We need to talk about: Kabir Singh

I have a confession to make. When I first saw the trailer for Kabir Singh a couple of months ago, a part of me was looking forward to watching it. It looked gritty; had a tortured, self-obsessed character as the main protagonist, and it was being played by Shahid Kapoor- an actor whose body of work has not been as lame as that of your average Bollywood star. 

And then I watched it. 

I was first horrified by it, and then nauseated by the actor and director's attempts to justify it. Nothing they say in its defense can take away from the fact that to my mind this film is (spoiler alert!) unmitigated trash. 

Never mind the fact that it is entirely superfluous (it's common knowledge by now that the film is a frame by frame replica of the original Telugu version); what's truly devastating about it is that if someone were to hypothetically set out to intentionally make the worst possible film for women in our country at this point in our history- Kabir Singh might be it. 

That might sound needlessly hyperbolic, but let's be clear: India in 2019 is not exactly one of the best places for a woman to be. We seemingly reached a nadir in 2012 with Nirbhaya, and last year we topped a global ranking of most dangerous countries for women. Just this month, the Supreme Court of India refused to entertain a plea to make marital rape grounds for divorce. 

On the other hand, in 2018 the #MeToo movement arrived in India and took some powerful men at least a few notches down if not all the way; in Kerala, millions of women stood in solidarity for gender equality forming a “women’s wall” in the wake of the controversy at Sabirimala. There was/is still a long, long way to go, but things appeared to be slowly inching in the right direction. 

And then came Kabir Singh. 

In Indian cinema in general the hero / villain is very much a binary without much room for nuance. Given this, and the fact that the lines between reel and real are notoriously blurry, and the fact that we have a dearth of male role models, and the fact that Shahid is a popular and relatable star, was this film really necessary? 

The answer from those responsible for this monstrosity will be a resounding yes; the film after all has made 300 crores and counting. What may be less easy to count, however, is the number of times the misogyny, delinquency and toxic masculinity being normalised in this film will play a part in everyday acts of violence against women. 

And then there's Shahid Kapoor himself. I always thought that as most artists got older, they made artistic choices that reflected their own growth as individuals. I also, perhaps naively, thought the better ones among them would make art that was a response of some kind to the state of the world around them. 

If Kabir Singh is such a response, it is entirely the wrong one. As a young father to a little girl, would Kapoor be happy for her to be wooed in a few years' time by the kind of man he's immortalized with such panache? I dare say he's significantly increased the odds. 

Bollywood is - and always will be - a source of magic and comfort, and even this year there are plenty of other movies which tell the stories of ordinary men and women- stories that will fill your heart with pride and hope and optimism. India is full of everyday heroes, and Anand Kumar in Super 30 is just one of them.  
But Kabir Singh is one hero India didn't ask for and shouldn't have got.

We need to talk about: Kane Williamson

So much has been written about the New Zealand cricket captain in the aftermath of one of the most dramatic cup finals the sport has ever produced. He's been praised for his calmness under pressure, his grace in defeat and for basically being a near-perfect specimen of homo sapien. 

All of which makes me wonder what might have happened had he walked when he nicked the ball to the keeper in a crucial game against South Africa? Surely then he would have been elevated to the pantheon of the cricketing gods, seated on the left side of Bradman (Sachin’s on the right, obvs) with his blue eyes, immaculate beard and beatific smile? 

But Williamson didn’t walk, and instead went on to score a century and win a key game. And this is probably a very good thing, because it proves he is as human as the rest of us. 

There's no doubt he's a fine leader; and the way he goes about his business, both on the field and off it, suggests that he's a thoroughly decent man. But when he spoke about fine margins that led to their loss in the finals, did he also recall the extra fielder outside the circle when Dhoni was on strike in the semi? 

Admittedly, the manner of their finals defeat (if indeed it can be called defeat) was desperately unlucky. But given their overall performance throughout the tournament, Williamson will likely admit that they were also pretty lucky to have been in the final at all. 

