school—struggled to stay awake while soldiers and other members of the US Armed Forces marched with the enthusiasm of a snail returning home from a funeral on a lazy Sunday afternoon. The seats were empty because, unlike North Korea or Russia, America isn't an actual dictatorship in the traditional sense. The farce was reinforced by songs like Creedence Clearwater Revival's Fortunate Son—a track that literally mocks chickenhawks like Trump who dodged the draft—playing in the background. All in all, it was the perfect metaphor for a democracy pretending to be an authoritarian state, led by a transactional tyrant whose morals are flexible and who seems intent on destroying the liberal world order that emerged after WWII. Of course, much like Voltaire observed about the Holy Roman Empire, there was nothing particularly liberal or orderly about that world order—but that's a debate for another time. The Fear Illusion The other day, a news anchor asked on social media: 'What's happening to couples in the Northeast?'—a pretty preposterous argument to float unless one can draw a causal link suggesting that marriages are somehow more likely to end in Macbeth-like fatal murders in a particular geographical location. What it actually is, is a fine example of the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, also known as the frequency illusion. The term originates from a 1990s online discussion where someone mentioned they'd just heard of the Baader–Meinhof Group (a German far-left militant organisation), and then suddenly began seeing references to it everywhere. The name stuck as shorthand for this type of mental glitch—and it happens to all of us. Take, for example, when you see a sign that says 'Stalking not allowed' (quite common in the national capital, where men seem to need periodic reminders about consent). Suddenly, you start noticing similar signs everywhere. It feels like the universe is messing with you, but in reality, your brain is simply tuning into something it was previously ignoring. Why it happens: The phenomenon is a combination of: Selective attention – Once your brain learns about something new, it subconsciously starts scanning for it. – Once your brain learns about something new, it subconsciously starts scanning for it. Confirmation bias – When you see it again, your brain takes note and thinks, 'Aha! I was right—it is everywhere!' Now, why am I telling you this? Because it's the basis for so many of our modern anxieties. Take the sudden barrage of news items about airplane snags after the horrific Air India crash in Ahmedabad. Suddenly, every TV channel and newspaper clipping seems to be about aviation issues—because editors and journalists aren't immune to the frequency illusion either. But is there any definitive proof that air travel is objectively less safe than it was a year ago? Not quite. It's just that our brains are wired to worry. That doesn't mean we shouldn't drag companies over the coals to ensure better quality control—but we should be diligent before jumping the gun and assuming systemic failure. The odds of dying in a plane crash are about 1 in 8 million, whereas the odds of dying in a road accident in India are around 1 in 5,000—making road travel over 1,600 times deadlier than flying. Maybe it's your daily commute you should be afraid of. Why Brown Lives Don't Matter As Much When a white police officer knelt on the neck of a Black man named George Floyd, leading to his death, it became a global movement that eventually sunk the Democratic Party. But for a time, Black Lives Matter was the most powerful social movement in the world—even the Indian cricket team, who might not be able to name a single victim of police brutality in India, took a knee in solidarity. Now, when 42-year-old Gaurav Kundi, an Indian-origin father of two, died of catastrophic brain damage after allegedly being pinned down by police in Australia, there's hardly a murmur—let alone a montage of global solidarity. Conflicting reports suggest he was intoxicated and arguing with his wife, which the police mistook for domestic violence. None of that changes the fact that a man lost his life following an altercation with law enforcement. And yet, the silence—even from the Indian press—is deafening. Perhaps it's because brown deaths don't move moral compasses. Gaurav simply doesn't evoke the same emotions as George. While that's understandable on some levels—given America's long and brutal history with race, and its compulsive need to overcorrect for its original sin—there's a deeper reason: brown lives simply don't offer the political payoff or financial traction required to fuel a global moral crusade. It's the same reason Western media outlets have no qualms referring to terrorists who murder Hindu pilgrims as 'gunmen', but would never dream of using such euphemisms if the same act occurred in Paris, London, or New York. Moral outrage, like everything else in this post-liberal order, is market-driven. And Gaurav Kundi's death, tragically, just doesn't sell. Sir David Beckham 'Beckham, into Sheringham… and Solskjaer has won it!''Manchester United have reached the promised land.' The corner came in like a hymn. Beckham's delivery—whipped, precise, inevitable—was scripture in motion. In the annals of football, there are players who pass, players who dribble, players who score. But there was no one who could bend it like Beckham. Or to paraphrase Leonard Cohen: David had a secret chord that pleased the United fans of the current