Watching the All Stars Cricket League was a strange experience.
Firstly, it wasn’t like I had made a slot in my schedule, marked the day, finished bath and food early, and sat down in front of the TV. Naah.
It was a memory at the back of my mind, something I could always get to, after two beers, and catch up on.
That was what it was about. Catching up.
Catching up with those guys I loved and adored and watched and imitated and cut pictures of and stuck to my scrap book. The guys were getting together once again, and it would be fun to see how they’ve aged.
Strangely, the Indian players didn’t seem to have changed a lot. Sachin played a slow, cautious innings, holding it together, the fear of losing early wickets perhaps too deeply embedded in his psyche.
Laxman swung and missed, and went back to the pavilion before you could say ‘Odomos’. Much like he has been doing for Kochi Tuskers, that team where everybody seemed to have elephantiasis. And Agarkar. Agarkar didn’t do much in the match.
Then there was Sehwag, doing what he has been doing all along. My only pang of regret was that McGrath wasn’t in the opposition. I’d have liked to watch Sehwag cart him across deep mid-wicket, all the way to Alaska.
The Indians were just going about the motions.
The Sri Lankans were at it too. Being efficient and productive, diving around and fielding well, and doing their bit for the team. The Australians were fit and effective. In many ways, it could have been the 90s and the players gotten together for a charity match.
Except for a few things.
Curtly Ambrose.
Curtly Ambrose in my memories was a fearsome, frightful bowler. One who took no bullshit, and gave back in good measure.
Over the years, something happened. I am guessing Ganja.
Curtly Ambrose has metamorphosed into a smiling, swinging guy who doesn’t give a fuck. There must be some greens involved there. Probably because he joined a reggae band after retirement. Probably because his favourite musicians are Bob Marley and Peter Tosh.
But here’s my biggest take-home from the league.
Indians love Pakistani cricketers.
No matter what the Shiv Sena wants you to believe, and no matter how many Pakistanis they ban from playing or performing, the roar you heard when Akhtar came on to bowl, proved that Indians like the guy. The applause that Wasim Akram got when he came on to bowl was further proof of that fact.
I assume if Sachin went to Pakistan, he’d receive the same kind of treatment. It is because we Indians love cricket.
We will play cricket outdoors and indoors. We love Tests, One Days, and T20s.
We will play cricket with cricket balls and tennis balls. When there are no balls, we’ll roll up papers and crunch them into balls.
When there are no papers to tear, we will play book cricket.
The All Stars league was just a way of letting people of my generation revisit their nostalgia once again.
It wasn’t really serious cricket. But who cares?
At least it wasn’t like the IPL, where there is a fake sense of seriousness over trumpets and painted faces.
This was like the cricket matches you play on a team outing with your office colleagues. Nobody cares. It is about playing the game. It is about revelling in it.
The World Cup that begins today feels like a birthday that comes close on the heels of a wedding.
I do not feel the surge of excitement that I did for the earlier World Cups.
It’s strange how World Cups have acted as pegs to hang my memories on. Any particular year I think of, its association is deeply embedded with the nearest world cup. World Cups have acted as bookmarks in my mind, sorting things out, giving me a quick recap of what was what.
I began following cricket from the 1996 World Cup.
Before the Wills World Cup, memories of cricket are hazy. Cricketers dressed in white, playing cricket on a hot afternoon – Shastri and Kapil and Srikkanth. A few television ads for Dinesh Suitings and Palmolive Shaving Cream.
The Wills World Cup got me hooked to the game.
I was in Primary School, and didn’t watch a single match in the entire tournament. Yet I got my information from two sources – letters from home with updates about India’s matches. And a teacher named Shruti Raja.
She taught us Maths, and was one of those rare Maths teachers who didn’t try to pull out your appendix if you didn’t know 7 Table. She regaled us with stories of her trips to Paris, and bubble-baths that she enjoyed, and other colourful tales that caused mayhem in my mind.
During the World Cup, she would give us updates about the matches. It was the first time I heard the names Azhar, Tendulkar, Jadeja – my first heroes. The passing of information was very basic. She would walk into the class and announce – “Boys, India won the match”.
Yay!! An eruption of cheers followed, even if the only thing we knew about the situation was that we belonged to India.
She would then add some frugal details, like “Srinath took four wickets”, or “Jadeja scored a fifty”, which was followed by more cheers.
But I had no idea about the format, the counties that played in the tournament, or what the World Cup actually was. It was when I went home that year and found an Outlook 96 World Cup special that my interest in cricket was born.
It was a beautiful edition – pictures and articles and team profiles and opinion pieces. I remember going through each and every team profile, and I could tell you all the players from all the teams. It was like a magical Hogwarts book, a world I could dive into when I wanted.
I brought the magazine back with me to school. I began playing cricket, following it through The Hindu, and generally fantasising about sharing the dressing room with Sachin Tendulkar one day.
That time when Bengalis behaved like Khap Panchayats.
1999 World Cup : Teenage was arriving at the horizon. Along with pimples, sly thoughts of the sexual kind, and a generally more holistic knowledge of cricket, the 1999 world cup gave me a glimpse of what cricket meant to Indians.
It was the time of Indipop music. Of Come On India, Dikhado…duniya ko hilado. It was also the time when Britannia ran its extensive Britannia Khao World Cup Jao (Passport kya tera baap dega) Offer.
The company from Hungerford Street had decided to tempt gullible young cricket fanatics like me into gulping down packets after packets of biscuits and cakes with the hope of going to England to watch the world cup.
Like an idiot, I fell for it. Any money I saved was spent on Tiger biscuits. I’d eat those shitty biscuits, telling myself it would all be worth it when I meet Deba in London and discuss the nuances of cricket with him.
The 99 World Cup was also the first time I learnt that sports was not just about following a team playing a sport. It was about pain and anguish and hurt and disappointment. Shortly after the world cup, the match fixing scandal broke out. Azhar, my hero, was shamed in front of the entire world. I remember shedding a few tears in a particularly delicate moment. I remember feeling aghast, wondering what sort of a person would do something like that.
The 99 World Cup also taught me that we take cricket very seriously. But teenage was knocking on the door, and I pushed cricket out of my mind, and rushed to open the door.
A picture of the Australian team with the World Cup.
2003 World Cup: This was my Angry Young Kid phase. I think the phase is called Intermediate because at that age, all of us are intermediaries between donkeys and real, thinking adolescents.
I had issues with people, ran away from home, and took up work and residence at a small PCO booth cum travel agency in the outskirts of Bhubaneswar. The PCO booth was located in front of a leprosy colony, and a shady basti called Prem Nagar where eloped love birds built their nests.
Which meant a strange motley crew of people who came in to watch the match on the tiny black and white television. Drunkards, children with fingers missing, teenage mothers holding children with permanently running noses, drunkards, alms-seekers, drivers, and drunkards.
I’d finish school, go back by the school bus, take off my uniform and sneak into my secret dual life. I watched each and every match of that tournament (except Scotland vs UAE sort of matches, for which the guy would never lend his TV).
During the final, I watched with horror as Ganguly chose to bowl after winning the toss. I looked away as tears welled up in my eyes when Sachin lofted a mishit shot off McGrath. I played fervently as rain poured in briefly in the middle overs. I went to bed that night, Sachin’s words ringing in my ears like gigantic cymbals – “I’m happy to receive this award, but I’d have been happier had we won the tournament.”
Another picture of the Australian team with the World Cup.
2007 World Cup: By this time, cynicism had creeped into my system like a virus that originates in Africa and spreads its tentacles to Switzerland. Hurt as I was from India’s disheartening show in the previous outing, I was too scared to invest any emotions into this edition.
Somehow, my feelings seemed to resonate with the Indian cricket team as well. Most of the stars seemed drugged, we lost matches to smaller teams, and didn’t even qualify for the India-Pakistan match in the second round.
Between shitty jobs and scabby relationships, I spent a few hours every day watching the matches, but my heart was looking forward to the sun sinking. And then, when the clock struck 6, I’d rush out to have Bhang. And as the hostel swam in a slow, steady motion, I sat on the cot and looked at the world and smiled.
The 2007 World Cup had nothing going for it. The matches seemed like they were being played in a local park. The commentary was drab, the matches seemed like friendly encounters, a coach was killed mysteriously in the middle of the tournament. It was almost as if the World Cup itself was embarrassed by what was going on.
I couldn’t care less.
2011 World Cup: There has been enough said about the 2011 World Cup. Of how the stage was set to perfection. India matches on weekends, an India-Pakistan semi-final where 5 catches were dropped off a single batsman by the name of Sachin Tendulkar. A final at Mumbai, a six to finish the match.
Much of the World Cup passed by in a drunken, smoky stupor. Old Monk from the local store (you could still find it in Hyderabad at the time), and top notch pot from Dhoolpet, friends with flats where you could drink like Ravana and pass out like Kumbhakarna.
This time, I fell for the blitz. I hummed the tournament’s catchy tune, created my Fantasy team and rooted for them. On the day of the semi-final, I had to drop off my ex-girlfriend at the airport. I was getting messages from friends about Sehwag taking on the Pakistani bowlers, and the trip to the airport and back would take a good two hours.
As she looked at me with her lovely doe eyes, I told her I couldn’t do it. I asked her to go to the airport by herself. I have often questioned myself if I did the right thing. If I was a selfish bastard. If things would have turned out otherwise…
But when I reached the room and saw Sehwag belt five fours off an Umar Gul over, I forgot about everything and settled in front of the television.
When Dhoni hit the final six, I felt a sense of calm. I felt vindicated for all the years I had invested in the sport. All the hours defending Sachin Tendulkar against morons who considered Ganguly to be the greatest Indian cricketer. The hours spent hunting for the score, the awkward hanging around paan shops to watch the match after buying a packet of Tiger biscuits for three rupees.
I had invested so much in the sport, and it all came together beautifully when Sachin was hoisted on top of his teammates’ shoulders. I ran downstairs to the streets and found people dancing. I joined them and danced, in spite of my two left Jeetendra feet.
I watched as a crazy fan waving an India flag jumped on to the back of an APSRTC bus. But time, tide, and APSRTC buses wait for none, and the man had to come walking back an hour later, the spring in his step lost somewhere near Jubilee Hills.
I drank myself to sleep and crashed some time in the night. Cricket had given me back everything I had given it.
Sreesanth be like ‘Eeeeee, now let me fix matches in the IPL heeheehee’. Gandu saala!
2015 World Cup: This time around, I am too old to do it.
I can’t take the glossy advertising campaigns, the stupid jingoism associated with every cricket world cup. I can’t take the Pakistan-bashing, the lame jokes, the waking up early and sleeping late to catch each and every match. I can’t take two nine-hour matches everyday, and the gigantic dhobi-bundle of statistics that every World Cup dumps on my head.
I am too old for that shit.
This year, I’ll be watching cricket for the sake of the game. I will pick and choose games that I like, irrespective of whether India is playing in them or not.
I love tournaments played in Australia. The commentary is better, the stadiums are beautiful, the ball bounces up to a good level. There are spectators lazing about, drinking beer, running to catch the ball, laughing heartily when it slips right through their hands.
I am going to watch the tournament like that pot-bellied Australian you see on the screen – sipping his beer, waving his hand, drunk out of his wits.
I am going to support South Africa and New Zealand. If India wins, good. If it doesn’t, too bad.
I remember this one particular man who would walk in to watch the matches in Munna Travels (where I watched the 2003 World Cup). He would sit at the back, stoic and composed, indulging in a smile every once in a while when he saw us go berserk. I would wonder how he could watch the match so passively.
I am that guy now. I will sit back and smile.
You are free to go crazy.
I have retired as a cricket fan. Let the youngsters have their fun.
The white plastic chairs are set around the table. They trickle in one by one, each taking a chair and easing himself on it.
He waits for them to settle down, cursing under his breath, but holding the cool exterior that he was known for. When the last one of them had settled down, Ravi Shastri began speaking.
‘Right, so here we are in the dressing room today…and it looks like this one is going down to the wire’. ‘Cliché’ mutters someone under his breath as the bowlers begin to giggle. Shastri glares at them and they stop.
‘We have been asked by the higher-ups to have a meeting and discuss what’s happening. One just gets a feeling-‘
Suddenly, Varun Aaron stands up, yells, and charges at the wall. He crashes into it, then turns around, and charges towards the opposite wall. Dhoni shares a glance with Shastri. They understood.
Ishant Sharma sat on his chair, his lanky frame hunched. ‘Idontwanttobowlwiththenewballbutbehnchodtheseguyskeepaskingmeto…’
‘Is there something you want to say, Ishant?’
‘Mmmmmgrumblegrumblemumblemumble’
‘You are the leader of the attack, you need to pull up your socks now.’ Ishant stops, bends down near his bag, pulls out his socks, and runs out of the hall. Dhoni shrugs his shoulder and looks at Shastri.
Ever so slowly, the chairs begin to shift a little, gravitating towards comfort zones of their own. Dhoni is gradually surrounded by the calmer ones – Pujara, Rahane, Ashwin, Vijay and Shami. Towards the other side, Virat, Rohit, Dhawan and Yadav are forming a circle of their own.
Shastri looks at the team, wondering if he should have brought Sunny along. But Sunny was growing older, and one couldn’t control what he’d do to the players when he lost his cool. Shastri’s mind went back to the last time Sunny bhai had addressed the team. Sreesanth had picked his nose, and Sunny bhai abruptly poked a burning agarbathi in his cheek. May be he was better off doing this by himself. We have to fight our demons alone. He had jumped at the opportunity to guide the team. Little did he know he’d have to deal with such nutcases.
He cleared his throat. ‘Alright, bright sunny day out here in Brisbane today, packed crowd, you can feel the excitement out here…’ Suddenly, a loud crash was heard from the other room.
Yadav ran across, and dragged Varun Aaron back to the room. He had charged at the television and smashed it into bits. ‘Leave me, I’m a fast bowler,’ he kept grumbling, but Yadav made him sit on the chair.
‘Right. So let’s begin with the meeting. I’d like each of you to state out the reason, according to you, for our loss. Let’s begin with Pujara’.
Pujara:
Shastri: Are you sure? But what about the wickets?
Pujara:
Shastri: Alright. Now let’s move on to Rohit. Why did we lose the match?
Rohit stands up, pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket, spreads it out on the table, and begins rolling it into a ball. Shastri is now losing his cool. ‘Let’s move on to Virat, then.’
Virat stares at him for a while, anger writ large on his face. And then, he speaks – ‘Motherchod teri maa ki choot saale bhonsdi ke haraami kaat daalunga saale behenchod harami’.
Rohit Sharma quickly turns around, takes out a notepad, and jots down some points.
‘If only he did that for his cover drives too,’ Shastri thinks, but knows better than to tell the players anything. He had been like them once – young, hot-blooded, brash, arrogant. The team managers had tried to stop him too, but it was a lost cause. His mind went back to that mad drunken night when he had 17 beers and humped Laxman Sivaramakrishnan. The world was shocked when he announced his retirement later that month.
