I Miss Sachin

by Sidin Vadukut in

So the other day, after a typically pulsating match at the Cricket World Cup that I completely forgot about in the time it took me to get up from the sofa and go make a cup of tea, Sky Sports played a short, shallow but enjoyable documentary on the life of Sachin Tendulkar. As I watched the grainy film clips and stock shots of Mumbai and the waxing and waning of Sachin's hair over the years, I felt a little tear well up in the corner of an eye..

What I am saying is this: I miss Sachin.

I miss waking up on the morning of a cricket match and thinking, before anything else, "Oh baby Jesus please take care of him today and make him score a lot and don't even think of making him walk back to the pavilion with his head hanging..." Only after this did I move on to other thoughts such as: "Also it would be ideal if my parents have not been killed in their beds by an axe-murderer."

Of course I never wanted to be in a position where I had to choose between my parents and Sachin. But if push came to shove I may have gone with the best cover-driver in the room. 

I miss going to school, on the school bus, mentally preparing myself for a Sachin failure. This is true. I would actually make a list of convincing reasons for why Sachin failed in a match EVEN BEFORE THE MATCH HAD EVEN TAKEN PLACE. We all did. Admit it. Not because we had to fend off Sachin haters. (This was before Sachin-hate had been invented in West Bengal.) But so that we had something to cling on to when he wafted outside off-stump or mistimed a...

Sorry. I cannot even imagine such terrible things. The Sachin in the real world may have retired. The Sachin of my head and heart has not.

I miss sitting on a train or on a bus and thinking: What if there is an alien invasion and earth is nearly destroyed and the aliens agree to let us be if we can beat them in a cricket match... and then we need twelve runs in the last over and Sachin is at the striker's end, and the first two balls are dot balls and then he adjusts his family-guard and looks up in the sky and then... drums violins...

Who will save the earth today in such a situation? Kohli? Nonsense. He doesn't have the focus. Dhoni? Dhoni is almost certainly an alien spy in disguise. Our only hope is that Sachin will come out of retirement and... 

Goosebumps everywhere.

I miss watching the toilet-end of an India-Australia match--when the Aussies need three runs, with five wickets and four overs in hand--and desperately, desperately wanting Sachin to be given the ball. I mean... what is the worst that will happen? He will bounce up to the crease in that jovial, benign way of his and deliver a cocktail of deception. Maybe he will get a wicket. Maybe he will not. Maybe he will slow them down. Maybe he will not. But at least you could go back to class the next day and have soul-soothing conversation.

"But anyway... at least Sachin tried."
"Yeah. That is there. It was nice to see him bowl."
"He should bowl more often. So nice to see."
"Oh he wants to. Ganguly doesn't let him."

I miss listening, mouth gaping, to old-timers from Mumbai talking about the time they saw him bat when he was in school. "Oh he was just something else..." they would say sitting back on the sofa, eyes glazed over, recalling some sunny day in Mumbai's past, the palms swaying, the crows kawing, the trains rumbling, the buses honking, the boy late-cutting.

I miss reading yet another profile in yet another issue of Sportstar or Mathrubhumi Sports Masika or Outlook and comparing our ages and thinking: "What the hell am I doing with my life? No really."

"What the hell are we doing with our lives?" we would murmur inside the TV room at REC Trichy as we watched Sachin during that tournament in Sharjah. "I have to forge an Electrical Engineering Lab report tomorrow," somebody would quip. And we would all laugh laughs of sadness and regret.

I miss, later on in his career, arguing simultaneously that while he was the best batsman in the world beyond any doubt, he was by no means the batsman in India.

Why not give the others a chance? But why? He is not clicking. So? Just because he is not clicking you will drop him? And replace him with some one-Ranji wonder from Chandigarh? Mad or what? You are mad. YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT CRICKET! Shut up man have you even lifted a bat in your life?

And this would go on till I found someone else to argue with instead of myself.

I miss hating Lara. Fool. Upstart. Selfish little... I still hate Lara.