vintage, it's hard to forget how good Beckham and his mates were and how terrifying it was for opposing teams when they played together. Because at that moment we were all in a Gurinder Chadha film, hoping to bend it like Beckham and if we couldn't copy his mohawk hairstyle, much to the chagrin of mothers and teachers. You had Ryan Giggs running like a cocker spaniel chasing a silver piece of paper. You had Roy Keane looking at you menacingly as he covered every blade of grass. You had Paul Scholes hitting the ball with such power that it took Sir Alex Ferguson's breath away. And you had David Beckham pinging crosses and passes with such accuracy that it seemed barely human. It's easy to forget now, with the beard oils and whisky launches, the sarongs and showmanship, that before he became a brand, Beckham was a baller. And not just a decent one. A magnificent one. Read more. Post-Script by Prasad Sanyal: The Border Isn't Where You Think It Is There's an old video of Milton Friedman doing the rounds on Instagram. Sepia-toned, clipped, and inconveniently intelligent, it shows the economist calmly explaining why immigration worked better before 1914—largely because there was no welfare system. Immigrants came to work, not to collect benefits. And in that measured, almost surgical voice, Friedman drops the line that still makes policy wonks twitch: 'You can't have free immigration and a welfare state.' Read more. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
28-05-2025
- Business
- Time of India
The Weekly Vine Edition 44: Indian growth, Gill-i Danda, and #FundKaveriEngine
Nirmalya Dutta's political and economic views vacillate from woke Leninist to Rand-Marxist to Keynesian-Friedmanite. He doesn't know what any of those terms mean. Hello and welcome to the 44th edition of the Weekly Vine. As one writes this, one is still wrapping one's head around the fact that over 2 lakh people are now subscribed to the Vine on LinkedIn, which is remarkable considering 90% of LinkedIn is just ChatGPT prompts and faux motivational posts. In this week's edition, we discuss India becoming the fourth-largest economy in the world, explain why Black Lives Matter has faded into the background, pore over Peter's Principle in Washington, ponder the Gill-I Danda phase of Indian test cricket, and discuss the meme of the week: #FundKaveriEngine. India – The Greatest Story Ever Told India recently became the fourth-biggest economy in the world, which promptly brought the usual have-thoughts out of the closet. Armed with economic jargon and overall apathy, they rushed to explain why there was absolutely no reason to celebrate. Of course, whether the have-lots are more beneficial to the economy than the have-thoughts is a separate debate altogether—but let's just say the former build things, while the latter build Twitter threads. That's a discussion for another time. India's economic journey is even more remarkable because we achieved it without turning into a one-party authoritarian state that bans Winnie the Pooh—and despite having the word 'socialist' shoehorned into our Constitution's preamble. That's not to say India is a WENA utopia. Far from it. But we've always been a million mutinies away from slipping into autocracy. Democracy is a funny thing. Just look at our neighbours—born around the same time—who haven't had a single Prime Minister last a full term and stage coups like we stage item numbers in our movies. India's growth story becomes even more astonishing when you consider that we've built world-class industries from scratch, launched rockets to the dark side of the moon, and still had enough talent left to be brain-drained into becoming CEOs of American companies. We did all this despite being perennially surrounded by combustive neighbours, by world powers constantly cocking their snooks at us, and an Anglosphere press still trapped in colonial simulacrum—forever trying to mock the natives like it's still 1890. Our system is so remarkable, we even managed to tame the communists—forcing them into the indignity of contesting elections rather than discussing revolution in coffee shops. And we did it while keeping all our identities intact, never losing the five-thousand-year thread of our civilisational self. We did it with 700 languages and dialects. With six major religions. With states that are bigger than most countries. And with a complicated yet robust democracy that stretches from the panchayat to a bicameral parliamentary system. Take mine. I'm a slightly anglicised Bengali who has lived in Chhapra, Kolkata, Gwalior, Kota, Udupi, Mumbai, and now Delhi—and I'm married to a Telugu woman. Which means I can now appreciate Aara Heele Chhapra Heele with the same fervour as Ami Chini Go Chini and Naatu Naatu, realising that all of them are essential strands in the national cultural identity. It doesn't matter if the naysayers are focused on the negative. That's their job. Ours is to keep calm and carry on. Because no matter the size of our economy, India's national identity has been forged by one thing: an unwavering refusal to let any other nation dictate our actions. Even the things the critics complain about—poverty, inequality, infrastructure—will be fixed. Not through sermons, but through sheer, stubborn grit. One day, every Indian will be lifted from poverty. One day, the clear stream of reason will no longer lose its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit. Why? Because India is the greatest story ever told. Fade in