‘Alright, then. May be we should move on with the-
Suddenly, Varun Aaron was up again. He took off his shirt, bellowed like a drunk bull, and charged at Shastri. Dhoni shook his head, looked at Kohli, and cursed under his breath.
Kohli, Rohit and Yadav ran to hold Aaron down, when Ashwin flung a chair at them. Enraged, they ran towards him, when Dhawan twirled his moustache and slapped his thigh, egging them forward. Rahane now stood up to block the marauding gang, but they got to him and slammed him down on the table.
Chairs were flying around, the screams inside the room had reached a crescendo. The voices grew louder and louder, as furniture, plastic, cloth, and bottles were flung across the room.
Dhoni sat in a corner and was quietly doodling on a piece of paper.
Two mountains, with a half-sun peeping out between them. There were a few clouds, r shaped crows, and a river that began at the point where the two mountains met. He proceeded to draw a house in the plains below, with three steps leading to the house. Should I add a window- BOOM!
There was a monstrous noise, as they all froze, and turned to look at the door.
Dressed in a black leather jacket, brown corduroy trousers, and dark brown boots. The jacket was open, revealing chest hair, and his hair was carelessly thrown across his forehead. There was no mistaking that look, no mistaking the magnetic power it had all over all – man, woman, object. It could only be –
Jackie Shroff. He walked towards the group, the click-clack of his boots echoing in the new silence. He said nothing, walking till he reached Dhawan.
‘Maushichigand!’ he slapped him hard across the face, as Dhawan flew across and landed on his knees. Dhoni made a mental note to put him in the slips.
Jackie walked on to the rest of the group. ‘Mach mach mach mach, all you fuckers do is talk all the time. But when it comes to playing-
He pulled Rahane up by his collar, till his toes were hanging in the air, shook him violently and threw him back on the chair. Rahane, facing yet another unplayable delivery, fainted.
‘And you,’ Jackie spat, his eyes on Varun Aaron. ‘You make even that monster (pointing at Yadav) seem like Gandhi in comparison’. He lifted Yadav and threw him on Aaron. Aaron yelled and began to charge at Jackie. Jackie raises his hand, and Aaron stops, whimpering and simpering.
‘And you’, He turned to Kohli and raised his hand. Only to smile and high five him. ‘Your girlfriend is hot. Kal dekha main. Kadak item hai’. He then turned to Pujara. ‘Do you have anything to say?’ Pujara stared – his lips moved, but you couldn’t hear what he was saying. Jackie lifted him up and slammed him on the table.
Ashwin was punched in the stomach once. And then kicked in the balls. ‘That’s the doosra, asshole. Use it’. He walks across to Rohit Sharma. ‘You. Talented cricketer. When the fuck is your talent going to win us matches? Or are you happy hammering West Indian bowlers in Vadodara? Behnchod go play in Ranji, then.’ He raised a beer bottle and smashed it down on his head.
‘And you’, he said, turning to Vijay. ‘Your name is Vijay, but you never get your team to a winning position. Look at me, my name is Jackie, and I’m Jackie Shroff’. He slaps him hard across the face.
Finally, as the rest of the team lies on the floor, twisting and writhing in pain, He approaches Dhoni, who seems unfazed by it all.
‘Abey oh, cool customer! Maushichigand!’ He lifts Dhoni up and choke-slams him down on the floor. ‘Don’t give me that calm and composed drama, understood? I played Shirdi Sai Baba for fuck’s sake. No one can be calmer than me’. With this, he lifted Dhoni and slammed him down on the rest of his teammates.
Amidst the noise, Shastri listened from the opposite room. He had sneaked out just in time, and sat huddled next to Duncan Fletcher on the floor. Jackie walked around the room. Varun Aaron stands up, looks at Jackie, but folds his hands in obeisance to The Lord.
‘Motherchod. I wake up every morning at five o clock, only to see your sad, idiotic drama. Maushichigand!’.
His work here done, Jackie gives the team a look of disdain, and leaves.
As he retires to bed that night, Jackie is a relieved man. Tomorrow he’ll wake up to watch the third test.
An Australia tour is an excruciatingly frustrating experience.
Once you get over the initial excitement of bouncy green pitches, an overseas tour, and the experience of waking up early to watch cricket, history hits you like a gigantic Amrish Puri slap.
Your mind trudges back to all those tournaments when you pinned your hope on your favourite hero, only to watch him walk back to the pavilion, his stumps in disarray thanks to an Aussie fast bowler you hadn’t heard of.
And then there’s Glenn McGrath. Not content with wrecking India’s happiness consistently over the last two decades, the guy will appear on television with his standard prediction – 4-0. There will be people talking about why this time there are better chances of winning a test, but deep within, your mind is saying LOL ROFLMAO.
The entire experience of watching India totter its way through four test matches, each loss more brutal than the other, is utterly painful. And yet, we as cricket enthusiasts fall for it every single time.
For all you heartbroken fans out there, here are some ways that could help you soothe the pain.
1. Watch the matches online: If you’re watching the matches on TV, good luck to you. Not only are the matches generally depressing, the ads on TV these days could force you to look for a long rope. The agony of watching Hema Malini handing over a glass of water to you, and speak in that refreshing alien voice of hers, could drive a sane man into a Sreesanth.
To give you something to cheer, watch the matches online. The commentary is far more interesting, the ads are even better. Then, when you’re done with one live streaming channel for a while, switch to the transmission of another country. Do this on and on, every few hours, till you land up at a Pakistani live streaming website. Your day, dear friend, is made.
2. Watch Zee Cinema: In case you’re still wondering, Zee Cinema is the greatest TV channel there is. At any given point of time, you turn on Zee Cinema, and it turns you on back. In fact, the films showed on Zee Cinema are handpicked by God himself (once he has allotted the requisite 72 virgins to members of the ISIS). And since matches in Australia are telecast early in the morning in India, Zee Cinema is at its peak. If the cricket doesn’t interest you, switch to Zee Cinema and watch as sounds and visuals keep you enthralled. If you’re in luck (meaning if your maid doesn’t turn up early in the morning), you could even, you know, spend some quality time with yourself.
3. Place bets on how many overs Shikhar Dhawan will survive: When Shikhar Dhawan arrived on the test scene, he hammered Austalian bowlers to all parts of the park. Since then, every time he has toured another country, he has given new meaning to the term ‘Shaktimaan at home, Shakti Kapoor abroad’. And since it looks like he’s going to be opening batsman this time, make sure you earn money while he’s earning brickbats. Choose a fellow sufferer among your friends, and place bets on how many over he’ll survive. Raise the stakes if Mitchell Johnson is bowling.
EDIT: But be careful guys. Don’t take it to an industrial level – Meriyappan.
4. Make use of the early mornings: If you’re waking up in the mornings anyway, you might as well make good use of them. Once you’ve switched on the TV and seen the score (75/6), grab your shoes and step out for a run. I generally imagine I’m a warrior charging at the Australian team with a sword in my hand. It’s amazing the difference that the right motivation can bring you.
5. Follow Ravi Shastri and Sunil Gavaskar: Finally, if all fails, make use of BCCI’s annual Sarva Nidra Abhiyaan – Ravi Shastri and Sunil Gavaskar. Shastri, who is renowed the world over for introducting the Clichean language, is a force to reckon with. Watch him as he mouths out your favourite cliches – That went like a tracer bullet, That’s just what the doctor ordered, or One just gets the feeling… Place bets on how many cliches he can deliver in a minute, and smile as he reads out the score even though you can see it in large bold letters on your screen, EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.
And then, there’s always Mr. Sunil Gavaskar, the one reason the world of cricket hasn’t degenerated into Ice Hockey yet. The BIS standard hallmark on cricketing ethics, basics, and values. Watch him launch into a tirade against hapless, uncultured Australians as they make the grave mistake of picking their nose on camera. Watch as Gavaskar decides for the world how unethical the Aussies are.
And then, just as Australia wrap up the series 4-0, watch Shastri remark that in the end, cricket is the winner.
Yet another Sri Lanka tour took place, and I chose not to watch a single match in the entire tour. Not one. I’d rather watch a Haryana vs. Saurashtra match on Neo Cricket.
So common are India Sri Lanka tours, that after his record breaking innings, Rohit Sharma went to his room, watched some porn on Xvideos, and went to sleep.
Indians have watched so many tournaments with Sri Lanka that they are aware of the cricketers, their statistics, full names, and which schools their children study in. And Sri Lanka will tour any country to play a match. I mean, come on. They went to Pakistan and one of their players got shot in the shoulder. Shot. You have gone to play cricket, and a random terrorist dude takes out a gun and shoots at you.
If all the polar bears left in Iceland got together and formed a cricket team, Sri Lanka will go to play a tournament there. 5 tests, 17 one day internationals, and 22 T20s. Cos that’s how they roll.
I have always felt that we as Indians are like crack addicts. We need our fix of cricket every few months, or we’ll go crazy. Just imagine, if there’s no cricket played for a year. Guys will climb up trees and start humping monkeys. We need our cricket, bhai.
And BCCI knowing this, gives us our hit of cricket by organising these tours. Players are happy, fans are happy, all happy happy. But of late, the BCCI has been alarmingly inconsiderate about the feelings of an Indian cricket fan.
Why would you organise a tournament with West Indies? And then when they pull out, organise a tour with Sri Lanka, of all people? Haven’t you ever thought about it?
That there are just about 10 nations that play cricket on a global scale, and all of them are crackpots? There are India and Pakistan, two nuclear armed neighbours ready to go at each other’s throats. One nation where visiting cricketers are shot at. One country that has a militant ruler who likes to do what he pleases. And then West Indies, that’s not even a country, but a collection of seven countries getting together to play cricket. And yet, whose cricketers look stoned all through their matches, like they’d rather be at a Honey Singh concert than play cricket.
Why should BCCI get to do as it pleases with our cricket? I hope Kejriwal raises this issue sometime soon. That the sport is run by a private body of industrialists and politicians, with as much transparency as Anil Kapoor’s chest in the 90s.
Kejriwal should then go on to demand transparency and people’s participation in the process. For example, when Shikhar Dhawan gets out to one of those ‘I’m a drunk woodcutter chopping away lalala’ shots, BCCI immediately gets a guy from Bihar to speak to Dhawan on national TV.
Come to think of it. BCCI has so much money, is among the richest sporting boards in the world, and is single handedly responsible for 80% of the cricketing world’s income. Why the fuck would you want to organise a West Indies tournament with all that money?
Why not simply put it to better use?
See, one never knows when the good times will end. For all you know, the rest of the cricketing world might gang up against BCCI and end its monopoly. While you have the money, you should rule the roost.
And here are some top class ideas for what to do with all the money that BCCI has.
1. Employ Australian cricketers to do embarrassing shit on television.
For years, we got hopelessly thrashed around by the Aussies in each and every tournament. The Aussies were on a roll, till they met a formidable match in umpire S.K. Bansal, who took the most Aussie wickets in that match after Harbhajan Singh.
But even while that match is hailed as the turning point in Indian cricket, the narrative was not as linear as it is being made out to be today. India still got thrashed by Australia in every tournament they played.
Now, it is time to avenge those losses. And this is how you do it.
Pay Australian cricketers good money to come to India. As we know, Australians will do anything in India for money (case in point being Brett Lee, who will soon be found selling Vada Paav at CST). Pay the Aussies good money for appearing in cringe-worthy Indian TV shows and films.
Like a movie where Harman Baweja singlehandedly smashes Australian bowlers to all parts of the park. Oh wait, that’s a real movie.
How about one where Jackie Bhagnani fucks Glenn McGrath on a velvety bed, with a Sajid-Wajid track playing in the background?
You have the money, make the Aussies pay.
2. Start the Sachin Tendulkar Show.
Indians love Sachin Tendulkar.
So charge them money to watch a TV show where people get to watch Sachin Tendulkar all day. Which side of the bed he wakes up from, how he brushes his teeth, and how many out of our 33 crore gods does he worship? (Then ask Vishnu devotee to send in a message to 57575).
And while we are at it, we could get Sachin to do some Indian culture stuff. Like brushing his teeth twice a day, being a good boy, drinking milk before going to bed.
Just to add some masala to the show, we could have Vinod Kambli enter the show for a few episodes. Walk in with a beer bottle, break some furniture, and break down and cry because he wasn’t allowed to control global warming.
Sachin could then sit Kambli down and explain to him about the many virtues of Indian culture.
3. Make Cricket Movies.
As a nation, our only popular culture is cricket and cinema. That’s it. A nation of a billion people, hundreds of languages and dialects, and all we do is watch cricket, and pay money to watch ugly middle aged men pinch teenage girls on their hips.
But what’s done is done. BCCI should now invest money in combining the two together to come up with Bollywood Cricket series of movies. A unique franchise where cricket and Bollywood get together for the sake of the nation.
One can imagine Ravi Shastri and Jackie Shroff hang out in Rampur like Jai and Veeru. And then add Nagma, Nayan Mongia, and Raj Zutshi into the picture. Just.
4. Just give away the money.
How about the BCCI just decide on one person every week, go to his/her house, and just dump money on his head?
Give away money to people on a lottery basis, and help themselves to get their daily fix of cricket.
I don’t really know.
Dear BCCI, do anything.
Just don’t organise another tournament with Sri Lanka.
When there was news about Sachin’s autpbiography coming out, I was not among those who shared it on Facebook with the tagline – “God!!! Bless me with three kids and a hefty dowry”.
It’s not like I am not a Sachin fan. But the hyperbole around him just makes me a little wary of discussing anything related to Sachin. There are essentially two discussions on Sachin.
One that he is the greatest ever. He is the greatest batsman, the greatest player of any sport, the reason why the earth rotates around the sun, the very reason for the Big Bang. And on the other side, there is the argument about how he wasn’t really a matchwinner, how he slowed down his innings near a century, and was a selfish player.
As a cricket enthusiast, you are sandwiched between these distinctly opposite opinions, with nothing to do except pick your nose awkwardly, waiting for the debate to end. As Indians, we cannot have an objective debate on Sachin Tendulkar. Take for example the time when Indians attacked Maria Sharapova on Twitter because she didn’t know who he was. That’s how much we love cricket and Sachin. We love cricket and Sachin so much that we call Maria Sharapova a fucking whore for not knowing about our Gods. Yes, we are a little Talibanish when it comes to Sachin Tendulkar.
An autobiography is supposed to reveal something about the person that the world is unaware of. But what really is there that we don’t know of? Whatever it is, I am sure Sachin has no intentions to reveal his personal details (may be if it was Vinod Kambli…). Sachin’s life has been written about, spoken about, hailed, and enumerated by thousands of kids who dislike their Maths teachers across the country.
And through the many years that I have known him, Sachin has come across as the ideal boy, the ideal father, the ideal patriot – the nation’s Shravan Kumar. With such a huge baggage on his shoulders, I doubt he is going to be name dropping at this juncture of his life. Sachin has been upright, honest to a fault, and has never showed any signs of anger, disturbance, or aggression. In short – a very boring sort of person.
There have been numerous books on him, and each of them has toed the line that the grand Indian narrative has of the man – the perfectionist, the God-like talents, the humility, the enthusiasm. How much more of it can one take?
