Sunday, July 1, 2018

All in our Jeans

Picture Credit Topshop

Someone asked a businessman, “What do you do?” 

He smiled, “Whatever it takes.” 

In a jeaneus masterstroke, Baba Ramdev is all set to launch his clothing brand, Patanjali Paridhan. If ‘swadeshi sim card’ was not enough, Patanjali is about to flood the markets with their ‘sanskari jeans’. Patanjali’s Acharya Balkrishan says, “Swadeshi jeans will be designed according to our customs.” Business is incidental, for the aim is to redeem our culture, preserve its sanctity with indigenousness duly certified. 

I kid thee not, but I have been scratching my head ever since. Weren’t the denims all about expressing rebellion – a symbol of defiance? I’m not sure how the cultural denim pants will hug our pert derrieres in a sanskari way. I’m not sure if they will have any ‘Left’ pockets or smell of chandan to drive away risqué thoughts. Perhaps the cultural version will come with a drawstring instead of zippers which are a reminder of our zipped up colonial past. I’m not sure if their brand ambassador will be Alok Nath or Shilpa Shetty, but what I’m sure is that the desi denims will be so pure and pious that even if Twinkle Khanna tries to unbutton them during a fashion event, she won’t be slapped with charges of obscenity or vulgarity. Even better, this Paridhan will purge prurient thoughts that knock your head when you watch Italian football players. Above all, these denims will not be responsible for the age old legend of girls luring boys to their downfall. Yes sir, that good. 

“I wish I had invented blue jeans. They have expression, modesty, sex appeal, simplicity – all I hope for in my clothes,” rued Yves Saint Laurent. Truth is, denims were originally invented by Jacob Davis and Levi Strauss, who according to Rahul Gandhi, could well have been small time tailors engaged in altering clothes at the Lajpat Nagar market. Right? Well, partially. While Levi Strauss arrived from Germany to San Francisco and set up Levi Strauss & Co that sold denim cloth, W Davis, was a tailor who actually made blankets and tents. When a customer asked for a pair of sturdy pants, Davis used the denim he bought from Levi Strauss & Co. Later, Davis and Strauss patented the pants and called them denim jeans. 

As it happens, fashion becomes fashion when everyone wants to follow it. If the fifties were about marines and rock stars embracing denims, the sixties were about painted and embroidered denims - a symbol of rebellious teen freedom. And today, the # MeToo movement, a socio-political phenomenon has found an expression in denims. Women are designing denim jeans, shirts and jackets that have stories of sexual harassment etched on them. The goal obviously is to start a conversation on taboo topics and make sure that people don’t forget about it. Interestingly, earlier this year Topshop created a ‘Fake News Jeans’, I am assuming in the honour of President Trump. Equally interesting would be if news anchors who sanctimoniously shout from their studios are made to wear Fake News Jeans and Jackets. 

Picture Credit  Here
News about sexual harassment etched on denims

My somewhat unreliable and alcoholic sources are telling me that designers are already designing newsworthy denims for the Indian market. Specifically for Delhi, there is an ‘Anarchist Pret Line’ with special Dharna jeans that can be worn at work and also when you sleep on a sofa. Likewise, we have ‘Achche Din’ denims that will make you feel on top of the world even though there isn’t much to cheer about. And finally, a sturdy ‘Secular Line’ for khadi clad storm troopers that will enable the Mahagathbandhan to survive the test of time. 

Given that the slim fit would be too uncomfortable for our pure and pious pollies to get their jollies, Patanjali can design a baggy fit denim coloured in Indian Indigo held by cotton drawstrings. No points wrangling, because unlike wicked Wrangler, the Patanjali clothing line will be a hallowed as the ‘khadi’. Maybe Patanjali can call their new jeans Born Players as an alternative to Jhon Players. Even better would be Pevis instead of Levis,  because Pee in place of Lee would be too odd, no? 

This piece was first published on The Quint.

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Morning Special

If you have an early morning train or a flight, there are two things that are unlikely to be on time – your cab and your crap. It’s almost a rule. It doesn’t matter whether you book a Meru, Ola or Uber, like the police in an eighties Bollywood movie, your cab will arrive at the last minute. Given that three Uber’s cancelled last time, you decide to book a local cab this time. 

