Movie Review*****Sachin: A Billion Dreams


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I was on a rampage with my perfect mango margarita(s) while S and I were discussing cricket yesterday. He was playfully describing his love for Dhoni along with his brilliance as a Cricket Captain of India.

I say to him that I am not an expert, in the matters of cricket, merely because of the lack of interest. However, I do remember, that in 2003, when I got my first period, India was playing with Australia for the World Cup finals. I remember how nervous I was, while the whole household of Ajmer was equally buzzed with the electric current of it. How we used to bet with our household help Pappu, on how many runs Sehwag will score.  I remember, I used to glue myself on the lucky spot, not moving for hours, fearing that someone might get out, if India was batting. We had bribed all sorts of Gods and Goddesses with a variety of monetary and personal sacrifices, and yet, with all the moh-maya, India lost that year. Australia won the world cup.

India vs Pakistan cricket match was a different story all together. I was emotionally indifferent towards the political rivalry because I had little idea regarding the politics. All I knew, that when India played against Pakistan, it was like a crawl of emotions beneath your skin, threatening to rip you apart. My grandfather who had fought Indo-Pak war(s) in his time, would shout at the top of his lungs when it was a sixer by our boys. Everything stopped for a while. If you go to a shop, the match would be playing on the TV muted in the background. If the vegetable vendor came, the radio would be blaring on top of the eggplant pile. Emotions were always raw. Like someone has awakened something within you, a dormant beast, even within a 14 year old or younger. Goose bumps were common and your whole family including your grandmother-who had more idea of batting averages btw than you did- were all gathered in front of that meagre TV set, that you tied your hopes with. Everything was nail-biting. Your heart thumped and fingers crossed, you would watch that cricket match where all your patriotism poured out as hot lava. If India lost, India burnt in despair. Fans would walk on the streets and burn posters of the cricketers. If India won, crackers could be heard all around, and India burnt in happiness.

Years later, I walked into the theater to watch Sachin: The Billion Dreams expecting a pure commercial potluck that M.S. Dhoni: The Untold Story and Azhar had delivered in the past. Though I was purely entertained by both of them, I was reluctant to get inside the theater where clarifications were done and misunderstandings were sorted out or a love story twist.

So when I entered the theater this time, with no research done on my end, I was slurping away my Fanta to glory. I had no intention whatsoever to take back home melancholy or nostalgia that the game usually brewed inside me. But, by watching Sachin and the rest of the Tendulkars, I was mystified. Imagine my surprise, that I was not watching any shaped up Bollywood star enacting Sachin, but Sachin himself. Spanning a career from 1989-2012, I just did not understand what drove this man. He talks about his love for his family, the love for cricket, the love for his father and all the great loves of his life. In the end it became apparent that the mere desire of achieving a World Cup, bullied this man to insanity and back. Well, he did achieve his World Cup in 2011. I think I was falling in Love, with him.

The first half was routine, childhood stories and mischief of the bundle of joy. Little enactments, but mostly a well blended collection of home videos and interviews with his closest. The Little Master was just 16 when he made his International debut vs Pakistan. Sachin looked like a neighborhood kid supporting a brazen moustache of puberty, displaying humility. The film touches his meeting with Anjali, and how the 5 years older spouse played enormous role in his career. Sachin was just 22 when he married Anjali, a MD in Pediatrics who was 27 at the time. There was no drama. Still going strong after 22 years of marriage, Sachin restores my belief in the institution ( by a small margin).

Fanta untouched, the second half enters post the death of Sachin’s father- Ramesh Tendulkar. It shows, merely a journey of chasing a wild dream. The dream, of holding the world cup despite physical misgivings. You can see Shane Warne, Sourav Ganguly, Harsha Bhogle and many others describing him as a man with immense talent. Undeniably, there is a larger consensus, that Sachin is the man he is today because of his talent and HARDWORK! Apparently, that is why his career spanned for over two decades while people came and went…

With the hope that Arjun Tendulkar, Sachin’s son, may play for India one day, the movie concludes with Sachin’s¬†last match. One cannot hope to imagine, what Arjun will be up against- a lifetime of battle with his father’s legacy OR creating his own along the way.

In the end, I walked out of the theater, yearning to watch a cricket match with Sachin playing live at¬†the Wankhede Stadium. Alas, I cannot go back in the time machine and strike an item off my bucket list. Sachin’s dream was rightfully dreamt by us billion, and he and I and you, all could dream it to live it!



#poetry #heartaches #poemsoftheheart


How our brains can easily go down the toilet?