I certainly can’t, and have decided to give it a miss.
There’s also the fact that Sachin is never likely to talk about match-fixing. He will never reveal what Azharuddin and Kapil Dev and Manoj Prabhakar discussed between matches. He will never talk about how he never went public against these men who were accused of throwing matches for money, floundering the chances of the nation that he so dearly loved.
And one can’t really blame Sachin. He has been the poster boy of the nation. In his success, India roared. In his failures, India mourned. It is highly unlikely that he would want to ruffle any feathers at this stage of his life (he’s only 41, and yet isn’t it strange how we talk about him like he’s an old man?). And this refusal to ruffle any feathers is probably the one big reason I will give his book a miss. Unlike Shoaib Akhtar, who gave lesser fucks than his batting average, about issues like this.
And then, there’s the biggest reason I will avoid the book.
It has been scripted by Bore-Yeah Majumdar.
For those of you who have lives and do not watch the IPL, Boria Majumdar is Arnab Goswami on steroids. He doesn’t attack his guests or interviewees, choosing instead to attack your brain with his examples, explanations, and rhetoric that could put a T-rex to sleep in minutes.
I fail to understand why Boria Majumdar was selected to write the autobiography. He’s hardly a cricketer, and quoting statistics is hardly the reason people are paid to speak about a sport. And as if his rhetoric isn’t coma-inducing enough, there’s the portion where he begins talking about cricket’s technicalities. Tune in to a news channel after a match, and you’ll find the man talking about Virat Kohli’s stance being problematic, and how Piyush Chawla should attack the stumps more often. It’s all a bit too much to take. Boria Majumdar makes Arun Lal seem like Groucho Marx in comparison.
When the reviews of the book began to trickle in, all my fears about the book were proven right. Sachin has conveniently given important issues a miss, has remained more or less reverential to everybody in the cricketing fraternity (even if they were throwing matching under his nose as the captain). And Boria Majumdar has stuffed so many numbers and statistics in the book that it is being prescribed as a textbook in universities.
So there you have it.
I grew up in the era of Sachin Rajya. I bit my fingernails when he batted, prayed for him to do well.
And yet, I don’t think I am going to be reading his autobiography. I am reading Naseeruddin Shah’s autobiography though, and I laugh out loud every morning after breakfast, leading my roommate to believe I am completely mad.
I have a friend who says that the one reason India never really played any other sport, is Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. The guy was so good, that he hijacked the imagination of an entire generation of children.
He said this after we grew up, of course. Because if he had said it back then, someone would have slit his throat. Or worse, burnt his collection of Trump cards.
I don’t fully agree with what he said, but there is some truth in the fact that we were obsessed as a nation. And never again, in my opinion, will that level of obsession be replicated. For two reasons:
There was hardly any other sport. Sania Mirza had not debuted yet, and Vishwanath Anand would feature in Sportstar frequently, but we would skip the pages till we reached the interview with Venkatpathy Raju.
Cable television had just been born, and unlike our earlier generation who depended on the papers and radio, we could actually watch our heroes in action. Which catapulted even bored children into fanatic worshippers.
All this led to a nationwide obsession with one sport – cricket. Your knowledge of the sport surpassed any ranks you scored in class, and the lack of knowledge on cricket, or an interest in it, brought about a social leprosy that was cruel. I have had friends who didn’t like cricket too much complain to me about it. When they would tell people they didn’t really follow cricket, people would gasp, as if they had said that they have only one kidney, or no heart at all.
We played cricket at school, and then returned home to play some more cricket, and then played some cricket in our fantasies. It wasn’t surprising that cola companies would come up with lines like ‘Eat, sleep, breathe cricket’ to promote their unhealthy crap down our throats. Now, cricket in school was a civilised affair. The school provided the bat, the ball, the stumps – thereby negating any favouristism or nepotism in the process. There would be a toss, and the game would be played in spirit of the game.
Or in the fear of the PT sir.
The PT sir would be overseeing the action, and so everyone would behave themselves. Which basically meant not reaching for each others’ throats at the slightest provocation. If the ball went out of the wall, we would all request passerby to throw us the ball, the bell would ring, and we would all go back to class, smelling like a bunch of obstinate buffaloes. Very civilised affair.
Not so civilised once school was over, though. Here, it was a Game of Thrones. You had to conquer a pitch, stake your claim over it by digging holes and drawing the crease. You had to build your army of soldiers, those who would be willing to sacrifice their home work to play a game with you. One of your army reached the ground early and put the stumps in place and dutifully waited for the others to arrive.
You played on the pitch, fighting among yourselves like hooligans. But once there was an external threat, you bonded like blood brothers to fight for your pitch. Finding a place to play was the major source of worry, especially with the bindaas lives that dogs and cows lead in our lives.
And cows came with their own set of worries – horny bulls who wanted you to learn Life Processes – 2 much earlier than your scheduled day of enlightenment. You scrounged the nooks and corners of the earth, to find that perfect spot to lay your stake on, and then drew the crease and put the stumps in place.
Of course, once your land was marked, and you had a thriving civilisation of cricket fanatics, your pitch would be the cynosure of evil preying eyes. The elder boys in your area, eyeing your pitch. The college going gang who just wanted a place where they could sit in a group and talk and laugh – the morons. And cows who wanted to sit in the middle of the pitch and ruminate on the larger questions of life. Who would choose exactly the middle of the pitch to drop a massive dump of dung – cow graffiti for ‘I was here’.
Unlike the cricket at school, playing cricket at home was a sordid affair. You fought for it with your life, and held it close to your heart. But the struggles didn’t end there. After you had vanquished the demons outside, you had to deal with the politics of your own army.
Every pack of kids playing cricket will be witness to three broad categories of players:
The Franchise Owners: The franchise owners would be the ones who owned the bat, and thus, the game in entirety. The owner of the bat wielded an enormous amount of clout in the scheme of things, considering that his possession – the bat – made the key difference between a set of boys playing cricket, and a set of boys hanging out with three sticks, one rock, and a rubber ball. The franchise owners generally called the shots in the game. And even when the merely defended the ball, they would call it an exquisite shot.
The Enthusiastic Gamers: These were the guys who would be instrumental in the day to day running of matters like the pitch and the space. These guys wouldn’t be great at the sport or anything, but made up for that with sheer enthusiasm. They would arrive first and leave last, and generally did the rounds, calling you out from your house when your mother was trying to stuff food inside you.
The Icon Players: Every league of galli cricket would have these icon players. These guys didn’t own the bat, but they owned the game. The franchise owners couldn’t do anything to these guys, thanks to the latter’s superior cricketing skills. Also, the Icon Players would be pivotal to things when challenged by other leagues to a cricket match. They had to be humoured, else they would drift away to another league.
Every galli cricket league had these three types of players. Each of them ensuring that the game ran along smoothly. Of course, if you owned the bat, were enthusiastic, and were the icon player – well, there was no stopping you. You were the Lalit Modi of the league, and anyone who objected to your actions would be sent a 10,000 page reply, in four cartons. But the process did not end with securing the rights to the pitch. There were the other nitty-gritties to take care of.
Firstly, the ball. Now, it is a well established fact that India is the only country where people play cricket with a tennis ball (Okay, may be Pakistan and Bangladesh too). But what is not mentioned is the number of tennis balls that were used to play cricket. When you are a younger child, it is always ‘Soft tennis’. Since there is more money in the league when you’re younger (since your parents are still trying to pamper the apple of their eyes), soft tennis balls are popular. They came in shiny, fluorescent yellow and had the name of the company written in bold black letters. A soft tennis ball would often provoke ridicule among the elders; the users of the Hard Tennis ball.
Quite simply, the Hard Tennis ball was a tennis ball that was hard. The ball itself had two colours, yellow-red, or yellow-pink. The market leader was ‘Vicky’, and to lose a Vicky hard tennis ball, was tantamount to banging your friend’s car into a tree. The hard tennis ball could hurt if you got hit on the nose, and care should be taken to avoid injuries. By batting all the time.
Third, and a poorer cousin of the tennis balls, were the rubber balls. They were simple rubber balls, the kinds that Dronacharya used to make Pandavas and Kauravas play with. Through all these years, it went through only one type of evolution. The makers had made the effort to add fake rubber stitches to make it seem like a cricket ball. The rubber ball was used when funds were really tight, since they came cheap.
On the flip side, they lasted for a maximum of three days, and if an Icon Player was knocking the ball around, it could crack in half. It was only much later, when your innocence was robbed off you by the Biology teacher, or the video rental store nearby, that you started playing with what was called as ‘Cork ball’.
Cork ball was made of some sort of synthetic cork material. It never broke, but did cause considerable damage to people’s noses. If parents got a whiff that the cricket was being played with a cork ball, there would be hell to pay. But the larger repercussions of using a cork ball were that the bats would crack.
You needed adult cricket bats for this. Not the ones that had a picture of Sachin Tendulkar, with the words – ‘For Tennis Ball Only’ written in small letters below. Setting up a new league entailed going through the grind each and every time.
And just when everything was set – you had a pitch, a bat, and a Vaanar Sena of your own. You found an ideal location for the stumps and drew the crease. The crease was measured by putting the bat on the floor and measuring it till the handle, and then adding the length of the handle only, to draw the final line. This line, of course, existed merely in the mind, as it would be erased, tampered with, and redrawn on numerous occasions through the game.
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But for now, you had found an open space, and there were a few cows grazing in the distance, pretending they aren’t interested in your superhuman batting skills. But then, there would be other obstacles on your way. The ball would fall into the gutter, go into a house where a pissed off aunty wouldn’t return it to you, or God forbid, to a group of seniors who were playing at a distance. Now, I don’t know why, but if a ball goes into the pitch of seniors playing, they would either hide the ball, throw it in a drain, or throw it so far off that it would take half an hour to find it. When I was younger, I used to think the seniors near my house knew that we were better than them.
But when we grew up, I realised we did exactly the same thing. Perhaps it was a sign of growing up. Of being tough on the streets. Or something like that. But what did one do when the sun had set? When you couldn’t play cricket anymore because there would be drug pedlars who would give you chocolates and kidnap you and take out one of your kidneys?
You started playing cricket indoors. Corridors, garages, houses, dormitories – if there ever was a league of indoor cricket, India would kick Australia’s ass and become the king of the sport. Not only did we take our obsession with cricket indoors, we also enacted new rules that could be adapted to the change in scenario. Like the Hong Kong Super 6’s, indoor cricket had its own set of rules:
One Tup Out: Since you were playing indoors, you couldn’t dive around as you would normally in the ground. So the rule here was that if you caught the ball after it bounced ONCE, the batsman would still be declared out. The One Tup Out required Bradmanian skills if it was a small enclosure, and general public apathy towards the rule gave birth to the second rule.
One Tup One Hand: This rule said that you could catch the ball after it bounced once, but to be fair to the batsman, you could only catch it with one hand. The One Tup One Hand rule would have larger repercussions on real cricket much later, when rules like one bouncer per over were drafted in to benefit the batsmen.
The Three Miss Out: This rule said that if you missed touching the ball with your bat on three deliveries, you could be ruled out. Critics have pointed out that this rule could be inspired from baseball, to which the makers of the rule nonchalantly pointed out that it was called ‘three miss’ and not ‘three strikes’, and hence it was merely an inspiration. Indoor cricket was great for afternoons, when elders either went to work or took a nap. It could be played without making much noise, and the only risk was breaking a few things in the house.
Indoor cricket, some would say, required a lesser amount of cricketing skills, and sometimes turned out to be more enjoyable than the game outdoors. Here, there was nobody picking on you, no need to put your hand in a drain, and the ball rarely got lost.
But what if you did not have access to a bat or ball at all? Like in school, when you were forced to study? Of course there would be a way out!
“The absence of a bat and ball do not stand as obstacles to the obsessed” – Anonymous.
The chewing gum scene back then was just turning bright. For years, we chewed on Big Fun, simply because they gave cricket cards free with each pack. It was a different matter that the bubble gums themselves felt like scented tails of pigs. But we chewed on, since there was a cricket card to win. Somewhere along the line, came Center Fresh.
Center Fresh produced chewing gums that were actually enjoyable. For once, a chewing gum didn’t seem like the necessary penance to achieve something else. There was a nice jelly in the middle of the gum, but best of all – they provided cricket cards. Bright, colourful cards that had no spelling mistakes, factual errors, and the pictures were bright and clear.
Not like the Big Fun cards, that looked like the receipt of a weight checking machine at the railway station. Of course, there were the cricket cards that were available in the market. You could simply buy a pack and laugh at all those people who were chewing gum like maniacs to collect the entire pack.
Cricket cards of that era seemed to be frozen in time. I remember the numbers changing just twice in all the time I played with them. The statistics were pretty simple – Matches, Runs, Highest Score, Batting Average, Wickets, Bowling Average, Best Bowling. There were a few Trump Cards in the pack, but you could still beat a Wasim Akram card on the basis of batting, and a Mohd. Azharuddin card on the basis of bowling.
There was a sense of fairness and justice in the entire process. There were WWF cards too, but rumours had begun to float that the matches were all fake, and seniors at school would sometimes snigger if they saw you with WWF cards (or snatch them away, depending on their IQ).
But since cricket cards were based on actual facts, and you could actually see the matches on TV, and read about them in print, they were considered holy. Possessing a good collection of cricket cards automatically meant that you social standing would shoot up, people would generally invite you to their discussions, hoping that you’d decide to bring out the cards. However, cards came with their own set of risks.
If you were caught playing cards in class, you were screwed. The cards would sometimes be thrown away, or torn, or simply confiscated. Numerous trips to the Staff Room to find them would prove futile, and it would be the end of your prized collection. Also, some of us had spiritual parents, who thought that playing cricket cards is the gateway to more sinister habits, and we would grow up to be gamblers who would blow up all their hard earned money. Making cricket cards a considerable risk, on occasions.
What did one do if their cricket cards were taken away from them? Give up on cricket? Hell no! There would be other options, obviously. For those who had access to neither bat, nor cricket cards, there was Book Cricket.
I remember feeling grateful to the person who invented the game. It was an ingenious concept. You held a text book in your hand (preferably of the subject of the ongoing class), and opened a page randomly. You then looked at the page on the left. The last digit of the page number denoted your score. For eg, if you opened page no. 54, your score for that delivery would be 4. If you got a page that ended with 0, you were out.
While purists preferred the Test match method where every player was allowed to play ten batsman, those with lesser patience opted for a limited number of book openings, and the total score was accumulated. Agreed, it did not set your pulse racing, nor did it come with ups and downs of playing a sport. But it could be played right in class. You needn’t even speak to each other, and if a teacher arrived, you would look like two kids looking at a text book and making notes.
After the Drona Award and Arjuna Award, if the government decides to award innovation in sports, probably name it the Ekalavya Award, then the inventor of Book Cricket should win it.
But teachers in our school eventually got a whiff of our nefarious activities. They probably saw a long list of numbers and wondered why the guy was practising basic addition in Class 7. But Book Cricket was busted too. And now with Book Cricket out of the question, was there anything else I could do?