I miss seeing Sachin take wickets or catches and then celebrate. Sometimes you could see, for the briefest nanosecond, a flash of aggression and the wrath of retribution. But then his middle-class upbringing would intervene and this flash would vanish and Sachin would be all fist pump and woo hoo.

So the point I am making is this: I miss Sachin. 

Anyway. Hope we win the World Cup.



Notes From A Brief Journey - Part 1

by Sidin Vadukut in

(Two days before leaving for two week-long holiday to India.)

Sister on WhatsApp: "Sidin chettan! How are things going?"
SV: "Things are pretty hectic. Desperately tryi..."
Sister: "Yeah all that is ok. Don't forget to bring a lot of Milka chocolate when you come ok?"
SV: "But let me fini..."
Sister: "YAY. Okie bye."

(One day before leaving for two week-long holiday to India.)

Sister on etc. etc.: "So how is your packing coming along? Hope everything is ready for India baby!"
SV: "Yes. So far so good. We are somewhat concerned about how the bab..."
Sister: "Good to know. Don't forget the Milka chocolates. MILKA. Under any circumstances Milka is compulsory. Don't bring Galaxy instead. I hate Galaxy. I only like Milka. All my friends are waiting for Milka."

(Hours before boarding the flight from Heathrow to Dubai.)

Sister-zilla: "Any updates on the Milka?"
SV: "I amputated my arm by mistake with the toaster."
Sister: "Excellent. See you soon. Don't forget the Milka chocolates. If there is sale in London then buy more and more Milka."

(Halfway from Heathrow to Dubai. Perhaps over Istanbul.)

Missus: "Where is that Milka we bought from duty-free?"

(Ten minutes later.)


(Nary a millisecond after landing in Dubai for 2.5 hour layover.)

Missus wiping large chocolate stains off her clothes: "I think we should buy more Milka for your sister..."
SV: "Goddamit I think my next book is going to be about Milka. Bloody nonsense. Fed up."

(Hours later in Kochi as we line up at passport checking counters.)

Missus: "Look at that advertisement on the TV screen behind the counters."


Two photos from Dubai Duty Free.

From left to right: Kerala Sheikh, Kerala Lake.

The Economy Class meal on board the Emirates flight from Heathrow to Dubai is one of the finest, if not the finest, meals I've ever eaten on a plane. Nonetheless the Kapoor-Vadukuts were feeling a tad peckish after landing in Dubai, and after due consideration we decided to partake of the excellent offerings of the McDonalds outlet inside the airport.

Oh McArabia Chicken! I have missed you verily.

There's more than one way to enjoy our chicken. And you'll like it like this! Two grilled chicken patties with lettuce, tomatoes, onions and garlic sauce lovingly folded in Arabic bread.

Not  just normally folded, my friends. But lovingly folded in Arabic bread. Shudder.

Whilst we settled into the food court, one of the cleaning staff ambled along and began to coo at Whataybaby. 

Staff chap: "How old is she?"
SV: "Nine months!"
Staff: "Awww! I have one back home who is a little older."

And then he went away, just as he had come along, like an enigma wrapped in a puzzle ensconced inside a private cleaning company's uniform.

So I told the missus about this funny thing that happened to me many years ago. This happened way back in the late 80s when we used to live in the small building on Abu Dhabi's Old Airport Road near St. Joseph's Church. One day the guy who runs the Malayali hotel downstairs knocked on the door. Or perhaps he rung the bell. I don't recall. My dad went through alternating bell-knocker phases. 

"Salaamalaikum Sunny chetta. Is your eldest son at home?" hotel uncle asked dad.

Turns out that it was hotel uncle's son's birthday. So naturally hotel uncle was planning to leverage core competency and throw a birthday party in the family section of his hotel. There was only one problem. His son was back home in Kerala. I don't recall if his son ever visited the gulf at all. I sincerely doubt it though. I don't think the hotel made very much money at all. Keeping family in the gulf has never been cheap. At least not for us brown folk.

So he decided to have a real birthday party with a fake birthday boy who approximately as old and chubby as his boy back home.