My rants with my mom while I am driving to work are a hit and a miss usually. To be honest, they are usually a miss because today she was mostly “worried” about something borderline irritating.

My point is, that we need to seriously back off. The larger implications of the meddle had already cost us our relationships on most occasions. ¬†Isn’t it weird, that with our growth in age and maturity, society matures radically slowly?

I just wonder what led to our society being like that. Even I was a part of that gossip circle, partly because I used to “enjoy” it. There I said it. I used to enjoy gossip.

I think I still do. However, I really have to reign my brains and tongue if I end up in a situation somehow. So today morning, when my mother was on a tirade about a particular individual, I could have easily indulged. Instead, ¬†I had to dig in my heels and say that “this dialogue” is NOT coming from a place of concern. I had to literally talk my brain out of it.

To be clear, let me give you an example. This particular example was not far from what my mother and I had a conversation on, by the way.

Someone’s daughter(not your own and certainly you are not her bread winner) is going out to a party wearing clothes you do not approve.¬†

On most occasions my mother would highlight “the inconsiderate daughter’s” inappropriate behavior. “Her” clothes are now talk of the society, the same society my mother and I are a part of. So from tomorrow I cannot even think about donning the fashionable clothes because girls from good homes do not wear such attire. That attire has somehow become a family’s honor issue. However if that “someone’s son” is out on the bike sporting petite boxers and baniyan(vest like undergarment), dropping his sister to the bus stand- the son is an “agyakari beta” (compliant son)!

To support my claim, let us look at some pie charts:

The problem is that we fail to understand that society does not mold us. This method is dogmatic and rather unsystematic. We mold the society. There have been several individuals in the society who are trying, so that the rest of us can breathe. In fact, without doing my part, I cannot expect the society to change. I cannot even expect my mom to change.

Coming from a family, where I could not even think about wearing shorts in the sanctity of my home, I cannot imagine how much I challenged my parents. For most part they did stop me from wearing what I like by telling me how fat I looked, or how my thighs were an unsavory sight. Now I wear skirts and dresses to work, still wondering if my legs are too unattractive. For a long time, I was ashamed about the size of my bust because of careful conditioning. To make them look minimalist(an impossible feat), I have destroyed my posture.  I still catch myself stooping 90% of the time.

Fortunately we have gained independence of the country, but unfortunately, we are ¬†not independent from the mind. Nope, not yet. Its heart breaking to see several souls lost while we are busy belittling each other. I am sure, we were the victims of the curse as well. Sometimes, we still are…


-Trying to scoop my brain from the endless surrounding shit


#family #indianculture #satire #women #gossip




Indian women are hardly any role models

Indian women are hardly any role models.

I am talking about someone who is closer. I wish, my mother had taught me to be bolder. I am from an environment, where the first time I went outside the house wearing a capris pants, my grandmother commented that my grandfather would not allow me to go out. I went out anyway, even when the little bit of my ankles were showing. My aunt on the other hand advised us to stay indoors when sun would hit the horizon and the boys who were friends were a complete no no. My grandmother, my aunt and my mother are all very well educated.

Indian women are hardly any role models.

The only other friend in my class who read something substantial was one in 60 students in a class full of girls. We were in fact discouraged by my mother at one point of time to buy any novels. I did not read Enid Blyton or Jane Austen or Arundhati Roy or Anne Frank or Jhumpa Lahiri. During my library period at school, we were handed down Women’s Era to read, if the library period happened at all. In the crafts period we were taught year after year to do embroidery, make a stuffed toy, sew a button, make a flower vase,all useless things. Nobody encouraged world cinema because it was “apparently” full of sex. No teacher taught us how to handle our finances when we would finally become financially independent. Right now, I know only a handful number of women¬†who have handled their car payments, home payments, electricity payments, phone payments, insurance payments, credit card payments and downpayment of any sorts completely on their own-without their fathers or husbands to help. Many will get offended, but Indian women are supported by their family and then their husband’s family financially in most cases. I know a woman here in USA who is educated, smart, intelligent, works full time but does not know how much is her monthly car payment of the car she drives. Its all taken care by her husband. So why bother?

Indian women are hardly any role models.

I talked about sex, my mom and I. When I had my first boyfriend, me and my mom had the “sex talk”. My younger brother saw sanitary napkins in my cupboard and did not know for a very long time what they meant and why were they used. When he had his first girlfriend, I remember distinctly telling him to not hurt or disrespect the girl, ever. I told him about menstrual cycles. I asked him whether mom had the aforementioned “sex talk” with him, and he said no.

