Special Report
Astill’s study of India through cricket binoculars
The book came out last month; but our review has found space on indiantelevision.com only in September. Readers, who have not yet got their hands on the book, would be wise to do so. I am a cricket fanatic and thoroughly enjoyed reading this fast paced close peek of the evolution of modern India. And would advice you to do the same if you love the game of the red cherry – or white one – if one looks at what‘s in use in modern day cricket.
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James Astill
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James Astill, the Economist‘s correspondent in India between 2007 and 2010, watched the rise of IPL. With cricket‘s biggest shebang as the back ground, he has gone on to narrate a wider story of modern India. Much of this story is known. Yet while Astill relies on previously published material, what makes his book exceptional is his first-hand reporting.
The ‘tamasha’ of Astill’s title is a Hindi word meaning entertainment or show. As he tells the story, it was inevitable over time that the Indian public would forsake the extended dramas and longueurs of Test cricket for the shorter, more colourful and energetic forms of the game. This process began with India’s completely unexpected victory at the 1983 World Cup under the leadership of Kapil Dev, and has now reached its ultimate incarnation in the cat and mouse game also termed as the Twenty20 format and controversy’s favourite child the Indian Premier League.
Astill is a keen follower of the game and says “the story of Indian cricket is not only about cohesion and success, but is deeply pathetic.” He has very objectively and figuratively described the poor state of infrastructure in the country; a place where millions of children aspire to wear the Indian jersey someday. But the harsh truth is they are unlikely to even get a chance to play an organised version of the game, with a good bat and leather ball. One of the most touching stories is of the railway clerk in Rajkot who, using a concrete pitch and tattered nets, has coached several first-class cricketers, including his son – now a leading light of India‘s Test team.
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Politics in democratic India, Astill observes, is “feudal, corrupt and vindictive”, and the administration of cricket is no more than an aspect of politics. Money was everything in the establishment of the IPL, the cricket itself almost incidental. More than $700 million was paid for the first franchises. The Indian captain, Mahendra Singh Dhoni, is reckoned to earn $21 million a year from the game. Foreign mercenaries such as Kevin Pietersen and Shane Warne were bid for like prize bulls at a livestock market. At some matches the players’ salaries were flashed up on the scoreboard alongside their batting averages; going on to emphasis the fact that the sport has been portrayed in a completely different light.
Astill seems to have talked to everyone who is anyone involved in this deeply unattractive business – including Lalit Modi, the now-disgraced founder of the IPL, whose capacity for intrigue was exceeded only by his genius for making enemies. Almost equally disconcerting is the formidable Sharad Pawar, who combines the job of India’s agriculture minister with controlling the Indian Cricket Board and being president of the International Cricket Council.
In comparison with the corporate (read: administrators) and the Bollywood stars who keenly follow the action from the boundary’s edge, the players seem considerably more likeable. Astill tracks down the inspirational Warne, former captain of the Rajasthan Royals. Warne speaks up expressively on behalf of Twenty20, before innocently sabotaging his case by admitting that “for me it’s always about Test cricket”.
The striking thing about most of those in charge of the IPL is their lack of real passion for cricket itself. They are in it to seek exposure, to sell advertising, to exercise power. Almost none of the money filters down to fund coaching or grass-roots facilities. As for the games themselves, Astill’s judgment is that most lack tension and the real edge of competition.
Astill relentlessly highlights all this and comes to the sad conclusion that India may end up killing the great traditions of cricket. And yet Astill finds that in the streets and on patches of waste ground in the slums and villages of India, (during his stint in the Indian-subcontinent) the game is furiously alive, uniting millions in the simple desire to hurl a ball fast or spin it with conniving intent, and to hit it far. “This is where Indian cricket resides,” Astill writes eloquently, “far from the elite, the corrupt politicians and turkey-cocking film stars who have laid claim to it.” And therein lies the hope that this most beautiful of games will survive.
MUMBAI: Some friendships are made in heaven; others are coded in Mumbai. Hamara Vinayak, the first-ever digital original from Siddharth Kumar Tewary’s Swastik Stories, turns the divine into the delightful, serving up a story that’s equal parts start-up hustle and spiritual hustle.
Some tech start-ups chase unicorns. This one already has a god on board. Hamara Vinayak takes the leap from temple bells to notification pings and it does so with heart, humour and a healthy dose of the divine.
At its core, the show asks a simple but audacious question: what if God wasn’t up there, but right beside you, maybe even debugging your life over a cup of chai?
The show’s tagline, “God isn’t distant… He’s your closest friend” perfectly captures its quirky soul. Across its first two episodes, screened exclusively for media in Mumbai, the series proves that enlightenment can come with a good punchline.
The series follows a group of ambitious young entrepreneurs running a Mumbai-based tech start-up that lets people around the world book exclusive virtual poojas at India’s most revered shrines. But as their app grows, so do their ethical grey zones. Into this chaos walks Vinayak, played with soulful serenity and sly wit by the charming Namit Das, a young man whose calm smile hides something celestial.