The fact that you wake up at an unearthly hour much before the pigeons on your AC is a torture in itself. It’s four in the morning. To play safe, you call the cab guy even before you brush your teeth. “Where are you? I have a flight to catch?” As expected, he refuses to pick-up the phone. And just when you give up on him and contemplate calling an Uber, the guy on the other end wings it like a politician. He mumbles, “Madam, reaching in five minutes. I’m on my way”. You know he’s not even out of his bed. Finally, when he finally arrives, he invariably lands at the wrong place. You can shout all you want, “C tower, bhaiyya. Didn’t I tell you C? C for Calcutta?” 
“Madam jee, that ij K. K for Kalkatta. I’m opojite B tower. B four Bombay.” 
You have no time for Sena speak, “BC, it’s is M for Mumbai!” 

When you are feeling as helpless as an honest tax-payer, wondering how Nirav Modi’s cab arrived on time for him to flee, the unapologetic dolt arrives. “Madam, don’t worry. You won’t miss your flight. Main hoon na.” Bless you, because this is the closest you get to Shah Rukh. And after this reassurance, he has the gall to stop at the nearest CNG station. “Only five minutes.” 

While in the cab, you remember the other causality. Your urge to go. There is no denying that we Indians are particular about our ‘time to grace the pot’. No marijuana involved here, this is strictly about getting rid of your solid waste. Most of us have a fixed time. Truth is, our entire day hinges on the time, amount and ease of the process. And yet, no matter how much coffee you gulp, there is no sign of any advancement of troops. Not even an itsy-bitsy spasm. It’s like your girlfriend has ditched you at the altar. 

Why, only yesterday you went twice, so what happened today? You can keep solving the puzzle but there is nothing you can do about it. As your cabbie zooms the Wagon R like SRK, alias Major Ram Prasad Sharma, aiming for Mission Milap with your flight, you dread the thought of using the airport loo. Have you seen the grim faces queued up at an airport loo in the morning? It’s like a war scene - sombre, painful and inevitable. After every gush of the flush, few soldiers emerge winners with a pleased look of Shashi Tharoor. Odder still is the sight of those who failed - they look like a hybrid of Mani Shankar Aiyar and Meenakshi Lekhi. Which is a pity, because their final trial is worse - the aircraft loo. 

But if you failed thrice, even D.Raja - the sole custodian of all prickly feelings looks more pleased than you do. If anything, it’s your meeting that’s down the drain. Because constipated people don’t give a crap. In the absence of any bowel movement, there is no guarantee of right vowel movement. The trip anyway is doomed. There goes the hotel’s complimentary buffet breakfast, your sightseeing and even your meeting. No cheesy lasagna with juicy zucchini or a pancake dripping with honey for you. All you get is papaya and fresh watermelon juice. 

So next time both your cab and your crap arrive on time, count your blessings. Visualize hundreds who wake up early to endure this pain – pacing, stretching, waiting and cursing with anxiety ripping them apart. Thank your stars. Write a gratitude post. Or visit the nearest temple with eleven coconuts. 

This piece first featured here - The Quint

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

User Manual for Parents with Adult Kids at Home

There comes a stage in life when you look at exasperated, somewhat embarrassed parents of toddlers throwing tantrums with a sense of longing. And amusement too. You reminisce the good old days of your own kids who are now adults. Except, the parents on the other side don’t get it. Continuing to mollify their baby, they give you a cheesy smile, ‘You sicko. Don’t laugh at our misery. Why don’t YOU tame this monkey, huh?’ 
But you’ve come a long way from terrible two’s to turbulent twenty’s. What comes to your mind is your own kid - far away in college. And the eerie silence of your empty nest. 

That is when you solemnly place a hand on your heart. You promise that you will not yell when you spot wet towels on the bed and shoes strewn all over, as if in a war zone. No grumbling over pizza crumbs on the bed and nail clippings on the side-table. No questions asked. Just come back. 

If you are fortunate enough, they return - only to fly out forever. But once your adult kids are back home, you learn to balance the equations all over again. Truth be told, it is time to control yourself, not your child. It’s a good idea to dump your trademark gems - ‘It is for your own good - Do what you want - You will thank me one day - When you are my age you will understand’ in the nearest dustbin. Their efficacy is no more guaranteed. 

For starters, learn to ration your questions. Talk when they want to talk. It’s a tightrope walk between zipping up and speaking your heart out. What to say. How to say. And above all, when to say. Remember how you waited for your parents to be in a good mood when you wanted them to listen? Exactly. 