How could I contain all the enthusiasm for cricket that was bubbling in my mind, threatening to spill out? I devised my own way. I realised that there was something that no one could take away from me. Something that was deep within me that only belonged to me. My dreams.
We would be asked to sit for hours at a stretch to meditate, and I had a tough time reining in my mind, that was running like a wild horse towards Raveena Tandon. I started daydreaming about cricket.
So when everyone would be asked to close their eyes and meditate, and I was done with my customary meditation for Raveena, I would start daydreaming about cricket. It would begin with me bumping into Debashis Mohanty randomly while playing cricket at the local Shahid Sporting Club. Just a regular ‘Hi-bye’ sort of a meeting, not for me the falling over and taking pictures. I was cool.
He would be talking to a group of (less knowledgable) kids about cricket, when I would barge into the discussion and spell bind him with my vast and expansive knowledge of cricket.
We would strike an instant connection and sow the seeds of a deep friendship. Later that day, when he would bowl to me in the nets, he would be surprised to know that I was quite a talented batsman too, with my flowing drives and booming pulls over mid-wicket. Later he would call me to his house for lunch, as we would sit and discuss, like two brothers, everything from W.G. Grace, to why swing bowling needs to be promoted if we wanted to win more tours overseas.
This would be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, and when India would play a home series, he would write to my school asking for permission. Permission for me to join him while he was preparing for the series. ‘He has got a deep understanding of cricket and we in the Indian team are of the opinion that we could benefit from his inputs, and together bring unending glory to the nation. Hence, we kindly request you to let him accompany us.’
Who would deny a letter written like that? Our Headmistress would let me go, and I would join the boys in preparing for the tour. I would have chats with them on specific tactics for specific bowlers (‘Sachin, you need to be a little careful while playing Cronje, he’s gotten you out a few times earlier).
I would also advice Srinath run in hard for the first few overs, since he was our best bet to take early wickets, and my friend Deba could come in as first change and look at causing further damage. Venkatpathy Raju, whom I never liked much, I would barely talk to.
I would spend hours in my dream land. When I would walk, I would be either practising a shot or doing my bowling action. At home, when I was asked to sweep the floor, I would practice some drives (was never really good with the sweep shot, only cowards play that shot). It reached a stage where I would be doing the bowling action even while walking for lunch, or coming out of the assembly. And so would a lot of other classmates of mine.
Finally, the class teacher announced that no one was allowed to do the bowling action. If anyone was found doing the bowling action, they would be banned from going to ‘Games’ on that day (she obviously knew little of the other methods we had devised). Once when I got caught doing the bowling action, I was tempted to explain that I was doing Shahid Afridi’s action, and technically it wasn’t really a bowling action, as his action had been called for scrutiny by the ICC. But better sense prevailed. I quietly accepted the slap on my cheek, did not show my other cheek, and left.
*
Cricket, you see, was not a game played on a ground, with a bat, ball and sticks.
Cricket was in the heart, the soul, in the blood running in our veins.
If you study in a hostel, your identity is immediately drawn up on the basis of a few things.
What you look like (basically fat or not), the state you’re from, how you perform at studies, and so on. At that age, there is a strange sense of pride in association. Family names are treated with reverence; to make fun of someone’s family name is absolutely unacceptable.
Amidst the many states (and a few countries) that people came to my school from, I was lost as a person from Orissa. At times, it was like I came from a place that didn’t exist in reality. A Platform 9 ¾ sort of extension that only a few of us could see and feel.
There was no mention of Orissa anywhere – in films, books, magazines, news – none at all. Which meant that the references to the state were the same – teachers called us ‘tribals’ (which is grammatically wrong, by the way). There was one particular teacher who would say things like ‘See how you fellows are, that’s why your state is like that.’
I wasn’t deeply ashamed or anything. I did not swear to take a wow to avenge the insults and uphold the pride of my state. Childhood keeps you busy with other important stuff.
And yet, sometime in the year 1998, Orissa found an identity in the mainstream.
Debashis Mohanty.
*
It wasn’t just a mention in the Geography text book, or a quiz question (What is the dance form of Orissa? ‘Oriya’. Bash head till person is buried into the floor).
For a nation that was used to cricketers from Mumbai, Delhi and Punjab, to have an actual cricketer from Orissa infused a great sense of pride in my heart. And the entire state caught up to it.
Every person I knew back then had a Debashis Mohanty story of his/her own.
‘Oh, he used to stay near my house. Used to play with my elder brother. Really nice chap.’
‘He was always a quiet, humble boy. Who would have thought he would one day play for the country?’
‘My brother is good friends with him. The two of them used to drink beer together. Yes, yes. Now go get two cigarettes from that shop and come. Quick!’
No matter how far removed from the sport, they all had a story of their own. One they loved to narrate to others.
And this wasn’t just an award from a President, or a Limca record being set. It was playing cricket for the country. It was appearing in newspapers, appearing live on television. It was millions of people watching and rooting for you. It was Tony Greig calling out your name on the microphone, it was articles being written in The Hindu.
Debashis Mohanty was the first reason I was proud of my state.
*
It was a magical three-year phase.
Having never really played serious cricket, I took up the ball. In a way, my bowling was like Mohanty’s – never express pace, just some sense to pitch it in the right areas and wait for the conditions to work (in my case, for the batsman to play a Ghatotkach pull to the boundary).
When Mohanty was selected out of the blue for the 1999 World Cup (without being in the list of probables), my happiness knew no bounds.
It was the first World Cup I was actively following. And Mohanty was in the thick of things for most of the matches. For a state starved of national heroes, it gave me an insane amount of joy to watch him, his loose jersey flapping in the English wind, running up to bowl, extracting generous amounts of swing both ways (which, if you remember, wasn’t something most Indian bowlers could boast of back then).
The World Cup was a dream run of sorts. Mohanty picked up wickets in nearly every match he played in, and for the first time, I had hopes of him cementing his place in the team. But those were tumultuous days for Indian pace bowling.
A string of bowlers were picked, tested, and unceremoniously dumped. Harvinder Singh, Abey Kuruvilla, Tinu Yohannan, David Johnson, Reetinder Singh Sodhi, Ajit Agarkar – all jostling for the position of the 3rd pacer.
By 2001, the dream run had ended.
Agarkar was being touted as the next Kapil Dev, he had started picking up wickets like the TTE of Rajdhani Express, and could hit the ball around too. In the meanwhile, Mohanty was struggling to find swing in Indian conditions – hot, sweaty weather and dead, flat tracks.
2001 would be the last year he would play for India. Another cricketer from Orissa, SS Das would make his debut for India, but it wasn’t the same. SS Das was too stoic, too silent, too expressionless to inspire me in any way.
And slowly, Mohanty fizzled out of the national team.
*
Fifteen years later, I began hunting for online footprints of Mohanty.
Thanks to YouTube, nostalgia is no more a closet in your mind that that gets lighter and fades out as time passes. With YouTube, you can take your memory off the cupboard, dust it, gaze at it all over again, and pick a fight with a Pakistani cricket fan while you’re at it.
And so I began searching for his videos on YouTube.
I found a total of three videos. The first one was a video titled ‘Tarap catch by Debashis Mohanty’. It was a clip of Mohanty running in to bowl at Saeed Anwar, who lobs it back to the diving bowler, only to grass it. It was a sad little video that had one comment (‘Just missed the catch’).
The second video I found was one of Afridi smashing Mohanty to all parts of a Pakistan ground. Later on, the Peter Pan of Pakistan goes on to say that he had a score to settle with Mohanty. Apparently, before that series, the two teams had played in Canada. Mohanty, who was bowling well, kept walking down the pitch to Afridi to stare at him.
Even if the video failed to refresh any memories, it gave me some solace. That the person who my friend’s neighbour’s brother’s uncle’s son knew personally, stood up to an opponent batsman.
A little more searching, and I find the third video with Mohanty in it.
It is titled ‘Debasis Mohanty does justice to Boston Gymkhana Wicket Ale !!!’.
The scene is far removed from a cricket field. It is a house with about 20 people in it. Back in the days when only one person in a group had a camera and was entrusted with the task of documenting the act for posterity.
Debashis Mohanty stands in the middle of the group, with all the people in the room cheering him on. The camera spins around to show a huge dinner being prepared for the group, there is a general loud laughter of an Indian occasion. Just as I was trying to figure out what was going on, I notice a pitcher of beer being offered to Mohanty.
He accepts the pitcher, and the crowd begins to cheer for him. And just like that, as I watch the video, Debashis Mohanty gulps down the entire pitcher of beer. The group is happy, and everybody is cheering for Mohanty. End of video.
It is a little sad that there is not a single video of my favourite childhood bowler. It seems unfair that ‘Elaan Full Movie Part 1’ is readily available, but not a single compilation video exists of the bowler whose action I tried to emulate. A Google search lends results up to half a page, to be followed by Orkut profile pictures of others named Debashish.
*
May be that’s the true depiction of Oriya spirit. Eating and drinking and laughing with friends. Left with no other option, I philosophise the situation, drawing analogies between the video and the Oriya way of life.
And yet, deep inside of me, it is heart-breakingly sad.
In the last three overs of the Indian innings in the final, I knew a storm was brewing.
We logged on to Facebook to check out Yuvraj Singh’s Facebook page, and we found people trolling him. Some of the posts were really funny. We scrolled down some more, and then there were few that weren’t very funny, some that were poor attempts, and finally, some that really lacked in taste.
Which is why I wasn’t surprised the next day when I read the news of Yuvraj Singh’s house getting stoned. People wished that he had died of cancer, than to come back and play in the final.
*
Whenever such an incident comes up, there are two common explanations.
The first explanation for it is that we are an emotional people. That we love cricket as a sport, and it is the frustration of a people whose only bright spot in life and popular culture is films and cricket.
Which is an absurd explanation. If we were really passionate about the sport, we would know that a team sport is dependent on the entire team. If they scratched a little more, they’d also know that a team sport is dependent on a variety of external things – luck, strategy, playing conditions. And if they really had an IQ of 80+, they’d know that it is really difficult to hit yorkers outside the off stump.
The second is that it comes with being a sporting icon. When people love you, you enjoy the success, the grandeur, the fame and the wealth. If you go through the Ups, you also have to grin and bear the Downs.
Ahem, no?
Because we are not fucking Taliban??
Because we are a supposed civilised democracy in 2014?
Come to think of it, what really did he do? Did he fix a match? Did he pursue and hack someone to death? He had a bad day at work. In the way that you and I do. Now when your boss asks you to come meet him, do you stone his house and blacken his face?
Na. He has power over you.
‘Kya gaandu log ho yaar, tum log?’
*
That is the second thing about the mob frenzy.
Have you ever seen anybody stone the house of politicians? What about N.Srinivasan – the guy who has been accused of running a betting racket? Or A.Raja? Or Suresh Kalmadi – that other Indian who was really passionate about sport?
Or the police officers who roam the streets like modern day Razakars? Or the builder who built that shitty road outside your house? Na. No, sir.
You know why? Because they are powerful. Because if you try to get near their house, their bodyguards will punch you till your small intestine becomes your large intestine and your liver becomes a dier.
*
And so we always choose the easy preys. Actors, authors, cricketers, social workers, and women in pubs. Those not powerful enough to defend themselves.
If somebody was watching from Uranus, they’d shake their heads and laugh. Ek toh all the 100 crores of us follow only one goddamn sport. A sport that only eight other countries play. Bangladesh toh simply does timepass.
In a few hours, a two month tumultuous relationship between Cricket and Bangladesh will come to an end.
Once again, India will play Sri Lanka. It is probably a testimony to how much the two play each other, that I have more knowledge on Sri Lanka’s bowlers than our own. One assumes the two teams play each other so much that they barely consider each other opponents anymore. Probably warring cousins of the same family.
Also, as a picky, disgruntled, judgemental viewer, I have many a bone to pick with the tournament.
Firstly, why another tournament in Bangladesh? The crowds are sparse, and the ones that are there wave Bangladeshi flags in a New Zealand vs. Netherlands match. And their government goes ahead and bans its citizens from waving flags of the opponent team. Which is a regressive step many would argue. But let me subtly remind the reader that India pressed sedition charges against a few students who supported Pakistan in a match. And after all this, Irony came into the picture when they started playing K’naan’s Waving Flag on the loudspeaker.
Which brings me to the music. What is with Bangladeshi music? Blood is fighting to burst out of my ears when their songs play on the PA System. Not only are they loud and tacky, they completely drown the voice of the commentators. And to add to the terrible songs, there is an announcer in the stadium?
Who is that guy, really?
You’re watching a match, ignoring the people who’ve painted themselves as yellow tigers, and then you ignore the songs, and think fondly of Ravi Shastri and his cliches, when the guy with the mike starts off –
AAAAAASHAKALAKASHAKALAKABOOMDHADAKASHAKALAKAKIKORCHHEEEEEEE- and the entire stadium goes ‘Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy’.
If Tony Greig was alive, he’d walk up to the guy, tap on his shoulder, and deliver a resounding slap on his face.
And if the noise and the songs isn’t too much, there are the unwanted statistics. If you look at the coverage of this tournament, you’ll find that as a viewer, you’re bombarded with statistics.
Let’s assume Virat Kohli has come on to the pitch.
On the screen, you’ll find numbers describing his total career stats – like any other tournament would. But then, the goodies start to flow out.
(Since October 2012)
I understand statistics give a context to the game, but seriously, all these statistics? They rob the match of any meaning whatsoever. And yet, one fears these are things that will stay. Because information is power. And India has all the power in cricket. And with great power comes great electricity bill. When will the goddamn match start, damn it, I’m going nuts!
*
The other thing about this tournament is that Dhoni is back.
During the Asia Cup, the team felt hollow. What Dhoni brings into the team might be contested by his haters today, but you can see the large gaping hole when he isn’t in the team.
The guy is probably among the Top 3 finishers in the game, has a calm head, has improved leaps and bounds in his wicketkeeping, and yet people will find something to crib about all the time:
‘Saale ka daadhi pak gaya, behenchod. Kyun khel raha hai woh?’
And yet, nothing seems to affect the guy. Being the Captain of the Indian Cricket Team is a very stressful position. Just a little less stressful than being RahulG’s speechwriter. But it is very stressful.
And Dhoni has mastered the Art of Not Giving a Fuck.
Indian skipper MS Dhoni shown not giving a fuck in a Press Conference
He has the World Cup and the Champions Trophy with him. In a few hours, he’ll be vying for the T20 World Cup. If he fails, people will bay for his blood. If he wins, they’ll share selfies on Facebook with a cute cat and get 150 likes.
India – Pakistan matches, for some reason, do not carry the intensity that they used to in the older days.
In an age where every movement, every expression, every word is captured, there seems to a be a blanket of civility over the proceedings. I doubt we will ever witness an Aamir Sohail vs Venkatest Prasad ever again.
I don’t know if it is a good thing or not. For one, the Pakistani side in general seems a lot weaker on most days (I know I am writing this after a loss, but you get the point). Secondly, the losses don’t hurt much these days.
In earlier days, every aspect of an India – Pakistan match was dissected, deconstructed, replayed, review, relived. Now, you simply walk up to the other room and roll a joint. It’s simply not the same.