Later that evening, for the first and last time in my life, I stood in for someone else's birthday party. I wore a good set of clothes, polished shoes and posed for photos and cut a cake, and awkwardly waited for a large crowd of hotel workers and other bachelor Malayali NRI types to sing a song to some other boy. Obviously my brother tagged along and insisted on helping me cut the cake.

I used to have a photograph of that somewhat strange birthday party somewhere.

"That is so sweet Sidin," the missus said. And you know what? It actually was. It was also a little sad. All those towers and parks and gardens and shopping malls are built on foundations of lonely lives all crushed together into soul-concrete.

But still! I made hotel uncle happy! Yay.

And then, with moist, thoughtful eyes, we boarded our flight to Kochi.

SV to Passport Checking Officer at Kochi Airport in order to appear jovial: "Hello. Good morning. Enthaanu visheshangal?"
SV after noticing that officer's badge says Gupta: "Oh. Sorry sir. I assumed..."
Guptaji: "Arrey kuch nahi sir. I can understand if you speak Malayalam slowly. After some time you learn these things. And madam..."
(A few moments of silence.)
Guptaji: "Aap Delhi se ho?"
(Miscellaneous North Indian utterings and pleasantries ensue. These people are so tribal I tell you.)
Guptaji: "Aur is Malayali ko kahaan se pakda? Ha ha ha ha ha ha."
Missus: "Ha ha ha ha ha."
Whataybaby: "My father is a Malayali???? LIES LIES SO MANY LIES!"

Finally! Home! Thrissur! Oasis Housing Complex! Numerous bottles of Slice in the fridge! 

You know what they say in Kerala?

They say "Home is where the elephant temple festival ornament hangs on the wall."

My dad suffers from an acute case of "NRI Return Symbolism Ornamentation Syndrome". Also known as Kathakalimaskitis.

My dad suffers from an acute case of "NRI Return Symbolism Ornamentation Syndrome". Also known as Kathakalimaskitis.

Oho! Already this blog post is spinning out of word control. Also I have some other things to do that actually involve income. So why don't we catch up on the rest of my trip in the second part of Notes From A Brief Journey?

I will leave you with this lip-smacking culinary item from local Thrissur restaurant.

Also... who is Manchu?

Also... who is Manchu?

Actually their food would prove to be most excellent. But rest all in next blog post.

Cheerio chaps.

My baby between the times of 3 and 4 AM: A poem.

by Sidin Vadukut in

I am hot.
I am cold.
This is a blanket? This is not a blanket. Do not insult me.
Are you sleeping?
You are really sleeping.
I have pooped.
Change me.
Ha. I had not pooped.
I had not even peed.
Amuse me by trying to sleep again.
I am feeling very sleepy.
My eyes... they are droopy.
I am almost asleep.
I am asleep.
No I am not.
Hiccup. Hiccup. Hiccup. Hiccup. Hiccup. Google "newborn severe hiccups" if you truly love me. Hiccup.
I am hot.
Feed me.
Feed me now.
This is not a human nipple.
What is this? I hate this.
Give me boob now.
Very good.
Look at me.
Do not look at the iPad when you're feeding me, stupid woman.
Look. At. Me.
I am full.
No I am not.
I am full.
No I am not.
I am full.
I am quite full.
Stop this. What nonsense.
Do you like this sweatshirt you are wearing?
Is this your favourite sweatshirt?
Oh this is the first one you bought after losing weight?
I enjoyed that. Go change.
Pull my finger.
Look, we can all act as if this nappy change can wait till the next feeding.
Or you can be a responsible parent and change me now.
Guilt. You adults are so predictable.
Personal best there I think.
From a sheer quantity perspective.
Edge to nappy edge.
Is this cotton wool from Tesco? What kind of family is this? 
I am hot.
Sing me a song.
Ugh. Hindi song please.
Hand me over to mummy.
Not that song.
Not that song.
Not that song.
Not that song.
That song.
I am cold.
Mmmmmmm... adult bed... love adult bed...
Smile. Smile. Smile. CRY CRY CRY CRY CRY.
Have you tried white noise?
According to Mumsnet white noise remind babies of the womb.
This is white noise?
Ha ha. Garbage.
Remove that obscene sound.
Mumsnet it seems. Charlatans.
Who will burp me? Your father? Burp me.
What time is it?
3:53 AM.
Think I am ready to sleep now.
Is one of my eyes smaller than the other. No? Google urgently.
Change me.
Where is the fresh nappy?
Go on. I will give you a minute.
Muahahahahahahaha. No I won't.
Urine trouble now. LOL. Please RT.
Place me in the cot while you clean the bed.
Play some white noise.
Dim the lights?
I will sleep now.
Love me.
I am cold.