Nothing scares you like the announcement, ‘I’m taking the car.’ Of course, they will drive. Adults do. You did. But this one sentence can cause tremors worse than a major quake. 
It is past midnight, and you are pacing down the corridor. Waiting. Different voices in your head begin to strum. While dads begin to snore as soon as they hit the sack, your motherly fingers linger on the Whatsapp. Last seen one past midnight. Must be driving. When you hear the door click, your motherly instinct will urge you to pop out of darkness and ask ‘beta khaana khaya?’ 
Calm it. Learn to override the old parent kid relationship. New boundaries are a key to better understanding. 

Whats App is a blessing when you don't wish to intrude

If your kids were in a hostel, they are not used to explanations about their whereabouts. When the timing is right, remind them to send texts as a matter of a family safety rule. There’s a thin line between your maternal fear and genuine safety concern. 
I understand, it is not easy to give up that privilege of popping ‘when, what, where and why’. After all, these gems were the pillars of your parenting. But now you are dealing with adults who are at home for a brief period when they could well be living in New York or Singapore. So even if every cell of your body is screaming, ‘where were you’, your parenting is now about respecting independence. 
Emotional support, yes. Physical support, not as much. Intrusion, never. 

Bear in mind that they survived without you in college. Their nocturnal routine is likely to press your stress buttons. Yet, you can do little about their unearthly hours. What can’t be cured must be endured. This is not to say you can never express your discomfiture. Look for the right time and the right way to convey what is not acceptable. 

Since you are mastering self-control, reign in the urge to pass on the phone to make them talk to relatives. I understand the relevance of family, but for reasons unfathomable, talking to relatives over the phone is as painful as their first period or a deep gnash while shaving. Extend invitations for family functions, but don’t force togetherness. As with most of us, they will interact when they wish and not when you force them to. 

Self-explanatory, right?

Despite all your restraint, three consecutive late evenings and there is the risk of you reverting back to your old obsessive self. "Shakl dekhe hua Zamana ho gaya". 
Reign in the paranoia and count your blessings. Because if your kids were in a different city, the outings could well be five nights in a row and you wouldn’t get a whiff. Moreover, there is always the risk of being too presumptuous and imagining the worst when all they were doing was hanging out with friends or watching a movie. At the risk of sounding preachy, it is best to trust your upbringing. Mostly, young adults are more responsible and mature than you imagine. 

All said, parenting doesn’t get easy, it just gets different. And by the time you’ve mastered it, the rules change. Damn! Must mothers always oscillate between challenges? 
Well, yes. 
Once you accept that you are now an emotional consultant and not a quality manager, it’s a beautiful phase. A great opportunity to bond before they fly out to raise their own families. Above all, tech-support for your phone and laptop is just a knock away. 


Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Death by Dance

There are different ways to celebrate a win. Jumping up and down is one of them. As is punching the air. Snake dance is equally effective. What used to be a signature move of a drunken uncle during an Indian wedding became a patent of the Bangladesh cricket team. During the recent T-20 tri-series, the boys in green mastered the ‘naagin dance’ by making it a viral social media trend. 

It all began when Nazmul Islam celebrated a wicket by breaking into an impromptu snake dance. His signature move went over the social media boundary. The bite was so infectious that legendary Sunil Gavaskar began swaying after Dinesh Karthik hit the last ball for a winning six. But there was a catch. While the Indian fans found his euphoric sway cute, the Bangladeshi fans called Gavaskar a baboon. Ouch! 

Truth is, cricket and dance moves go back in time. Remember how West Indies celebrated their T-20 win in 2012 by bursting into celebrations with ‘Gangnam style’. If ‘Gangnam style’ can hook cricketers, why not our home grown ‘snake dance’? 
Dance and celebrations go hand in hand. Once snake dance loses its charm, anything can be next. Bhangra anyone? When the occasion calls for pointless abandon, ‘Balle Balle’ rules, right? 

As for me, nothing intimidates me like dancing in public. It doesn’t matter if it’s a marriage ‘sangeet’ or a cocktail party. All too often, weddings are incidental. It is the choreographed ‘sangeet’ that trumps all ceremonies. Everyone and their bua-ji has perfected their moves. Plus there is an intimidating choreographer more flexible than Tiger Shroff. While you want to be a part of impromptu celebrations, it’s the rehearsed performances that intimidate you. Moreover you belong to the Deol family, with Sunny being your uncle and Sunil Shetty your distant cousin. 