He’s got the peaceful look of a saint but the wit of someone who could out-think your favourite stand-up comic. Around him spins a crew of dream-driven youngsters – Luv Vispute, Arnav Bhasin, Vaidehi Nair and Saloni Daini who run a Mumbai-based tech start-up offering devotees across the world the chance to book “exclusive” poojas at India’s most sacred shrines. It’s a business plan that blends belief and broadband – and, as the story unfolds, also tests the moral compass of its ambitious founders.
“The first time I read the script, I found the character very pretty,” Namit joked at the post-screening interaction. “It’s a beautiful thought that God isn’t distant, he’s your closest friend. And playing Vinayak, you feel that calm but also his cleverness. He’s the friend who makes you think.”
The reactions to the series ranged from smiles to sighs of wonder. Viewers were charmed by the show’s sincerity and sparkle, a quality that stems from its creator’s belief that faith can be funny without being frivolous.
Among the cast, Luv Vispute shines brightest, his comic timing adding sparkle to the show’s more reflective beats. But what keeps Hamara Vinayak engaging is the easy rhythm of its writing – one moment touching, the next teasing, always gently reminding us that spirituality doesn’t have to be solemn.
Luv spoke fondly of his long association with Swastik. “Since my first show was with Swastik, this feels like home,” he said. “Every project with them is positive, feel-good, and this one just had such a different vibe. I truly feel blessed.”
Saloni Daini, who brings infectious warmth to her role, added that she signed up the moment she heard the show was about “Bappa.”
“We shot during the Ganpati festival,” she recalled. “The energy on set was incredible festive, faithful, and full of laughter. It’s such a relatable story for our generation: chaos, friendship, love, kindness, and faith all mixed together.”
Vaidehi Nair and Arnav Bhasin complete the ensemble, each representing different shades of ambition and morality in the start-up’s journey. Their camaraderie is easy and believable, a testament to how much the cast connected off-screen as well.
This clever fusion of mythology and modernity plays to India’s two enduring loves, entertainment and faith. Mythology has long been the comfort zone of Indian storytellers, from the televised epics of the 1980s to the glossy remakes that still command prime-time TRPs. For decades, gods have been our most bankable heroes. But Hamara Vinayak tweaks the formula not by preaching, but by laughing with its characters, and sometimes, at their confusion about where divinity ends and data begins.
Creator Siddharth Kumar Tewary, long hailed as Indian television’s myth-maker for shows like Mahabharat, Radha Krishn and Porus, explained the show’s intent with characteristic clarity, “This is our first story where we are talking directly to the audience, not through a platform,” he said. “We wanted to connect young people with our culture to say that God isn’t someone you only worship; He’s your friend, walking beside you, even when you take the wrong path. The story may be simple, but the thought is big.”
That blend of philosophy and playfulness runs through the show. “We had to keep asking ourselves why we’re doing this,” Tewary added. “It’s tricky to make something positive and spiritual for the OTT audience, they’ve changed, they want nuance, not sermons. But when the purpose is clear, everything else aligns.”
For the creator of some of Indian TV’s most lavish spectacles, Hamara Vinayak marks a refreshing tonal shift. Here, Tewary trades celestial kingdoms for co-working spaces and cosmic battles for office banter. Yet his signature remains: an eye for allegory, a love for faith-infused storytelling, and an understanding that belief is most powerful when it feels personal.
Hamara Vinayak, after all, feels less like a sermon and more like a conversation over chai about what success means, what faith costs, and why even the gods might be rooting for a start-up’s Series A round.
As Namit Das reflected during the Q&A, “Life gives us many magical, divine moments we just forget to notice them. Sometimes even through a phone screen, you see something that redirects you. That’s a Vinayak moment.”
The series also mirrors a larger cultural pivot. As audiences migrate from television to OTT, myth-inspired tales are finding new form and flexibility online. The digital screen lets creators like Tewary reinvent the genre, giving ancient ideas a modern interface, without losing the emotional charge that’s made mythology India’s storytelling backbone for decades.
In a country where faith trends faster than any hashtag, Hamara Vinayak feels both familiar and refreshingly new, a comedy that’s blessed with heart, humour and just enough philosophy to keep the binge holy.
For a country where mythology remains the oldest streaming service, Tewary’s move from TV to OTT feels both natural and necessary. Indian storytellers have always turned to gods for drama, guidance and TRPs from Ramayan and Mahabharat on Doordarshan to glossy mytho-dramas on prime time. But digital platforms allow creators to remix reverence with realism, and in Hamara Vinayak, faith gets an interface upgrade.
The result is a show that feels like a warm chat with destiny, part comedy, part contemplation. And in an age of cynicism, that’s no small miracle.
As Tewary put it, smiling at his cast, “The message had to be positive. We just wanted to remind people that even in chaos, God hasn’t unfriended you.”
With 5 episodes planned, Hamara Vinayak promises to keep walking that fine line between laughter and light. It’s mythology with memes, devotion with dialogue, and a digital-age reminder that even the cloud has a silver lining or perhaps, a divine one.
If the first two episodes are any sign, the show doesn’t just bridge heaven and earth, it gives both a Wi-Fi connection.