And so all through the match today, with one eye over the proceedings of the match, my thought drifted away in another direction.
Openers.
*
If you’ve watched Indian cricket for about a decade, you’ll notice that the beginnings of Indian innings are a lot more tense these days. Now rewind to a few years ago, and you’ll remember that the beginning of an Indian innings was met not with anxiety, but anticipation.
Sehwag’s entry into the team was the last piece of a gigantic puzzle. We had a side stocked with seasoned campaigners – people who had honed their skills for years, winning accolades, gaining in experience, till our Middle Order was pregnant with batting greats. But yet, one felt that something was missing. The army needed a vanguard.
Somebody who could be at the front, someone who could cock a snook at the opposition. A person who could terrorise the opponent right from the start. A Mel Gibson in our Braveheart.
And that man was Virender Sehwag.
For the cricketing world, caught up in its little traditions and customs, Sehwag was an alien thing. More often that not, one sensed the discomfort the commentators felt while he was at the crease. For, if there was one man who could make the wisest of commentators look foolish, it was Sehwag.
He would poke at deliveries on bouncy pitches, slash hard at deliveries that left his body. The commentator would launch into a long extempore about the importance of footwork and technique on foreign pitches.
And right then, he would slap the bowler through the off side. A whiplash that made such a clear ‘TOK’ sound that you knew would end with the ball crashing into the stands. And then he would do it again, reducing the renowned commentator into a bumbling, embarrassed fool.
Yes, we had the genius of Sachin Tendulkar, and the bludgeoning power of Dhoni, and all the class and style of Dravid and Laxman, but ask anybody in India, and they’ll tell you that there wasn’t anybody as entertaining as Sehwag.
When Sehwag came into the picture, Sachin was already a God. But Sehwag posed no threat to the legacy of Sachin. Admittedly having modeled himself on Tendulkar, Sehwag was soft-spoken and rarely said anything. (Apart from the now legendary quote – “All played well, except the Sreesanth.”) When he features in ads, he seemed shy and reserved.
And very soon, he took over the show from Sachin. For the first time in years, Sachin had someone who could shift to fifth gear at ease, and he could work his way to another century.
Sehwag, inadvertently, was also responsible for the ‘Sachin is a selfish player’ accusation that Sachin haters make against the man. Having grown up with cricketers who slowed down their innings when they neared the 90’s, it was an acceptable habit. Till Sehwag happened.
Sehwag would slash and cut and punch and butcher his way to the 90’s. And then when at 94, while you were expecting him to slow down and take a few singles, he would step out, whack the bowler over Long On, and then raise his bat to the Dressing Room and smile. We as a nation had never seen something like this.
Of all the shots I have seen him play over the years, two will remain firmly entrenched in my mind. One is the murderous cut on the off side. Sehwag would shuffle and scuffle outside the Off Stump, and the bowler would give width on the Off Side, and WHACK! the ball would race the fielder to the ropes. The second would be his backfoot punches, modeled no doubt after the man at the other end.
Watching a Sehwag innings was like going on a date with an attractive serial murderer. There was an edginess to it, a nervous excitement.
All through his golden years, there were the technical problems. Numerous commentators pointed out the flaws in his batting, remarking that he had to change his game over the years. Every ball he missed made him look obsolete, confused. And yet, at the back of our minds, we never thought it was a serious threat. For he would pull one across the ropes and all would be well with the world again.
Perhaps, like Sehwag, we as a nation took his talent for granted. Took it for an akshaya-patra that would keep spilling over with riches. And then, it happened. His shots were either too late, or too early. His batting, built on the foundation of an impeccable Hand – Eye coordination, had Merv Hughes sized holes in it.
I don’t know if history will remember Sehwag as a good player or a great player. I remember Gavaskar talking about the difference between the two. Both of them have good starts to their careers – records, success, fame. But as the body starts to age, the great ones tweak their game, making small changes that keep them going, in spite of their bodies slowing down.
Perhaps Sehwag gave as much respect to such theories, as he gave to the bowlers at the other end. Till his last tournament, he maintained that he would play his natural game. He didn’t say it with arrogance, he didn’t seem stubborn about it. He seemed like he knew no other way to play.
*
There are a few things I have against statistics and numbers in sport. While revealing a lot, they conceal quite a bit as well. No amount of statistics and averages can truly demonstrate the impact that Sehwag brought to the team.
There are no numbers that measure fear. Fear in the eyes of the bowlers the world over. The utter bafflement they faced as they saw this man lift his bat and strike the ball like it was the climax of a revenge saga.
Numbers will never reveal how he mutilated the opposition. That even a 30 from Sehwag would demoralise the best attacks of the world. There are some things that even Mathematics cannot quantify. Sehwag’s batting was one of those.
By the last few innings, Sehwag was a changed man. In his earlier days, he was never the most aggressive or outspoken. He could be found talking to the keeper and laughing at Slips during his heydays.
But in the last few days, he seemed distraught. His shoulders drooped, his stance shaky. It was like he was asked an Out of Syllabus question in the Board Exam. I remember him coming to Cuttack for a Ranji match. In an interview with a local channel, he seemed bored. He spoke about the game, about Sachin retiring, and then rambled on about a school he had started, where children are encouraged to pursue sports along with their studies. It was hard to see him like that.
And now, when I watch Rohit Sharma and Shikhar Dhawan, it is like being in an arranged marriage with a person who has already suffered three heart attacks. There is no excitement, just fear.
I know Sports doesn’t work on emotions. I understand that physical and mental toughness matter more than anything else. I also understand that the same sport that elevates mortals into Gods, brings them crashing back down to earth.
But for reasons very personal to me, I wish Sehwag is somehow able to stage a comeback. And for one last time, I see his bat slice through the opposition. And hear that ‘Tok’ sound.
If I were to turn into a psychotic, cold-blooded, serial murderer, while I am being carried off by the police, let them say of me –
“He was wronged. When the only thing good about his childhood was Sachin Tendulkar, they robbed him of it. Society has hardened his heart to a stone.”
*
So it has happened.
He has retired, and we have to move on with our lives.
I wanted to write a flowing tribute to the man. A tribute that would explain in detail how he peppered my life with its most beautiful moments. Of how he made my life in an otherwise shitty decade – memorable. Of how my childhood was Sachin Tendulkar.
I would be lying.
Because when Sachin was being Sachin, I was caught up at different places, doing everything but watching the match. It’s a long story, and to keep things short, please refer to the chart below.
Stellar Sachin Moment
What was happening
What I was doing
1991, Sydney century
A young Sachin was belting fiery Australian bowlers in the fastest pitch in the world.
Had just been admitted in my boarding school. Was five years old, so knew nothing about anything.
1996 Wills World Cup
The World Cup was happening in India. Day light matches, a terrific costume, and a plundering of Pakistan in the quarter final. Sachin had begun opening the innings in One Days.
4th standard. Our class teacher would come tell us if India won the match. She also added some details of her own. At other times, she told us stories of her childhood, and how she would bathe in a tub full of bubbles in her childhood.
1999 Chepauk century
India is chasing down Pakistan’s score in the second innings. While wickets fall left, right, and centre, Sachin keep butchering the bowling, going on to score 136. India lose by 12 runs. Sachin has tears in his eyes, and the legend of ‘When Sachin scores a century…’ is born.
Since we weren’t shown any cricket, the only option was to read the newspaper from the staff room – in the fifteen minute gap we had after lunch.
The punishment for eating slowly was to be made to sit on the Girls’ side. I never rushed through my lunch.
1998 Coca-Cola Tournament, Sharjah
After robbing Shane Warne of any respect he had for himself in a test series, India beat Australia in the semi final and final, and Sachin scored blazing centuries in both the matches.
My family had decided that cricket was an unwanted evil. The TV was packed up, and I had to crouch my head against an old Philips radio till I felt like the hunchback of Bhubaneswar. Couldn’t listen to the climax of both the matches.
Now, let us have a look at some of the matches that I’ve watched.
Stellar Sachin Moment
What I was doing
What was happening
2003 World Cup
Had watched the entire World Cup. On the day of the final, I had stayed back from school. In the PCO I was working in, there were at least 50 people huddled up to watch the match. I sat in front of the TV, right from the Toss, to the end of the match.
Zaheer Khan sledged the Australian batsmen, and they launched into an assault that made the Indian bowlers seem like members of the Vaanar Sena.
In the chase, Sachin holed out after pulling McGrath for a boundary. Next day, there was school.
2009 India vs Australia
India were chasing 351, on a pitch that was providing swing and assistance to the bowlers. I was working as a copywriter, and since my boss hadn’t come to work, I had safely parked my ass in front of the television for the entire match.
Sachin scored a blitzkrieg 175. He played the lofted straight drive – in the way only he can, and punched the bowlers in gaps. At 36, he was making a comeback. And everyone watched in silence.
India, however lost the match by 3 runs, thanks to Ravinder Jadeja, who had worn his helmet, but forgotten to carry his brain inside it.
2011 World Cup
I have moved into Hyderabad, and am studying again. I have no work to do, and have devoted myself to the World Cup in body, mind, and soul. It is the final at Wankhede, Sachin’s motherground.
Sachin starts off with two boundaries, and edges Malinga to the keeper.
I am taken back to the feeling after the last world cup, a pall of gloom descends.
So there you have it. Everytime he did well, I wasn’t watching the match. And everytime I was watching, he didn’t do well. While he’s playing his last innings, I am in the villages of Ganjam, where electricity hasn’t returned to the houses after cyclone. I grow restless, wrapping up my work to watch him bat. He’s in the 70’s, I finally find a television, and settle down in front of it.
And he edges to First Slip.
I can’t really say with conviction that watching Tendulkar bat was one of the high points of my childhood. I didn’t see too many of his innings – at least not the great ones.
But that is not to say that I grew up without his presence in my life.
It was impossible to grow up without Tendulkar in the 90’s. He was India’s first brand – the first person who held sway over people across the country – something no politician, or film star can boast of. Amitabh Bachchan has no relevance down south, Rajini Kanth is more of a pop figure up north. Gandhi is irrelevant for most people these days. But Sachin Tendulkar.
I saw him on hoardings, on the covers of Pepsi bottles, in magazines, and in the stories that my friends told me about him. And I had read tons and tons of articles on him.
Since television was out of bounds, cricket came to me through a different source. From the pens of S. Dinakar and Bobilli Vijay Kumar of The Hindu. While I did not have the colourful, heart-wrenching action in front of my eyes, I had the lyrical fantasies that the two gentlemen wove out in the papers the next day. I read about the drives through the covers, and of lofted drives that flew into the stands.
I read about how Sachin miffed McGrath when he stopped him in his run up, to adjust the sight screen. I read about how a sandstorm forced the cricket to stop, but when it started, a bigger storm was to strike that night in Sharjah.
And I would recreate those scenes in my head. In my mind, Sachin was always a reticent mercenary. A hard-working gritty professional.
*
In the later years, I was a little embarrassed by the image that was made of Sachin.
Whenever a cricketer flew down to India, we would ask him whether he thought Sachin was the greatest. It was like there was a need for validation.
This deifying of Tendulkar, probably because of how Indian it is, always pissed me off.
I have always wondered what it would be like if Tendulkar was not this cherubic, soft-spoken youngster, but a muscular, brash person? What if he talked back to the bowlers, had affairs with actresses as was the norm back then?
Would Tendulkar still have been the hero that he is made to be? I doubt it.
While we talk about the glories on the field, and the 24 years on the ground, the real reason I think Tendulkar is what he is, is because he successfully managed his career without putting a foot wrong. Because he lived up to the pedestal that he was put on – of being a humble, hard working, son of the soil.
That’s how we like our Gods – clean.
*
While there will always be debates about the Bharat Ratna, I wish it wasn’t conferred on him immediately.
Before you order your gang of friends to find my address, kindly hear my reason out.
All his life, Sachin was scrutinised by the entire country. Every time he came out to bat, the commentator would begin talking about Sachin’s shoulders – ‘He carries a billion expectations on those shoulders of his.’
Or, ‘A billion hopes lie on the shoulders of one man…’
By elders, by contemporaries, by children – his every step, his every word, every move. A century every time he came out to bat, a word in appreciation of victims of earthquakes and floods. A political opinion from a political party, stooping down to the level of politicians who die everyday, for which there need not be a bandh.
The same moralistic nation that made him a God will now be watching every step of his.
Being conferred with the highest award of the country is a greater pressure. For Tendulkar, it is back to being 16 again. While one test has come to a close, another one begins.
I can imagine Arundhati Roy asking her secretary to buy a new file folder, marking it ‘Tendulkar’, rubbing her hands in joy, waiting for him to commit a mistake. And then, once he commits it, I can see her smile, lick her lips with joy, and begin…
“That day, when the madness of a billion people, the sentiments of a few, bent the country into offering him the highest award of the country. Not an award for his achievement in sports, mind you. But the greatest award that can be conferred on an individual.
And yet, as the din starts to die down, my mind searches frantically for the answer to the question – ‘How did the nation benefit?”
The same India that wiped tears of joy as he left, will bay for his blood if they see him doing anything that is against their morals. Just when the pressure seems to ease off, a more vicious pressure will now have its hands ready, to claw at his neck.
I hope we don’t make a Gandhi out of Sachin. An obsolete joke, a token of respect.
*
The other thing about deifying somebody is that it obliterates the awesome parts of their life – shrouding it with a grey shawl of godliness. An overarching blanket that covers good, just, kind, humble, and awesome. Making ‘Awesome’ only a small part of the entire package of larger goods.
But for most of us, Sachin was not a god. Those are titles that the media makes up, they look good on placards, and in tribute videos.
But we, the children of 90’s, didn’t really treat him as God.
What did we treat him as?
Pure Awesomeness.
That was Tendulkar for us. Not a pagan god for the sport, but a player who could slay the greatest demons with his bat. He could go to any part of the world, on any type of pitches, face the fiercest bowlers, and yet the “Tok” sound that came when his bit hit the cherry, was sweet.
While he deserves every bit of the tribute he gets, for me and most of my friends, Sachin was not God. He was Fuck Awesome.
*
For all the criticism, when the time came, it did shake me. When I stood in front of the TV, watching him tell his coach that there were no more matches he would play, forcing a smile, and fighting back tears, I choked up too.
Sachin was the last connection to my childhood. A connection I had taken for granted.
Let’s hope he gets to chill out for a few months. And finds something else that he is just as awesome at.
*
68.9 years.
That’s the average life expectancy of a citizen of India, give (Kerala, Punjab) or take (Assam, Madhya Pradesh) a few years.
68 years is a long time.
If we do reach that age, while our grandchildren make love to their friends over their smartphones, and we sit on a chair, ignored, and someone comes to us and smiles a warm smile, and asks us what we were thinking about, we will say ‘Nothing..’ and shake our heads and smile.
Our grandfathers spoke of the freedom movement. Our parents spoke of their struggles to raise us.
We will speak about a short man with curly hair.
It will be a long, lonely walk. But like someone once said…
Hello and welcome to Newshour, the show where the nation finds its conscience. This is Arnab Goswami, and today, we shall discuss a topic that the entire nation is asking.