The text on the back cover of the next book

by Sidin Vadukut in ,

The Sceptical Patriot: Exploring the Truths behind the Zero and Other Indian Glories

There is really no such thing, ethnically speaking, as an Indian. We are all, every single one of us, the outcomes of centuries of civilizational upheaval. We are part-Greek, part-Mongol, part-Persian, part-British, part-Arab... part-everything. Indeed, a true Indian must be proud not of his or her identity but of the utter lack of identity. We carry in our blood not pure Hindu, Muslim or Christian platelets. On the contrary, an entire planet’s worth of history courses through our veins.

The average Indian does not need the complex education of a genetic scientist to appreciate this lack of identity. He or she just needs to look into his or her lunchbox...

India. A land where history, myth and email forwards have come together to create a sense of a glorious past that is awe-inspiring... and also kind of dubious. But that is what happens when your future is uncertain and your present is unstable—the past gets embellished until it becomes a portent of future greatness.

In The Sceptical Patriot, Sidin Vadukut takes on a catalogue of ‘India’s Greatest Hits’ and ventures to separate the wheat of fact from the chaff of legend. Did India really invent the zero? Has it truly never invaded a foreign country in over 1,000 years? Did Indians actually invent plastic surgery before Europeans? The truth is more interesting—and complicated—than you think. And, as you navigate your way through the amazing maze of legend and fact, you might even discover what it means to be an Indian today...

From the bestselling author of the Dork trilogy—and one of India’s most popular bloggers and columnists—this is a delightfully tongue-in-cheek yet insightful look at Indian self-perception and self-deception.

(Coming soon. In January. Ish.)



by Sidin Vadukut in ,

Today is Remembrance Day in the United Kingdom. So I thought I'd write a little post.

It is only in the last half decade or so that I really began directing some proportion of my lifelong interest in history, historical places and historical documents towards my own country of origin. For some reason--and some blame must be apportioned to the substance and style of my school history curriculum--I'd always been more interested in the military history of the Second World War, the Roman Empire, Byzantium and, more recently, the history of the British Isles. (All in a vague, amateur way of course. Just enough to do well in quizzes.)

In the last five or six years this has changed substantially. The books of John Keay, William Dalrymple, Abraham Eraly and Ram Guha have really opened my eyes to the limitless wonders of India's ancient, classical and modern history. (Before you leave enraged comments about Guha or Eraly, please give my ability to critically appraise what I read a little bit of credit.) And through them I've discovered other sources, authors and entirely new ways of thinking of Indian history. Access to the British Library since I moved to London has helped to slather on a foot-thick layer of information icing on my curiosity cake. The India resources are tremendous

Which is why I've become something of a painful bore these days during parties and get-togethers. Someone will ask me about what I am working on. Holycowabunga! I will instantly embark on long lectures on some intriguing little by-lane of Indian history that I may have stumbled across previously.

It is unreasonable, of course, to expect most people to know historical minutiae about the Hindu-German Conspiracy or the Anusilan Samiti or the Goan Inquisition and so on. But there are two elements of India's history the widespread unawareness of which always surprise me:

  1. The Japanese occupation of the Andamans during the Second World War
  2. India's substantial participation in the First World War

 At least 75% of Indian people I speak to have no idea the Japanese occupied the Andamans. And even fewer know how brutal the three-year long occupation was. The only book I have been able to source on this is Jayant Dasgupta's Japanese in Andaman & Nicobar Islands: Red Sun over Black Water. It is a very short book that does little more than push the door ajar on a fascinating chapter of Indian history. The period deserves much greater coverage and analysis. I am not exactly sure why it remains ignored. Perhaps because it happened at the fringe of an irrelevant theatre of war and had very little participation from the countries that dominate popular WW2 historiography.