The giggling cousins take over the stage and set the bar so high that nothing you shake can match their performance. You dread the moment when someone will drag you on the floor and nudge you to show what you got. The moves, I mean. Finally someone pulls you centrestage with hundreds of expectant eyes looking at you. While everyone is cheering, you feel like a warrior being thrown in a Roman arena with hungry lions. Aware of your dancing skills, your husband and kids hold their breath. Going with the flow, you attempt something as lovely as Tabu in, ‘Ruk Ruk Ruk, Are Baba Ruk’. 
Dance, as the saying goes, like no one’s watching. But you constantly look over the shoulders to check if your loved ones are embarrassed by your booty shake. 

Finally, the agony ends. Or so you think. Someone made a video of your dance and shares it in the family WA group for posterity. With trepidation you click the play button. 
Oh. Shit. 
The only thing you can draw hope from is watching the legendary Gavaskar doing the snake dance. And feel better. 

Image Courtesy: Hindustan Times, NDTV Sport and Cartoon by Satish Acharya

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Writing About Not Writing

When you have nothing to write, write about not writing. So said a writer, tongue partly in cheek. Others too have dispensed valuable gems. Write even when you don’t want to. It’s about discipline. Today I’m going to do just that. Write about not writing.

After almost eight straight years, lately, I haven’t published anything. Truth be told, my draft folder holds a dozen odd unpublished articles. Some cooked, some half-baked. But for some reason the soufflé didn’t quite rise to perfection. The idea that one must write no-matter-what seemed repugnant – too dictatorial for a Freebird. What article, after all, is worth sharing if it doesn’t flow from free will?

Writing, for me has been about self-expression much before it was a literary endeavor. If you’ve read my blog you know that I write about news and media. Despite the stench emanating from the media cesspool, this is what I enjoy the most. And yet, Padmavati pandemonium, Trudeau’s fancy dress, Media’s madness, R.Chaudhary’s cackle, Yogi’s debacle, Sridevi’s speculation, and N.Aggarwal’s indiscretion – nothing nudged me from my idyllic stupor.

Even if I ignore the public disenchantment with news, the biggest challenge was to write straight away. Quick. Tez. Sabse Tez. Because if you don’t write within twenty-four hours, others will. Today everyone and his neighbour is a writer. As a result, the topic becomes as stale as old beer within a day. News is ephemeral. What makes waves today is gone tomorrow. Remember the shocking news of a dead couple, lying naked in the bathroom early this month? What did the autopsy report say? We forgot all about the couple as soon as the NE election results were out. Then there was the news about the sudden demise of Sridevi. By the time I had penned a piece, the web was flooded with tributes. If I publish that tribute today, readers will sneer, “Leave her alone. Aren’t we over her demise? ”

Above all, writing a blog sets to establish that you want readers. Validation. The moment you press the publish/post button, you are looking for an audience. Blogging, over the years, has lost novelty in direct proportion to its readers. The online blogs on news portals attract more traffic than personal blogs. With shortening attention spans, online readers look for brevity of Twitter and the charm of video blogs. Pixels over print. Bullet points over loopy sentences.

Today when I look at my blog traffic, the post that drew maximum page views was the one that read, How to write like a twenty year old when you are sixty.’ At a time when Google answers all our queries, the sure shot way to grab eyeballs is to write ‘How To’ articles. You can cram your posts with funny anecdotes, literary gems, poetic pearls or biting satires, but in terms of cold arithmetic, only three words get you hits – Why, Where and How. Which is why food, parenting and travel blogs are more popular than non-fiction musings. 

People want answers. Information. Not opinions. Well, mostly. Accept that, ‘How to reduce a double chin’, will find more readers than your musing about news.

Then there is twitter. Even though brevity is not exactly conducive for an in-depth discussion, short attention spans have ensured that readers read a summary and move on. Not long back, we loved reading articles on Readers Digest, newspaper editorials or satirical centre page spreads. Not as much anymore. 
Another reason for what appears to be my disenchantment is the fact that twitter is infatuated with lies. A study reveals that false news on social media travels six times faster than the truth. Worse, it reaches far more people. So if I pick news from Twitter, chances are I will be expressing views about something that did not happen at all. On the other hand, if I wait for confirmed news, the topic is done and dusted faster than Usain Bolt.