Are we heading towards a nation of chaos and anarchy? What has happened to our voice as a nation? WHY ARE WE BECOMING A SPINELESS NATION? WHO IS GOING TO GIVE US THE ANSWERS? INDIA NEEDS SOME ANSWERS!
(Assistant whispers): “Psst, sir! Today we have the one on cricket, sir.”
Arnab: (Looks straight into the camera) Ladies and Gentlemen, today we have come to talk about cricket. More specifically, we are going to talk about the people who talk about cricket (smiles). Indian cricket is going through its lowest ebb. What is shocking is that most knowledgable, respected cricketers go on to the commentary box. Which leaves the administration to be run by politicians and industrialists, who squeeze every drop of blood from the board, for their evil, sinister motives. Why is it so? That’s the question we are going to ask tonight.
We have with us the cricketing voice of the nation, Mr. Ravi Shastri, and with the other gentlemen who have graced the commentary box for years, decades even – Mr. Gavaskar, Mr. Sidhu, and from across the border, we have Mr. Waqar Younis.
Arnab: Let me begin with you, Mr. Shastri. As a nation, everyone has been complaining about how India plays the most cricket in the world, but has the most boring commentators in the world. Don’t you think the people of the nation deserve better?
Shastri: “Hello and welcome to an exciting day here at Delhi. The scene seems to be set for an exciting clash and you can literally feel the excitement among the crowd here…”
Arnab: “See? This is exactly what I meant when I said that there is a sense of arrogance in the way you talk….”
Shastri: “When did you say that?”
Arnab: “Mr. Shastri, ARE YOU telling me that you are an arrogant person?”
Shastri: “No?”
Arnab: (smiles) “That’s why I didn’t say it.” (smiles) (Journalism student in faraway Jaipur has an orgasm)
“My question to you, Mr. Shastri, is this: Why is the commentary that we listen to so boring? Why can’t it be made interesting?”
Shastri: “See, the people have to understand that you cannot have realistic expectations. Now where do commentators do commentary?
Arnab: “From their hearts? With their passion? They…”
Shastri: “No! They do it from the Commentary Box. Now, if you are already in the Box, how can one think out of the Box? (smiles and waves to Navjyot Sidhu who breaks into laughter, only for his mike to be switched off hurriedly).
Arnab: “I’m sorry to say, Mr. Shastri, but a discerning viewer would say that you’re skirting the issue here. India provides all the money there is in cricket today. The viewers are paying for it with their time and money. Don’t they deserve better commentary?”
Shastri: “Well, when there is a big match on, you need a big match performer. And that’s where Yuvraj is so crucial to India’s plan of things. ‘Cos when he hits them, they stay hit….”
Arnab: “ARE you even listening, Mr. Shastri? This brings me to the next allegation that people have made against you. That you always speak in clichés? Why do you do that?”
Shastri: “Well you know what they say, “It doesn’t matter how they come, as long as they come…”
Arnab: “There you go again, Mr. Shastri. The people have gotten tired of the stuff you say. Most people also find it unethical that you, Mr. Gavaskar, and Harsha Bhogle are signed for every tournament, even though you’re paid by BCCI to push its agenda. Don’t you think it’s unfair? Let me put that question to Mr. Gavaskar sitting here in the studio. What do you have to say to that, Mr. Gavaskar?”
Gavaskar: “Australians! I hate Australians!! Australian cricketers should be banned from cricket, and from Australia. They have also been the No.1 cause for global warming in the world. We should nuke Australia.”
Arnab: “THERE YOU SEE IT! One man pushing his agenda and the other man who deals with clichés. Is this the best the viewer can get?”
Shastri: The match is nicely poised here….
Arnab: “We’ll take a short break here, and come back with more issues with Mr. Shastri. Stay tuned.
Shastri: “At the end of the over, India 134 for 3.”
Arnab: (turns to Shastri and frowns) “Ahem, see you on the other side….”
Sidhu: …where the grass is green, guru!
Arnab smiles uncomfortably.
**********************************
(COMMERCIAL BREAK: A girl is walking on the road, when three men pass vulgar comments at her. She looks down and thinks, “Kab tak main yeh sehti rahungi?”. When she reaches home, her sister gives her a pack of Fair and Lovely. The next day, when she turns her head, her face gets five shades fairer in five days. In two weeks, she has turned into a blinding ray of light. She walks on the same road, the people turn to look at her…Nanana….NanaNANA….she turns to them, and they burn into ash.
Naya Fair and Lovely – Ab Goraapan ko Laws of Nature tak kyun seemit rakhein?)
*******************************
Arnab: Welcome back to Newshour with me, Arnab Goswami. We are discussing Indian cricket and the commentary that comes with it. Mr. Shastri, my next question to you is that over the last few years, we have seen Dravid, Ganguly, and Laxman take the mike. But why do no cricketers, with the exception of Kumble and Srinath, take up any administrative positions in the board?
Shastri: That’s the end of the over. Time to welcome Sherry into the box!
Arnab: (Turns to Sidhu) Alright, so let me put this question to Mr. Sidhu. You see, everybody who has nothing to do with cricket, is now running cricket. But Mr. Sidhu – you have judged laughter challenges, become a politician, and a commentator – in short you have done everything except being an administrator. How will you explain that to the nation?
Sidhu: Oye, Guru! A Hard Disk is like Hard Dicks. When it crashes, there is no noise. But the pall of gloom that descends into the ebbs of…
(Arnab: Will you please answer my question, sir?)
…darkness resonates with the fist of the devil in the guise of an angel in the beckoning of the soul in the night of the winter. Kyun ki, Guru! Na maen momin vich maseet aan
Na maen vich kufar diyan reet aan, Na maen paakaan vich paleet aan, Na maen moosa na pharaun.
Bulleh! ki jaana maen kaun…
Arnab: (looks sideways to his producer, nods, and puts his hand to ear) Hello, hello? We cannot hear you, sir. Please stay right there, Mr. Sidhu, we’ll get back to you in a while.
We also have with us from Lahore, Mr. Waqar Younis, who had an accomplished career, but has gone on to become a coach, administrator, and a commentator too (Ravi Shastri giggles at this point).
Arnab: Mr. Younis, what do you see is the difference between the Indian system and the Pakistani system?
Younis: Well, the boys play the fantastic, they bending the backs, giving in 100%, the balls coming on to the bat nicely. As you see, they’re playing up to the potential, side’s looking good.
Arnab: Great! One person who doesn’t stop explaining, the other who doesn’t even start making sense. Mr. Shastri, the recent IPL controversy shocked the nation, yet the commentators went on about their business as if nothing ever happened. There was not a single statement from the most respected cricketers…
Shastri: The good thing about Gilchrist is, he lets the bat do the talking.
Arnab: Mister Shastri, are you even listening to me?
Shastri: Yuvraj, you beauty…!
Arnab: MISTER SHASTRI, I demand you answer my question. I demand an answer. The nation demands an answer. You HAVE to answer now.
Shastri: Exactly! And one just gets a feeling now, that something is going to happen….
Arnab: YOU SHALL GIVE ME THE ANSWER, MR. SHASTRI. That’s what’s going to happen…
Shastri: You know what they say, when you want to flash, flash hard…
Arnab: THIS IS THE LAST TIME I AM ASKING YOU, YOU BUMBLING IDIOT! INDIA DEMANDS AN ANSWER…
Shastri: One just gets a feeling that this is going to go down to the wire…
Arnab: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH…..(puts his hand in his drawer, pulls something out, and brings out a black AK-47) Dear viewers, I have never had to take this extreme step, but as you can see, India needs an answer, and I shall get it for India. (Turns to Shastri) So, Mr. Shastri, are you going to TELL ME or NOT?
Shastri: One can’t really tell, looking at this pitch…seems like its going to come up to the bat, but in cricket, one can never tell…
Arnab: I DEMAND YOU TELL ME, MISTER SHASTRI. WILL YOU STOP TALKING IN CLICHES? OR I SHALL HAVE TO STRIKE UPON THEE WITH VENGEANCE…
Shastri: You can feel the tension in the crowd now. No one is moving from their seat…
Arnab: YAAAAAAAAAA…..(starts shooting at Shastri. A bullet hits him square in the chest)
Shastri: (falls from chair) One just gets a feeling… (puts his hand to chest) that went like a tracer bullet!
Arnab: (Adjusts his hair, settles back in his seat, and looks at the camera) Ladies and Gentlemen, when India needs an answer, we will go to any lengths to get it. As the viewers will agree, in the end, it was a victory for truth.
Sidhu: Oye Guru… (Arnab turns towards him, and he freezes into silence)
Arnab: That was all for today. Tomorrow, we shall deal with another of the nation’s problems. Thank you for watching!
I found the outrage over Sreesanth’s spot fixing amusing.
For one, I wonder how much of coverage would the scandal have got if it was only Ankeet Chavan and Ajit Chandila who got caught. Last year, three cricketers were dumped for proclaiming on a sting operation that they could fix matches if they wanted to. So it was not really a big deal.
Now, since it is Sreesanth, there is a lot of talk about it. If Indian cricket was a collection of memes, Sreesanth would be the Troll. A lifetime of antics, theatrics, and short balls on the middle stump have given the guy the reputation of a brainless twit.
But I have always looked at Sreesanth with animosity. Right from the beginning.
But for that, you have to go back with me a long way. Into the mind of a scrutinising, unforgiving 12 year old cricket fan.
You see, Kerala had never produced any cricketers, just like Orissa. Almost every other state in the country had produced one or the other cricketer, except for Kerala and Orissa. Of course, Kerala was blessed with other stuff like tourism, backwaters, and Shakeela.
Orissa on the other hand, had nothing going for it. There had been a devastating cyclone, and the only thing super about it, tragically, was that it was named a Super Cyclone.
Around that time, the first Malayali cricketer made his debut – Tinu Yohannan.
I remember the papers and media going gaga about Yohannan – ‘The First Cricketer from God’s Own Country’, and this and that. Nothing was said about Debashis Mohanty, him being the first cricketer from Orissa, and how on an off day, he could at least influence the match in some way.
Orissa, of course, went crazy. For the first time, we had someone out there on a national level. At the time, every person in Bhubaneswar had a Debashis Mohanty story to narrate – “Oh him? He used to play with my elder brother, really nice bloke!” or something like that.
While Yohannan fizzled out, Debashis Mohanty went on to get a few more opportunities. When he was selected for the 1999 World Cup, the entire state went crazy. Mohanty went on to acquire 10 wickets in six matches in the series for India, and yet, there was no mention at all. It was to be the beginning of the end of his career.
After a few years, came Shiv Sundar Das – a dimunitive test opener who was hailed as the next Sunil Gavaskar. He scored one Test century, and was part of the historic Eden Gardens test of 2001. But soon, he had fizzled out too.
Abey Kuruvilla, a Malayali born cricketer who had played for Mumbai had made his debut, but in spite of his 6.6” frame, made little impact on the team. The odds were clearly favoured in Orissa’s side.
Orissa 2 – Kerala 1.
Then, came Biranchi Maharana. It was the year 2003, and Greg Chappel was the country’s modern version of the gora who was dividing and ruling the country. Dada had been dropped, and Chappel was also accused of creating disharmony between Sachin and Dravid.
As it is said in the Bhagwad Gita:
Yada yada hi dharmasya, glanirbhavati bharata,
Oriya fan taketh matters into hands, gives one tight slapaha
When he slapped Greg Chappel, the entire nation rejoiced.
Orissa – 2 + A Gazillion Brownie Points – Kerala 1
Orissa had clearly won the war.
Then, in a few years, came Sreesanth.
The first time I had heard about him was that he had sledged Sachin Tendulkar in the Challenger Trophy. I am sure he got into the team on the basis of sheer balls. The Andre Nel incident happened not long after, and I was glad that the most annoying cricketer in the world was at least on our team and not with the opposition.
For all his brouhaha, Sreesanth could still perform on an odd day, if the Gods were kind, and his Monkey Mind wasn’t clapping away at the batsman after giving away a boundary. He had almost cemented his place in the Indian cricket team, and I grudgingly admitted defeat in the Orissa-Kerala Cricket War.
Over the years, Sreesanth, like Life itself, has provided both pain and pleasure in equal measure.
Pleasure when he pissed the Australians off, leaving Hayden and Symonds red faced with the fact that there could be a bigger asshole than them on the field – and he wasn’t Australian. Pain when he would spray the ball outside the off stump like a 5 year old who wanted a Superman costume but was given a copy of Wisdom magazine.
Pleasure when he bounced out Jacques Kallis in South Africa, giving India one of its most satisfying victories in foreign soil. Pain when, even in the World Cup final, he couldn’t keep his aggression in control, giving away 52 runs in 8 overs.
On YouTube, Cricinfo, and countless other fora on the web, Malayali fans supported him wholeheartedly. The rest of the world, including the Three Wise Men of Indian Cricket – Shastri, Gavaskar, and Bhogle – always smiled when discussing Sreesanth.
Very soon, the entire cricketing world was divided into two teams – Mallus vs. Rest of the World. The Mallus loved Sreesanth inspite of his utter lack of line, length, and charm. The rest of the world was plain annoyed by him.
Some of the comments can still be found on YouTube, where they talk about how it was an Aryan conspiracy that he was kept out of the side, of how he will never get his due because everyone in the dressing room speaks in Hindi, and other such reasons.
It must have been hard for the fans – justifying someone who clearly had the emotional maturity of a caterpillar, but they stuck on.
When the scandal broke out, it was an opportunity for the rest of the world to rejoice and mock the guy. There was a hidden pleasure in calling the guy a chutiya and saying, “I always knew he was upto some crap.”
People accused him of corrupting the religion of cricket, the holy game of the country. Which is all bullshit. No game is holy. Except the games you play on Holi!
Rotten jokes aside, I don’t see why such a hue and cry is being made. Cricket has always been surrounded by controversies. Captains have passed on information and coaxed their team mates to underperform, players have passed on information to bookies, and gotten a mere rap on the knuckle by their boards, and a national coach was once found dead in the dressing room after a disastrous loss to a minnow.
Where is the holiness? What religion are you talking about?
The words used to describe the scandal are also amusing – ‘he has shamed the country’, ‘played with the emotions of the fans’, ‘broken the bond of trust with the fans’ – trust Indians to get emotional and touchy over everything.
And this is where I have a problem with the idea of the patriotic sportsperson.
The newspapers keep saying that it is the dream of every cricketer to play for the nation, to make the nation proud. May be that is not always the case.
It is understandable that the players would want to play for themselves too. Take for example, the ugly incident of Indian tennis players revolting against each other. Now, Leander Paes and Mahesh Bhupati are veterans, having won the Wimbledon, and every major Grand Slam that exists. Yet, after years of experience, they refused to play with each other for the Olympics – that crowning glory for every sporting country. Not only that, they divided the rest of the team and blackmailed the federation into accepting their demands.
There have been thousands of such incidents, in every sport, across the globe which prove that not every sportsperson is out there to make his/her country proud. Gayle brings joy to Indian fans every summer, but he has had a bitter embargo with his own country’s cricketing board.