From an Indian perspective I've been told by some people that the Andaman occupation remains ignored because of two inconveniences. First, there were at least some Indians who collaborated with the Japanese brutality during the occupation. And two, it remains a somewhat controversial part of the history of the Indian National Army. Both tarnish a narrative of India's participation and position during WW2 that has been carefully nurtured since Independence. And reinforced in our textbook, popular media, film etc. So the reluctance is understandable.

The unawareness of India's participation in WW1 is even more surprising. For one thing it involved a LOT of people. Over a million Indian soldiers fought the war. Their graves dot the globe from England to Iraq. Also it indirectly affected the lives of millions of Indians back home.  Secondly, the historical legacy leaves almost nothing that needs air-brushing. Millions of Indians fought a war that, at least at the outset, had nothing to do with them. They were all picked up from their villages and hovels and hamlets and, for all practical purposes, dropped into an entirely alternate universe for the purposes of the war. The weather was terrible, the food was terrible, the military leadership was terrible, the equipment was new and the warfare was butchery of the highest order.

Yet they fought with great valour and earned tremendous respect.

 "Indian soldiers did not fight as a separate army, but alongside British units, which led to a certain amount of social interaction. These contacts were fostered by the common experience of the horrors of trench warfare. Pictured above, are the 3rd Horses regiment playing football against the 18th Lancers in July 1915, with a group of French children looking on." (Caption and picture from the online archives of the British Library.)

 "Indian soldiers did not fight as a separate army, but alongside British units, which led to a certain amount of social interaction. These contacts were fostered by the common experience of the horrors of trench warfare. Pictured above, are the 3rd Horses regiment playing football against the 18th Lancers in July 1915, with a group of French children looking on." (Caption and picture from the online archives of the British Library.)

Earlier this year I spent a few months collecting books and research on Indian soldiers in WW1. Initially this was for the podcast. Later I was briefly in discussions with a publisher to write a short book about India during WW1. The original plan was to get it out in time for the centenary of the war next year. But then I shelved the idea when I simply ran out of time because of other projects. The research is still chilling on assorted hard drives though.

So who knows? Maybe I will revisit it in 2019 for the centenary of the Armistice.

Two of the books I enjoyed the most during the research was David Omissi's Indian Voices of the Great War. Soldier's Letters, 1914-1918 and Gordon Corrigan's Sepoys In The Trenches: The Indian Corps On The Western Front 1914-15.

Omissi's book helps to put in perspective what patriotism and national identity meant to many Indians a century ago. 

On 15th January 1915, a wounded Sikh soldier convalescing in England wrote a letter in Gurmukhi to his brother in Amritsar. From Omissi's book:

Brother, I fell ill with pneumonia and have come away from the war. In this country it rains a great deal: always day and night it rains. So pneumonia is very rife. Now I am quite well and there is no occasion for any kind of anxiety... If any of us is wounded, or is otherwise ill, Government or someone else always treats him very kindly. Our Government takes great care of us, and we too will be loyal and fight. You must give the Government all the help it requires. Now look, you my brother, our father the King-Emperor of India needs us and any of us who refuses to help him in his need should be counted among the polluted sinners. It is our first duty to show our loyal gratitude to Government.

At least in the early stages of the war, before enthusiasm has been dampened by the meat-grinder of the front, this is a recurring theme in the letters. Many soldiers were enthusiastic, and much of this enthusiasm came from a sense of patriotism that is hard for us to make sense of a century later.