This was a world cup of so many twists of fate - those pesky fine margins again - Brathwaite going for six with a run required just as he did three years ago but this time falling short; Stokes putting those demons of three years ago behind him and finally winning a cup; Guptill breaking India’s hearts by running out Dhoni in the semis only to be run out himself in the final; Dhoni trying valiantly to recreate the glory of 2011 but finding only mortality instead. 

And in the middle of the melee on that singularly dramatic summer evening at Lord's, Williamson stood alone. He looked shell-shocked, but writ across his face was also an acceptance that in sport, just as in life, you win some and you lose some. 

Professional sportsmen and women know this better than most, but it’s a lesson all of us would do well to remember.

A few years ago I was driving on a highway at night in pouring rain when I realised that one of my indicator lamps had blown. Since the driving conditions were pretty poor, I pulled up into the hard shoulder and called roadside assistance. 

About 20 mins later, there was a knock on my window from a mechanic in the familiar high-vis jacket. By this time, the rain had intensified and I could barely make out his face until I stepped out of the car. My only protection against the rain was a light jacket which was clearly not up to the task, so before saying anything else he ran into his van and got an extra jacket. He then handed it to me, shook my hand and said with a smile- Hi, I’m Carl. let's get your indicator fixed, shall we? 

After a few minutes of checking the fuses and wires, he'd figured out the fault but a new bulb was needed. Luckily, he had one. A few more minutes of opening up the casing, fiddling with screws, etc etc, and then he called me over to where he was standing and asked me to hold on to the bulb. 

"Let's do this together!", he said excitedly, and so as he held the casing over the socket to prevent it getting wet, I pushed the bulb in while simultaneously thinking that nobody should be this upbeat when getting soaked by the side of the road at 11 pm. 

“You see!” he exclaimed, as the bulb sparked to life and illuminated the drops of water on his glasses. 
“More hands make light work.”

Even though I haven't made any specific new year's resolutions to curb my smartphone addiction, the other day I had a vision of what life could be like if I did. 

It started out with what I thought was going to be a 10 min trip to the bike shop for a minor repair. Unfortunately, while it was only a few minutes worth of work, there were a few people ahead of me in the queue and it would be about 30 minutes before I could come back and pick it up. 

As I wandered around, I suddenly and unexpectedly found myself in McDonalds ordering chicken nuggets and apple pie (no idea how that happened). I printed out my receipt from the self-service machine and walked up to the counter to join the queue for collection, and while doing so I found myself involuntarily reaching into my jacket pocket for my phone. 

Firstly, I was surprised by how disappointed I was to find out it wasn't there. Secondly, I didn't know what to do with myself. 

After about 2-3 minutes of staring at the screen for my number to appear, I looked around the restaurant. It was a Saturday morning and the place was teeming with people of all ages. A little boy was running between the tables chasing a balloon, while people in their seats playfully punched it just out of his reach. A supervisor was accompanying a new employee out of the kitchen to one of the tills so she could order a meal to eat on her break. The young girl held up her new staff card and pointed up at the menu screen as she made her selection, all the while doing a little dance out of the sheer excitement of it all. 

Meanwhile, my order number finally appeared and I walked to the counter, only to be told the nuggets would be another 10 mins. So back I went to my corner, and watched as a grandfather and grandson collected their trays and shuffled slowly together to a corner booth where the grandmother was waiting with a big smile on her face. 

As I stood there, I realised if I had my phone I may have learned more more about Trump's government shutdown, the latest chapter in the ongoing Brexit saga, and Samsung’s latest folding screen, but I wouldn't have noticed any of the things actually happening around me. Had I really become of one of those people- chasing dopamine hits from notifications, alerts and viral ephemera while the magic of everyday life unfolded quietly around me? 

In the end, I got my nuggets and pie and both were worth the wait. As an added bonus, I got a couple of extra nuggets: officially because I had to wait, but I suspect the fact that I was just standing there, phoneless and looking like a lost puppy, might have had something to do with it... 

Nuggets or no nuggets, maybe it’s time for me to get smarter and my phone to get dumber?