With shortening attention spans, the only thing shorter than public memory is public enthusiasm. Strictly in terms of public interest, Trudeau’s faux-ethnic ensembles provided more fodder for writers than Emmanuel Macron’s substantial visit. 
Finally, its a rough phase for political satires. People have taken sides along the fence. Any joke on their side is taken as a personal assault. Today, jokes are not about harmless fun but kicking the 'other side' and tarnishing reputations. There is little space and understanding for 'on the other hand' kind of arguments. Issue based analysis is being smothered to death by binary positions based on your likes and dislikes.

So is it time to enjoy the luxury of keeping ones thought’s to oneself? Perhaps rationing is a better idea. As Santosh Desai writes, ‘Time has come to revisit the pleasures of not sharing, of not reacting, and of not enacting our feelings as they occur.’ But then what will writers do? Bury their pen? Ah, herein lies the dilemma. 

Coming back to the moot question: should you force yourself to write? If you want to pursue writing, you should. The initial push is hard. Perhaps the key is to keep writing and wait for the day when you are aroused enough to publish. Once you have penned a hundred odd words, you will know if the juices are flowing. It may not be the best you baked. Yet, it will be fulfilling. Write for the sake of your own clarity of thought. Like I did today.

Wednesday, December 27, 2017

Sidebarring - Nay or Yay?

Last week I attended a book launch along with a friend. The venue was teeming with people and guests milled in the room amid rush and murmur of voices. The acoustics were bad and the panelists went on and on about their books. When the ‘I-Me- Myself’ spiel continued much after an hour, I sent a text message to my friend sitting in the next row.

‘Bored to death. Let’s slink out for some fresh air.’

She responded instantly, ‘Me too. The whole freaking event is so tiresome.’

‘Will they serve refreshments? I’m thirsty.’

To which she messaged, ‘They should, I need a cuppa coffee.’

Next few minutes were spent exchanging texts in a room of fifty odd people. While both of us engaged in a secret phone conversation in public, the host was sidebarred in the flurry of our texts.

I can sense that you are rolling your eyes and wondering where this is leading, right?

So I have to tell you that nothing can be more apt than talking about my experience and sharing the new word in The Macmillan Dictionary – Sidebarring
Sidebarring is essentially the practice of having a text conversation in a meeting or a social gathering when the subject of your conversation is present in the vicinity. The term takes its name from the fact that many smart phones have a sidebar button to ignore or mute calls. 

Does it offend? Maybe. Does it entertain? Absolutely.

Don’t judge me because chances are that you have done it too. Hand on your heart and out with the truth. If the answer is an emphatic NO, you are fibbing. Or you don’t have Whatsapp on your phone. Or you could be a monk, but it is unlikely that a monk will read this blog. Anyway, according to a study more than 70% of us have indulged in the act of sidebarring. 

And if you think you are a master at juggling several tasks, let me burst your holy bubble. The study says that it is virtually impossible to pay full attention to a conversation while texting. Because when you are texting, you are partially deaf to the surrounding sounds. Which is why the ‘multi-tasking’ excuse won’t pass.
Also, when you look down at your phone slyly thinking no one’s watching - the glowing light of your phone and your thumb jog makes it known that you are not in the zone. The truth is as obvious as watching a politician make election promises or Salman say that he is a virgin on a chat show.

Now that we know ‘Sidebarring’ is universal, could it be possible that Rohit Sharma and MS Dhoni exchanged texts lampooning the wasteful wedding expenditure during the Virat Kohli and Anushka Sharma reception? 
Ah, junk it.

It’s tricky to pass moral judgements, because if you are in a boring meeting or enduring an inane verbose lecture, talking about people in the same room can provide a delicious kick. However it could be undesirable, even discourteous, if you invite a group of friends over lunch and two of them engage in ‘sidebarring’ you. Bam that would hurt, no? Sidebarring is already a 'brutal dating trend' according to a UK tabloid.

Why do we indulge in sidebarring when we know that it’s obvious and disrespectful to those present in the room? For one, it’s addictive. A research says that a secret phone chat can give us a dopamine rush. Second, subconsciously we don’t like to do nothing. Every second counts. As technology is advancing we are becoming more and more impatient. Third, bitchy gossip may be rude, but harmless chit-chat about a situation or a person can boost the levels of feel good hormones.