Also it is important to keep in mind that in 1914 the Indian Army was perhaps the largest volunteer army in the world. Many were poor peasants who had joined for the pay and had been coerced by hunger rather than colonial exploitation. (This would change later in the war when local administrators, especially in Punjab, were forced to meet manpower quotas and intimidated, even blackmailed many young men into enlisting. )

Corrigan's book gives a narrative structure to the experiences encapsulated in Omissi's letters. It starts with clashes of civilisations as shiploads of sepoys are unloaded in France and then moves onwards to their staging areas. The French, it appears, welcomed these exotic, turbanned 'Les Hindoues' with tres enthu. Corrigan writes:

The reception given to the Indians by the citizens of Marseilles was ecstatic.... Although the war was but two months old the number of young women in widow's weeds was an indication of the scale of French casualties, and the Sikhs in particular were embarrassed by the number of even younger women, not in widow's weeds, who rushed into the marching ranks to embrace and kiss them...Unloading of the ships was carried out by regimental fatigue parties assisted by French labourers, and by the time it was completed some Indian soldiers, generally natural linguists, were beginning to pick up a few words of French.

The book then goes on to paint a very detailed picture of how these sepoys fought the war, how they worked with the British officers and how they coped with the misery.

By the end of the war between 1 and 2 million Indian soldiers fought on one of the fronts.  Around 75,000 of them died. Which doesn't seem much given that around 10 million soldiers died across both sides. But more Indians died than Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians and even Belgians--all countries that seem to do much more to commemorate their war dead than India does. 

(In fact now that I think about this... the Indian participation in the war is almost universally treated with unjustified lightness. Norman Stone's popular short history of the war has one reference to India. John Keegan's history has a handful but none of any great substance. However in the UK, at least, there is a growing sense of this oversight.)

I can posit many reasons for this oversight. The Indian presence on the Western Front--the one that posterity finds more sexy--was somewhat fleeting. And most Indian troops had been transferred to the Middle East by the end of the war. (Which is just as well. The mortality rates would have been immeasurably greater otherwise.)  Then there is the odd compartmentalisation of the history that is taught in our schools and accentuated in our media:

Time immemorial - 1526 AD: Ancient awesome

1526 AD - 1757 AD: Mughal mayhem

1757 AD - 1857 AD: Whiteman wankery

1857 AD: Brief hurrah starring Aamir Khan

1857 AD - 1947 AD: Resumption of whiteman wankery

1947 AD onwards - Jhingalalaho plus Sachin

Anything that does not fit into these compartments is left to fend for itself. 

Most importantly the real custodians of this history, the modern Indian republic, finds these stories somewhat troublesome to take ownership of, let alone commemorate, in a public fashion. The friend--Indian troops--of our enemy--colonial masters--is surely not our friend?

But I think we should remember these poor fellows. By any frame of reference that is cognizant of their reality, what they did was immensely brave and honourable. The dividing lines of nationality and the moral compasses of patriotism are all transient. We all like to think that we exist in static political enclosures that will always exist in glory. So did every generation before us going back centuries. They were all wrong. We will be wrong too. 

Much more permanent are the virtues of courage and honour. So perhaps we should do more to remember these chaps. They were mostly nice.

And if niceness is not Indian enough for you... then how about the sepoy's capacity for ingenious, 100% desi jugaad?

In April 1917 soldier Mahomed Khan of the 6th Cavalry fell in love with and married a Frenchwoman. This appears to have pissed off everyone including his fellow soldiers. But most of all it upset his family. So in June 1917 he wrote a letter home explaining how he was 'forced' into doing this. From Omissi's book:

I want to tell you my misfortunes. I was stationed in a village and was in a house where they were very kind to me. There was a young woman in the house and the parents were very pleased with me. She wrote to the King in London and asked permission for me to marry her and the petition came back with the King's signature on it, granting leave. But she did all this without my knowledge. The Colonel sent for me and asked whether it was true. I said it was, and asked his leave to marry, but said I must make the girl a Muslim. The Colonel then got very angry and took away my rank of Lance Dafadar, and said he would not give me leave to get married. When this came to the girl's ears, she sent another petition to the King and he gave leave, and said that directly the marriage was celebrated he should be informed. According to His Majesty's order, the wedding came off on the 2nd April. There was a General Sahib and a Muslim jamedar as witnesses. But I swear to God that I did not want to marry, but after the King's order I should have got into grave trouble if I had refused.

What nice, jugaadful boys they were. Let us remember them more.