Not every sportsperson is patriotic.
If you think about it, being a sportsperson is tough. It is a tough choice to make, and it requires the highest amounts of sacrifice and hard work. Of course, if everything clicks, the remuneration is well worth the effort. But there still dangles a big ‘IF’.
And remember, being selected is dependant on a myriad number of reasons – the selectors, dirty politics, luck, timing, the quality of opposition, the nature of the pitch, level of coaching and infrastructure, among the many.
After all this, when the cricketer has final made it into the team, why is it so difficult to understand that he/she might not really want to make the nation proud. That he/she might want to secure a decent life for himself/herself? That he could skip a tour for the IPL, and make extra money selling Rupa Frontline underwears?
I am not saying it was fair to cheat during the matches. Those are ethical issues with a thousand different interpretations. All I am saying is do not expect every sportsperson to lay his/her life down for the nation. They might have other things on their mind.
And as a nation, it will only save us some heartbreak when the next bit of information comes out…
It’s here again. The annual ‘Let’s Screw The Goras’ season is here!
Every year, India takes colonial revenge on countries by inviting them to a Test series in India. For all the years that the country was ruled and looted by the goras, India extracts revenge. Hot, sweaty revenge.
By inviting them to play in temperatures above 40 degrees, in dustbowl pitches like Rajkot and Vadodara. Where they have to toil like slaves on a pitch to extract bounce till the knees. Amidst a crowd that will never clap for the visiting team, even if someone scores a triple century, takes 5 wickets, and slaps Ravi Shastri – all in one day.
Of course, the visiting team then avenges the revenge by inviting us to their country, where we end up looking like clowns. And thus the little world of cricket goes on with its ups and downs.
So as part of that karmic cycle of wins and losses, Australia is here to play another away series.
It’s surprising how the body language changes when we are playing in India. Domestic captains have already made statements about the Australians’nability to play spin. Kiran More has predicted that Bhajji is going to fire this time. Sreesanth has ordered a bullet proof vest.
Amidst this hustle and bustle, sit the two wise men of cricket – Ravi Shastri and Sunil Gavaskar.
Those of you who do not like Test cricket, you have no idea how lucky you are. Your chosen version of the game doesn’t require you to listen to the drone of Shastri and Gavaskar. You do not know the pain purists like me have to endure.
Imagine you are stuck in a room for five days. You are tied and gagged, and in the room there is a tap that is left open. A drop of water drips onto a metal bucket every few seconds – the only noise in the room. You cannot scream, or close the tap, or leave the room. You are just sitting there, the tap dripping onto the bucket, and drilling into your brain.
That’s what it is like.
Ravi Shastri has been doing the commentary since before the time most of us were born. Along with Gavaskar, he has been weilding the mike, dishing out cliches like Himesh Reshammiya delivers hits every year.
A few years back, it was revealed that the two of them, along with Harsha Bhogle, are paid more than 3 crores a year to put forth the views of the BCCI on air. Which is a cheap trick to play on the viewers because as a viewer, you expect a neutral view, not a paid piper. Of course, the two of them are also in the Governing Council of the Indian Premier League, the annual ‘Let’s Screw Pakistanis Again’ extravaganza where the Indian audience catches a glimpse of rare stars like Shamita Shetty and Preity Zinta.
I have never understood why should ex-cricketers only get to be commentators? I know all the shots played on a field, I am aware of the fielding positions, and do not need the expertise of Sivaramakrishnan to tell me if it’s a great shot. Why can’t we have funny, interesting sounding people on air? Instead of listening to what sounds like the AGM of Bhubaneswar Municipal Corporation?
But then, no one tells Shastri and Gavaskar what to do. Lalit Modi tried, and he had to flee from the country.
So what can one do? How do you deal with the torture of the Deadly Duo over five days, without looking longingly at a blade to slit your wrists with?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present you with a simple remedy.
THE SHASTRI – GAVASKAR CLICHE GAME
Numer of Players: The Shastri-Gavaskar Cliché Game can be played with two or more players. You can also play it with yourself if need be.
You Will Need: A TV showing the cricket match with English commentary. For best results, it is advised to down a few beers while watching the match, to numb the pain.
How To Play: The players sit in front of the TV and wait for Shastri or Gavaskar to come on air.
GAVASKAR:
Once a stalwart of the game, Gavaskar today seems like the grumpy old man who sits on the park bench and shouts and children for eating groundnuts and throwing the paper on the floor. It’s funny to listen to him talk about integrity and team spirit considering he had quite a few tiffs with other players over captaincy, and once walked off the field with his team because he was unhappy with an umpiring decision.
But then, he is Gavaskar and no one messes with him.
So when Gavaskar comes on air, you have to guess whom he is going to reprimand in this over. For eg, a batsman drops a catch, and Gavaskar will begin – “These young cricketers of today….”. Or if a batsman hits a six and then takes a single, Gavaskar will bless him with ‘That’s a bit of sensible cricket’.
The players playing the game need to watch out for such important life lessons and predict them before the man says it. Every correct answer gives you one point.
SHASTRI:
Ravi Shastri is the God of Cliches. When he is happy, he smiles and dishes out cliches. When he is angry, he spews hateful cliches. When he is neutral, he chews cliches in his mouth carefully and then spits them out.
If Ravi Shastri took a Lie Detector test, the scientists would go crazy trying to find out what he really means – so dispassionate and composed is his delivery of cliches.
For Eg. A batsman hits a clean cover drive. Shastri will immediately say, “That travelled like a bullet.” If you could successfully say ‘Bullet’ before he says it, you get one point.
Similarly, anything that happens on the field is ‘great’ according to Shastri. Batsman hits a boundary? It’s a great shot. Bowler stops the ball, it’s a Great Stop. There is a wall in China, it is the Great Wall. So on and so forth.
You need to sit in front of the screen and guess what he is going to say before he does it. Every correct answer gives you one point.
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So there you go!
With this simple fun-filled game, you can tolerate the torture dished out by the Deadly Duo.
What is that I hear you say? What about Wasim Akram’s commentary?
Please remember this number. 022 – 27546669. Aasra is a reputed organisation that deals with suicide counselling.
If Oprah were my school teacher, I would be terrified of her.
She seems like the kind of teacher who would first coax you, “Dont worry, you can tell me anything”. And then, screw your happiness after you have confessed to her.
Last week, Lance Armstrong confessed at the Holy Grail of Television – Oprah’s couch. Admitting that everything that was being spoken of him was in fact true, Armstrong went on to admit that he had lied, cheated, and bullied people to have his way.
I have never really followed the guy’s career, but I remember thinking of him as an asshole when I saw an interview a few years back. A journalist had questioned him about the allegations, and he had gone on to lambast the journo for no reason. Also, his Nike ads, titled “I’m on my bike. What are you on?” smacked of arrogance.
I never bought any of his armbands. Wearing a pink or yellow band never fascinated me, no matter what the significance was.
So I stood on the sidelines and watched the incident take place, not once feeling a thing – neither vindication, nor disappointment.
For you see, I had had my Armstrong moment long back.
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Those of you who belong to the current generation would never have seen Mohammad Azharuddin bat.
It would be difficult to describe how the man batted.
You know how Sunil Gavaskar often says about good batsmen, that they make batting look very easy? Azhar, a tall, lanky middle order batsman, made batting seem like the toughest thing to do.
If you saw him take a ball outside off stump and steer towards the mid-on boundary with a flick of the wrist, you would wonder how on earth could someone do that? An art that Laxman later took to dizzying heights, Azhar was the ‘Yo! Maan’ of the team – the cool cucumber who smiled, pulled off the most bizzare slip catches, and drove balls like he could do it in his sleep.
It wasn’t the grace of Dravid, nor the brute force of a Gayle. In fact, it didn’t look graceful all the time. Sometimes, it looked like his footwork had gone all wrong, sometimes it looked like he had mistimed it. But you had to listen to the ‘clockkk‘ sound – that heavenly sound of leather striking willow, and you knew the ball would race into the boundary in no time.
He wasn’t an artist, or a magician. If anything, he was the evil Maths teacher who would conjure up difficult formulae in front of you. Just because he could. And as I sat in front of the screen, I wondered how on earth could someone do that. Batting must be complex, indeed.
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My family never encouraged me to follow or play cricket. For them, anything that digressed from the path of salvation was unnecessary. Cricket (among novels, films, and comics) often came in my way of salvation, and was hence never encouraged.
I knew a stationary shop guy, who had a small black and white TV, with ‘Star Connection’. I sneaked into his shop to watch the first real match of my life. It was the summer of ’96, and India was playing Pakistan in Sharjah. India had a solid beginning and looked set to cross 300 for the first time in ODIs, when in walked Azharuddin, his white helmet and lazy swagger in tow.
The next few minutes were a flurry. Fours and sixers confounded the Pakistani bowlers, and Azhar scored 28 off 10 balls. From that day on, there were no two ways about it – Azhar was my favourite cricketer.
Cricket does strange things to us. It brings out the best in us, uniting a nation like glue. But at other times, it brings out the worst in us. A simple game turns us into brute, irrational beasts. It makes us strike below the belt, where it hurts the most.
My school taught me to love and respect all religions. I never really understood the magnitude of the statement, but believed it anyway. When I would watch matches at home, disgruntled viewers would repeatedly say things like, “Saala Musalmaan hai. Apna wicket deke aayega”, or “Pathaan hai, what do you expect on a Friday?”.
Those statements infuriated me. But since I wasn’t watching the matches at my home, I simply shut up, praying that he performs. And when he would perform, I was elated. I felt a vindication, a personal victory for me, and my beliefs.
Of course, it wasn’t only romantic reasons I had for being his fan. Azhar was the captain of the Indian cricket team, and held all the major records in ODI cricket – most matches, most runs, most catches, (and the dubious distinction of) most run outs too.
Which meant that if you were playing Cricket Cards and got Azhar’s card, you were guaranteed a win. When people asked me who my favourite cricket was, “Azhar”, I blurted out, without thinking.
Those were the days!
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The year 2000 was full of stories of the Y2K bug. This ominous bug that would wipe out all the computers of the world when the new millennium began. None of that actually happened, of course, but the year remained one of the most heartbreaking years of my life.
The match fixing scandal broke out, and Azhar was named among the guilty. I never believed it at first, but the evidence was mounting, and Azhar was among the accused.
Of course, I gave a rat’s ass about the other cricketers named – Jadeja, Prabhakar, Mongia, and Kapil.
I never watched Kapil play so I had no real connection with him. I hated Mongia ever since I had read an interview where he said, “But I hate to dive for wides.” Jadeja was a bits and pieces cricketer, who scored more in ads and films than on an actual cricket field. And Prabhakar!
He was the country’s leading fast bowler in the Wills World Cup, and started bowling Off Spin when Jayasurya took after him. I never really cared about those guys. But Azhar!
The one guy who I rooted for. The guy who had become symbolic of my beliefs, of the secularism I prided my country on having. The pure joy of batting. It all came crumbling down.
My family was quick to pounce on the situation. They went on for hours about how they always knew that these cricketers played for money. Sportstar and Cricket Talk were banned from the house, and the television was packed up.
My tryst with Azhar had ended.
I would move on to Sachin Tendulkar. A more wholesome, author-backed hero. Flawless, humble, and prolific, Sachin would then go on to accumulate runs like a mad man – the most runs ever scored in the history of cricket. It has been a memorable journey. But I miss being an Azhar fan. The unpredictability, and the vindication.
It wasn’t the same. Ever again.
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So as I watched Lance Armstrong sit on the couch and talk to Oprah about how he cheated, and how he lied, I wasn’t moved at all.
I heard him apologise to cancer patients and his sponsors.
But his biggest apology should go to the little kid. The one who stays awake at night, puts up a poster in his room, and pastes newspaper cut-outs in a scrap book.
It’s that little kid you need to apologise to.
You broke his heart, you smug asshole, and he is going to be shattered for a long time.
I discovered Ponting the same time that I discovered Sachin Tendulkar, which was the same time I discovered cricket.
Outlook had released a special World Cup edition in 1996 which had articles, pictures, and profiles of all the teams. Ricky Ponting was featured as a young, aggressive batsman who could change the match with his strokeplay.
Of course, after the World Cup, Sachin shot to astronomical levels of achievement, and was quickly hailed as the greatest of his era, along with Lara and Akram. Ponting’s rise wasn’t meteoric – it was a carefully crafted road that would take him to the pinnacle of world cricket.
Comparisons with Sachin are inevitable, and I am sure Indian fans have begun flooding blogs, websites, and YouTube with ‘Sachin is better. Jai Hind!’ sort of remarks. Both of them got recognition around the same time, they both started young, and had boyish looks and an attacking style of batting. But Sachin and Ponting travelled diverse paths to the same destination.
Sachin was destined for glory from the beginning. He was a lotus in a dirty pond full of mediocre cricketers, so much that his singular achievements in a team game gave the nation a sense of pride and achievement.
Ponting broke into the team that already had a range of stars. From David Boon to the Waugh brothers, to Taylor, Ponting had to cement his place by shoving away bigger stars. He had to fight for his place.
While Sachin was the Arjuna – a mix of skill and character, always ready to take the right path, Ponting was like Karna. Supremely confident of his abilities, and audacious enough to stick to his own decisions.
While one was soft-spoken, polite, and politically correct, the other was brash, rude, and fiercely confident.
May be how they came into the teams, also chartered the course for the rest of their careers as well.
You would never find Ponting smiling and walking up to a batsman who was hit. You’d never find him sharing a friendly banter with an opposition bowler. None of that smiling, good-natured bubble gum romance that makes for great Cricinfo articles and biographies.
Cricket was a war for Ponting. A war that had to be won by gritting your teeth and fighting it out. If a ball went near him, he leapt at it. If a ball was pitched short, he shuffled across and hooked it over the boundary. There were no smiles, no mercy, no joy in celebrating the spirit of cricket. It was a bloody war!
It was no surprise that, like most Indians, I hated Ricky Ponting.
I hated his guts. I remember famously telling my classmates in school that I’d support Pakistan in a Pak vs Aus match. That was how much I hated the guy.
Of course, Ricky Ponting cared two hoots about how much I liked him.
He went on to become the captain of the Australian team in all three formats, compiling runs at home and abroad, and for about a decade, epitomising Aussie aggression for the rest of the world.
And then, the 2007 tour to Australia happened.
India was a resurgent side, a healthy mix of vintage class and new found aggression. Australia was simply Australia. Ready to fight till the last breath, no matter how ugly the situation got.
I remember being crestfallen that series. Umpiring decisions were awful, the third umpire was not referred to, a stupid, career-threatening charge was slapped on Harbhajan Singh, and to hammer the final nail in the coffin, after the match was over, I remember Anil Kumble standing on the field for the customary handshake, and the Australian team looking at him, and walking away.
It was the worst series I had witnessed in my life. Also, the highest run getter in the series was Sachin, for whom my respect shot up manifold.
When Ponting pushed Sharad Pawar off the victory podium, India seethed (Of course, two years later, when some random guy slapped Sharad Pawar, India cheered. But that’s another matter!)