Finally, a word of caution. Don’t get paranoid if you see me texting when I’m with you sipping a drink. For I could be texting my husband to tell him where the house keys are. Or I could be tweeting a thank you reply on social media. You do realize that I don’t have time to spare, right? And that we are a generation that believes in instant gratification. 
So if I’m not texting someone about you, the act could be called 'semi-sidebarring'?  Wonder what dictionary has to say about that. 
Ah, the perils of ghastly tech-tyranny!

Image Courtesy Here

Wednesday, December 13, 2017


As a nation we are obsessed with three things - Bollywood, cricket and weddings. Little surprise that no matter what happened on Gujarat's electoral landscape, the Tuscan wedding of globally hurrah-ed cricketer Virat Kohli and reigning Bollywood deity, Anushka Sharma sidelined every news. My social media notifications were flooded with pictures and videos of how the Captains knock had bowled the maiden over. The pleasure you derived from the images was directly proportional to your tolerance for candy floss.

As for me, I still can’t comprehend the need to travel to Borgo Finocchieto, a property listed second on the Forbes list of twenty most expensive holiday destinations to indulge in a Punjabi wedding, when most of it could be recreated at any Indian five star resort. But hey, who am I to comment on how a celebrity spends his money. What goes of my father!

Anyway, barring some over-pitched deliveries from the guy who tweeted, ‘I’d rather watch an ostrich wedding’ or a writer who felt that the couple shouldn’t have indulged in the extravaganza when children are being raped and trafficked, social media was awash with positivity. Twitter, albeit for one day, was like Arnab Goswami of all prickly feelings transformed into Sooraj Barjatya of all mush.

The reactions veered around jokes about how the couple will rush back to link Adhaar with their marriage certificate, how a stumped Ravi Shastri looked like a grumpy old coot, how Virushka (Virat and Anushka) should be called Korma (Kohli and Sharma) and how a journey from a dandruff commercial ended with vermillion (sindoor). One guy said, 'So happy today. They met, they fell in love and they married. What a magical love story.’ And magical it was. A text book shot.

One of the reasons why the dream wedding amid mountains and valleys felt overwhelming was because we were truly happy for the couple. Happy, that amidst all the trappings of hate and negativity, two people we adore had found everlasting love.

So what is it about a celebrity wedding that excites a billion plus people? After all, it’s just another wedding. Celebrities are normal people and most normal people get married. 

For one, we are a hierarchical society and the common man has always been excited about the weddings of kings and queens. Truth be told, some degree of fascination with the rich and famous is inherent. Moreover, cricket is not just a game in India - it is a religion where cricketers are Gods and every victory is a festival. As it happens, this is not the first time cricket has stumped Bollywood. But it is indeed the first time a team captain and a high profile actress tied a knot on a fast turning pitch.

Second, it is likely that when a cricketing hero and a Bollywood diva decide to marry in a setting that looks nothing short of a movie itself, we get excited about experiences that we are unlikely to experience ourselves. In some ways, watching the wedding snapshots are like the idealization of our dreams. How many of us can dream of a destination wedding, wear a Sabyasachi lehnga with Renaissance embroidery and surpass the net worth of hundreds of crores as a couple? Given that the new power couple represents loyalty, love and family, both Virat and Anushka will be flooded with offers to endorse brands like insurance, housing, cars and consumer goods.

The enthusiasm is not exclusive to us. The Brits hang on to every detail about their royal weddings and Americans binge on Hollywood nuptials. Also, the phenomenon of celebrity adulation is not exclusive to the common man. Remember how some of our film stars had their own fan moment when Ed Sheeran visited India? In most pictures it appeared as if Ed Sheeran was a hostage crying out for help!

Needless to add that when talent and charisma marry beauty and glamour, social media goes over the boundary. With two receptions coming up, the celebrations are going to continue this December. But since the ‘will they, wont they’ factor has gone for a toss, the events won’t be as seductive as the Tuscan wedding. And once Virat Kohli is back on the cricket field in South Africa, social media is likely to revert back to sledging, reverse sweeps and bouncers. Is Anushka lucky for Virat? Should Virat have focussed more on cricket and less on the lavish wedding extravaganza of heady wining and dining? Well, that’s how we spin, don’t we?

Image from here