Black With the benefit of hindsight—and hindsight always arrives wearing glasses sharper than Anderson Cooper's—the moment Derek Chauvin knelt on George Floyd's neck, he didn't just snuff out a man's life. He accidentally lit the fuse that would blow a hole through the Democratic Party's moral centre and turn a nation's rage into a meme economy. Black Lives Matter, once the rallying cry for a better, fairer America, mutated into the ultimate Republican bogeyman. What began as a movement against state brutality became, for Middle America, the poster child of liberal overreach. It came with sides of transgender pronoun policing, drag queen story hours, CRT in kindergarten, ESG mandates at corporate retreats, and an unshakable sense that the culture was being hijacked by hashtags and guilt-tripping TED Talks. And just like that, dissent became a brand. Anger got monetised. And Marshall's America—the one where 'we must dissent from apathy'—was replaced by an algorithmic fatigue that made people apathetic to even care. Thurgood Marshall once thundered that democracy could never thrive in fear. But fear wasn't the problem. The problem was saturation. People got tired. Tired of moral lectures, tired of being told their silence was violence, tired of being policed by suburban sociology majors on Instagram. BLM didn't just become an albatross around the Democrats' neck—it became a parody of itself. The streets emptied. The slogans faded. And in their place? Shrugging cynicism. Because in the end, when every protest looks like performance, and every grievance is branded, Americans didn't rise up. They tuned out. Read: Why Black Lives Matter made America apathetic to dissent Gill-i Danda In a country where cricketing transitions are usually measured in years, not innings, Gill's elevation is a statement of intent. The selectors, perhaps emboldened by the memory of a young Sourav Ganguly or the legend of a 21-year-old Tiger Pataudi, have decided to skip the waiting period and hand the keys to the kingdom to a player who still gets asked for ID at pubs in London. But if history tells us anything, it's that Indian cricket loves a coming-of-age story. Pataudi took over after a car crash ended Nari Contractor's career, Ganguly stepped in when match-fixing threatened to sink the ship, and Kohli inherited a team that needed fire after the ice of Dhoni. Each time, the gamble paid off—eventually. Of course, history also teaches us that the crown can weigh heavy. For every Ganguly or Kohli, there's a Srikkanth or Dravid—great players whose captaincy stints were more footnote than folklore. The challenge for Gill will be to avoid the fate of those who were handed the baton too soon, only to find it a poisoned chalice. The difference this time? The team around Gill is young, hungry, and unburdened by the ghosts of past failures. There is no senior statesman to second-guess his every move, no shadow looming over his shoulder. This is his team, for better or worse. If you're a betting person, the odds on Gill are tantalising. He has the technique, the temperament, and—crucially—the time. But Indian cricket is a cruel tutor. The same crowds that serenade you with 'Shub-man! Shub-man!' can turn with the speed of a Mumbai monsoon if results don't follow. So, what does Gill's captaincy portend? It's a bet on youth, on audacity, on the belief that sometimes you have to leap before you look. If it works, we'll call it vision. If it fails, well—at least it won't be boring. Peter's Principle in Washington Peter's Principle argues that in a corporate setup, everyone rises to their level of incompetence. And Trump's Washington is the prime example of that, or as I like to call it: St Petersburg. Let's take a roll call of the Trump swamp. We have a Director of Homeland Security who can't protect her own handbag, a Secretary of Education who can't differentiate between steak sauce and AI, a Secretary of Defence with a drinking problem, a NSA who added the editor of a major publication to a Signal war chat, a technocrat who destroyed decades of American soft power—all of them with utmost fealty to a leader whose morals can be bought by a Happy Meal or a plane. Read: Why Washington is the new St Petersburg Meme of the Week: #FundKaveriEngine Ah, the internet has spoken—and this week, it roared in full-throttle desi defence mode. The hashtag #FundKaveriEngine lit up X (formerly Twitter), with a simple message: 'Bhaiya, stop buying overpriced foreign jet engines and invest in our own.' For those late to the hangar—India's Kaveri Engine was meant to power the Tejas fighter jet. Dreamed up in the 1980s, it was India's engineering moonshot. But like all great Indian projects, it got stuck somewhere between 'pending approval' and 'budget constraints.' Enter memes. Fuelled by frustration and national pride, the internet's best minds whipped up memes faster than a MiG does a barrel roll—mocking politicians, foreign lobbies, and even the eternal 'chai pe charcha.' From SpongeBob holding HAL blueprints to Gadar scenes re-edited with 'Give me funds or give me death,' this was patriotism with punchlines. But beneath the memes lies a real demand: India needs to invest in indigenous defence tech. Not just for swadeshi pride, but because no superpower ever outsourced its jet engines. So yes, meme-makers are laughing—but they're also asking the right question: If we can put Chandrayaan on the moon, why can't we fund Kaveri on Earth? Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