My hatred for Ponting kept growing through the years. I couldn’t stand the smug expression he carried on the field, and off it.
They say that a villain’s greatest achievement is if the viewer wants to leap on to the screen and kill him.
As an Indian, I hated how Ricky Ponting thought of nothing but victory. Everything else was secondary.
As an Australian, may be that would have been the very reason I would have loved the guy.
If there was one thing that reaffirmed people’s beliefs during the World T20 tournament, it was the fact that Rohit Sharma is the Kumar Gaurav of Indian cricket.
For someone who burst into the scene with applause from the Two Wise Men of Indian cricket – Shastri and Gavaskar, Rohit Sharma also had Sachin Tendulkar say this about him, “Rohit Sharma will score 10,000 Test runs in his career.
Five years down the line, Sharma is just 10,000 runs away from his goal. Just the minor issue of actually debuting stands between him and the target.
Meanwhile, Rohit Sharma has managed to stay relevant and in the thick of things in many ways. Drunken brawl on tour, telling a fan that he’ll fuck his life, crashing into an IPL party – Sharma has followed the consistent pattern of ‘In The News, Out of the Team’ for a long time now.
After a few comebacks, he finally got his moment at the WorldT20. And he stood up to the occasion in trademark Sharma style; scoring 23 runs off 28 balls and giving 12 runs in his only over.
Now, the fear is that Rohit Sharma may go the Bad Boy Down the Drain way.
You see, fans love Bad Boys.
Since ages, it has always been exciting to watch cricketers who don’t give a damn about rules and regulations, and go about their lives kicking ass and breaking rules.
The only difference is that these guys actually performed where it mattered. On the field.
Virat Kohli
Just a few years into the team, Kohli had no one endorsing him, and yet, has become the most valuable batsman in the team today. This is not to say that he is a good boy. He talks back to sledging bowlers, and screams out the choicest words, after scoring a century. Even if nobody sledged him in the match. You know, just for fun.
So Kohli was fielding at the boundary last year when India was getting butchered by the Australian batsmen. Some of the Aussie spectators, who have not known to be the friendliest crowds around the world, said something to Kohli.
He did not raise a word. He raised a finger.
Andrew Symonds
For years, Symonds epitomised Aussie aggression. Menacing with the bat, handy with the ball, and a Shaktimaan on the field, Symonds fielded close to the batsman and loved chatting them up once in a while.
Apart from numerous run-ins with batsmen, Symonds also once appeared drunk on the pitch in a domestic match. And once in the commentary box, Symonds displayed a penchant for choosing his swearwords carefully, once calling Brendon McCullum a ‘lump of shit’. He also said that he loved having dinner at Hayden’s house so that he could ‘glance at his wife’.
Of course, he later acted in a Hindi film and appeared in Bigg Boss. But when he got onto the field, you had to deal with Symonds the cricketer. Fierce, and supremely talented.
Shane Warne
Nicknamed ‘Hollywood’, Shane Warne has been there and done that. Linked with bookies, caught with drugs a day before the World Cup, and caught posing in his underwear with female models, Shane Warne has consisted contributed to gossip columns and Times of India’s supplement edition with his antics.
But give him the cricket ball and watch the magic. Making the ball spin like it’s high on LSD, Shane Warne tormented batsmen the world over, wherever he went. (Of course, except in India, where he had about the same status as Venkatpathy Raju, but that’s another story). Hailed among the greatest bowlers ever, Warne carefully balanced a Bad Boy image with winning performances throughout his career.
And oh, he also married Liz Hurley.
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And then there are those who have lots of attitude, but fail to show results. A kind of aggression that is, in common parlance, called Chutiya Aggression.
Sreesanth
Way before Sreesanth became the Asshole of the Nation, I remember reading about him in a news report of a domestic match in India:
Now, after doing that, you gotta have something backing you up. Unfortunately, Sreesanth continued his magic run with bad luck, spraying wides, pissing off people, and making a face when hit for boundaries.
To the extent that, Dhoni said ‘It’s difficult to control Sreesanth’. Harbhajan went one step ahead and slapped him.
Asif, Ameer and Butt
The three of them got together to commit the most audacious and hilarious scandal in the history of the game.
Pakistan is playing England, and are being led by a young pace attack of Mohammad Asif and Amir. Meanwhile, a bookie called Mazhar Majeed, has negotiated with them to bowl no-balls for £150,000.
When the time comes, captain Salman butts in to remind his bowlers of their duty. The bowlers bowl atrocious no-balls, and then look at the pitch and cover it with hay, indicating that their feet had slipped. The three got banned for match-fixing, adding to the long list of controversies that Pakistan cricket offers to the world on a yearly basis.
Shoaib Akhtar
The Granddaddy of Bad Boys in cricket, Shoaib Akhtar’s ascent to the top was meteoric. By far the fastest bowler in the world, Akhtar supplemented his pace with aggression. Of course, the other supplements, the dietary ones, were part of his armour too.
Shoaib Akhtar’s Report Card over his career is stellar.
Shoaib Akhtar could have been Iron Man, attitude and talent rolled into a powerhouse combination. But what he ended up being is an overweight, has-been bowler who has some good videos on YouTube.
Sudhir Naik:
Even though this has nothing to do with ‘attitude’ as such, I thought I should add this name to the list too. Simply because I love showing off my knowledge of cricket.
Sudhir Naik was a Masters in Organic Chemistry who also opened the innings for India in England. On the tour however, Naik was accused of stealing a pair of socks from a Marks & Spencers store.
Over the years, The Times of India has been running a campaign called Aman ki Asha. Among other vague objectives, it aims to bring people across the border closer to each other. How?
By organising art exhibitions, film festivals, meetings, and theatre festivals. All these events are attended by authors, ‘social critics’ (whatever the fuck that means), and people who will keep drilling in the totally new point into our idle brains that “The people of the countries are essentially peace loving people and do not want conflict.”
Through such mind-blowing pieces of journalism, we are given the impression that all is hunky-dory between the two countries, we are two chidren of the same mother, blah blah blah.
I have found this simplistic All Izz Well approach annoying, if not extremely dumb.
All is clearly not well between the two of us siblings, and no amount of quotes from Javed Akhtar is going to make it alright.
The Aman ki Asha had gone silent for a few years, especially since 26/11 and Kasab happened (in which time the paper was more interested in A Man ki Asha).
I was surprised to find the Aman ki Asha logo of the dove back on the Editorial page a few days back. The article was talking about the recently announced cricket tournament between India and Pakistan.
The reaction was expected. While some hailed the announcement as a new page in the relations between the two countries (yawn!), the others went the ‘Those fuckers shouldn’t be allowed on our soil. Bharat Mata ki Jai!!!’ way.
While I was initially happy about the annuouncement, my reaction to it slowly soured.
Do we really need a Pakistan tour at this point??
1. IT IS IMPORTANT FOR OUR FRIENDLY RELATIONS:
Nothing else could be farther from the truth. I’ve always felt that the role of cricket in the relations between the countries has always been hyped. Apart from some good sporting entertainment, how exactly does cricket help in improving relations?
Unless you’re suggesting that the friendly neighbourhood terrorist is going to give up his evil ways after being moved to tears by watching a glorious sweep by Virat Kohli, or an inswinging yorker from Sohail Tanveer.
Let’s face it. We liked to watch Info-Pak matches because we hated each other. The yearly Toronto series and the occasional Sharjah tour were enjoyable because we loved watching our heroes bash up the opponents. We never felt close to each other. Not an iota of brotherhood. Who are you kidding?
2. CRICKETERS ARE AMBASSADORS OF PEACE
Again, who are we shitting here?
Cricketers from both sides are the worst behaved while playing each other. Virat Kohli will abuse the batsman after every over – just for the fun of it, and Harbhajan Singh will probably call a batsman ‘Paki’, only to later clarify that he was only calling him ‘Punky’.
Our brothers from across the border have hardly been exemplary in their behaviour themselves. When Sohail Tanveer was asked to comment on the exclusion of Pakistani players from the IPL, he said this was just the nature of ‘Hindus’.
3. PAKISTANI CRICKETERS KEEP MIXING RELIGION WITH CRICKET
Apart from Sohail Tanveer’s comment about the true nature of Hindus, the captain Shahid Afridi, the Peter Pan Singh Tomar of world cricket, gently pointed it out.that Allah had not given us big hearts as he had given them. Next they’ll talk about other sizes that we got deprived in. Who wants to listen to that sort of tripe again?
4. PAKISTAN CRICKET GENERALLY MEANS TROUBLE
Whether it is fixing matches, altering the condition of the pitch, infighting between teammates, or more exciting stuff like shooting opposition players, our brothers across the border have consistently grabbed the headlines all over the world.
To think of a neutral ground, some players getting shot, and Ravindra Jadeja could open the innings, brings forth shivers down the spine.
5. THE SPORT IS THE ULTIMATE WINNER
Again, bullshit.
Pakistan is neither a powerhouse in cricket it once was, nor does it have the knack or coming up with new exciting players who consistently win matches for the team. Half of the team is of newcomers, and the alarming frequency with which the captains are sacked leads one to believe that the officials follow the complicated Musical Chairs method to select the skipper.
Instead of cramming in domestic tournaments, the BCCI would do well to plan tournaments abroad, or better still, let the players take some rest. Let the boys earn some money through endorsements and appearances.
Why bring in a tournament that gives anybody any benefit, except for the huge television rights earnings the BCCI is going to rake in?
I’m happy with what’s going on, thank you very much. Stop coaxing me to believe that a hastily-prepared cricket tournament is going to assure me everlasting peace.
Now, does someone have a copy of Gadar – Ek Prem Katha?
The guys tolerated Ganguly and Agarkar for three years, and SRK for 5 years. Truly deserved the title. Congrats, KKR !!
To begin with, I am not one of those who complain that IPL is ruining cricket and all that tripe. How do you know that cricket is being ruined? Is there a quality check that tells you how cricket is being ruined? If lots of money entering the sport is what ruins it, West Indies cricket should be the purest, right? How come brother Gayle is hanging out in India and butchering hapless Indian domestic bowlers for two years now?
So, let’s get this straight. There’s no ruining cricket. It’s like lamenting that Mario the video game was going extinct. Yeah, it was an awesome game and all that. But how long can you watch a man with a cap jumping on tortoises and collecting stars? People move on, and want different things.
I find it funny how people like Harsha Bhogle write seemingly well-researched articles like ‘5 cricketers to watch out for in the future’ on cricinfo. Let’s face it, in the five years that Lalit Modi stormed into our lives, only Ashwin and Jadeja are the players who have made any impact in the national cricket side. For most others, it is a two month extravaganza that you can’t avoid. For me, it gives me something to watch everyday on TV. And frankly, if I have to choose between soap operas and asinine films on Zee Cinema, I am happy with the IPL, thank you very much.
This year’s IPL took things one step further. While we had fakeIPLplayer giving us fake insights into the happenings of the KKR dressing room a few years ago, this year proved that the guy was a Nostradomus of sorts. This year’s IPL saw sting operations about match fixing, rave parties with cricketers claiming they thought they were birthday parties, and molestation cases where Siddharth Mallya finally broke to the world the etiquette that a future wife needs to follow. What more can you want?
However, not everything was rosy. There were still a few niggling worries that bugged me throughout the season.
1. Shastri and Gavaskar’s cliches: What will it take for the BCCI to realise that noone really listens to these guys anymore? Coming up with the choicest of cliches time and again, Shastri and Gavaskar have rubbed off some of their awesome predictability on their juniors – the extremely original Arun Lal, and the guy who makes marathon chess matches seem like 3D porn – Laxman Sivaramakrishnan.
In all fairness, Gavaskar has seemed to mellow down quite a bit this season. But Shastri, how do you stop an idea whose time had come and gone 20 year ago? The man crusades on, with his ‘travelled like a bullet’ and ‘pin-drop silence in the crowd as Sachin departs’ references like there is no tomorrow.
2. Danny Morrison’s drug-induced howling: When Danny Morrison was brought into the commentary box a few years back, it was a breath of fresh air. He did not adhere to the Shastri dictum of two cliches an over, and seemed to bring in some sort of a humour in his commentary. Now, after three years, the shouting gets on my nerves. I understand if you are excited about a match. But if you’re howling with joy when Kings XI Punjab beat Deccan Chargers chasing 123 in 20 overs, I am sorry my friend, we know it’s fake.
We in India know what is fake. For years, we have used China mobiles. We have seen Tushar Kapoor beat up bad guys thrice his size, and we even watched a film where Fardeen Khan invents the world’s fastest car. We also have Rakhi Sawant. So when something is fake, we just know it.
3. Product Placement: Even though the IPL did not accept my suggestions a few years back of having fielding positions called Kohinoor Extra Cover and Anne French Fine Leg, the IPL has not stopped short of going the whole 22 yards when it comes to product placements. Citi moments of success still jolt us out of our sleep, Karbonn Kamaal catches win matches, and DLF maximums exist in every match.
Thankfully, the MRF Blimp, some marketing guru’s idea of a funny joke, has been done away with. But the product placements just go on. This year, we had Akshay Kumar with his moustache cheering for Ganguly’s team. He spoke passionately about Pune being his favourite team, which is funny, because two years back, he had said his heart beats for Delhi Daredevils. Change of heart? You bet!
4. Idea Ads: Times will change, people will be born and eventually die, Shakti Kapoor will proposition a young woman and then apologise, kingdoms will rise and then decline, but Idea will continue to make the crappiest ads on television. I badly want to meet the people who come up with those ideas. What exactly are their motives? Who do they research about? Who is their target audience? The All India Chacha Chaudhry Fans Association?
I mean, we understand that you want to promote the concept of ‘heavenly apps’? Does that mean you torture us with an ad a day, with Abhishek Bachan dressed in white, and a bunch of morons around him, on a set that looks stolen from the film ‘Thoda Pyar Thoda Magic?’ Are we really that dumb? The IPL is undoubtedly the time of the year where most companies come up with their best ads, as they are ensured a steady viewership over a month and a half. We have seen some of the finest sets of ads in the IPL. And then there’s this company, stubbornly sticking to Abhishek Bachhan, and testing out patience and mocking at our intelligence, year after year. How much longer?
5. Navjyot Singh Sidhu: But of course you guessed it. What do I say of the man? He has officially gone nuts.
The last time he was in the news, he picked a fight with a guard and blocked the road in Andhra Pradesh when he had come to attend a wedding. Before that, he told a co-commentator ”Don’t fuck with me” and was banned from the live commentary panel and restricted to the pre and post match discussions (the part of the match where you go out for a smoke, take a crap, come back, switch on the channel and say, “Abey, yeh kab tak bakega?”). This time, Sidhu was again in the pre and post match discussions, which shows that the IPL has some sort of viewer sensitivity. Every match that he sees, is the best innings he has seen in a long time. Every discussion includes one of his shayaris and allegories. This year, to spice things up for us, he started saying small one-liners just before the camera panned away at the end of the session. That little ‘chak de phatte‘, or ‘ghumade balla’ to make our day.
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