Indian women are hardly any role models.

I am an Instagram fanatic and follow Bollywood actresses. I never see one actress holding a good book and posing. I see them in their gyms during their workout. I see them with their makeups and cute dresses. I see them with hair and nails done. I see them doing pilates or doing pull-ups or being an arm candy. Then I see them giving interviews about body images and how we should not be shameful about our own body. I never see them without makeup, ever. What an irony!

Indian women are hardly any role models.

Maybe times are now changing. Maybe. I wish I was pushed for pursuing Karate or Judo or any self defense class more instead of pursuing just academics. My body shaming started from my very home. I was overweight and I was instilled from the very beginning that if I continue down the path, I will not get a good groom. A good groom! The answer to all questions and worries. My mother was more worried about my marriage when it was discovered that I had vitiligo. When I talked back, my grandmother taunted me that I would be a failure if I talked like this with my in laws after marriage. When the guy from nowhere grabbed and dug his long nails in my boob when I was with my mother, my mom told me to hold my tongue. Nobody should know. I continued ignoring his nail marks for days to come. When my ex boyfriend pushed me on the road, hurting me, I kept my mouth shut. Nobody knew.

We are hardly any role models.

We see inspirational messages on Women’s day. I feel its just like Republic day or Independence day where we feel patriotic twice a year. Then there is mother’s day, where we forward messages and share pictures on Facebook. Our duty towards ourselves and others end right there. We lament on the fact that men don’t respect us. Men display power and men consider us weak. The men dominate us. The men rape us. The men demean us.

Let me tell you. The women around you do not respect you as well. You don’t sometimes respect yourselves… How can you demand it from someone else?

We are hardly any role models for ourselves…





Current Mood

Trust me you don’t want to know. I am totally frustrated without any rhyme and reason. Shower helped. Well I smell neutral now. Heavenly shower gels smells do not stick on me. Fuck it!

I watched the O.J Simpson series on Netflix. Angel and I binged watched it. They are called the American crime stories. Well, that was brutal, the outcome I mean…

Also, on another tangent, I feel like kaanta ben( Our maid Kaanta) because I cleaned the house. Again! People who tell me that I need to workout, suck this shiz!

Angel and I are not on talking terms. She stole my slipper and ran away with it the other day when I told her to stop drooling on me.

Called my Ex. Still remembered his number even though we broke up eons ago. Last I spoke to him was Dec 2015.  He did not pick up. Heard his voicemail. Still sounds the same, depressing.

 Ate cannon balls since morning and still feel starved. 

Need to go back and hit my chanting biz… Nam myoho renge kyo- Nam Myoho( my stomach is grumbling) renge kyo…Nam myoho renge( is that 2 mins already) kyo… Nam (I see Angel’s hair under the table: make a mental note to scoop it) myoho renge kyo….Nam myoho (Dear gohonzon kill me now) renge kyo….


Heavens are falling

Crossing the threshold to go towards my car, my feet sank in the snow. Deep enough to wet my clothes.

And while I struggled with my tresses and with my shovel to dig the snow, I wonder if I am digging my own grave. My man is not doing the shoveling, I am. No man is doing it, I  was. Was I supposed to do it or not?

Agreed. I have been given 2 hands and 2 legs by the almighty above. But wasn’t that a man’s job?

See right there, I transformed from a feminist to a sexist.

All my education and all my broad mindedness went down the drain when I grumbled my way to insanity. I went dark in silence as my body ached. As his lethargy increased, so did my tongue lashes.

Was it a man’s job?

It was our job. Not his, not mine, but ours. Maybe 51% his and 49% mine. Maybe 49% his and 51% mine, but ours nonetheless. Just like the dishes. Just like Angel and her potty gathering expeditions in the dark. Just like the cleaning of the house and cleaning of the path walk. I guess we would work better in a team.

Now that I have that figured out, I have to start learning how to¬†“drill ¬†this notion in¬†his head” exercises. I will lose my tongue and his ears in the process.

Worth giving a try?

PS: I guess its a who is lazy and who is lazier thing! S did bite my head off while I chewed away his ears to glory…

PPS: The results are negative. S does not believe in teams.

Post PPS: S and I both came to an informed decision. Angel needs to start helping. She needs to clean her own shed hair, keep her tongue in to stop the drool and should start doing her pee & poo herself. We ain’t accompanying! Its high time she joins a part time job, she is 18 in dog years¬† and so is now ready to move out. Fingers crossed!