Notice how we, Dilliwallahs, managed to snatch our 15 minutes of fame — ill-fame? same difference — at the Ferozeshah Kotla last Sunday? There we were, doing our bit to blow some life into the dying embers of an India performance, and all we got for our efforts was some goody-two-shoes sermonising from some over-stuffed shirts pretending to be cricket commentators.At that point of the match, with Kaif out, India at 94 for six, and defeat staring us in the eyeballs, we could have done one of two things. Either we could have pretended to be ‘‘sporting’’ and ‘‘large-hearted’’ (even if a prospective defeat felt like having one’s liver put through the shredder) and acknowledge the ‘‘great performance’’ of Inzy and his men by clapping politely. Or we could be more honest, scream, ‘‘Hai, hai, Pakistan’’, hurl all the garbage we can collect on to the pitch, and then proceed to set the stadium of fire. I am happy to state that we instinctively opted for the most honest approach although, tragically, the security boys tamped down the proceedings before the pyrotechnics could really take off.I mean, one does not go through all the rigmarole of bribing the peon of the under-secretary, who was required to bribe the peon of the joint-secretary, who wielded some influence over the peon of the chief secretary, and finally land oneself a pass, only to witness a spectacularly dampening damp squib of a match. I mean, after subjecting ourselves to extreme body searches at seven in the morning and willingly submitting to pressure cooker conditions — 40 degrees in a cloud of dust — in the stadium and then be witness to India’s irreversible slide to ignominy would have tried the patience of a saint and we, of course, have never claimed to be overly endowed in the vibhuti department. Given this, that succinct display of spectator bowling and howling at Kotla was completely in order and should occasion no display of maudlin regret.Of course, we could have done better. Of that there can be no doubt. A proper Eden Gardens’ crowd would have found Kotla’s poor, unfocused display of stadium rage not even worthy of its consideration. When it comes to cricket hooliganism in the classic sense, the Rosogolla Rabble are streets ahead of the Rabri Ruffians; and the Buntys of Punjabi Bagh can’t hold a candle to the Bacchoos of Salt Lake City. Yes, all said and done, the kukad-fired roarers of Dilli sound like choir boys before the hilsa-fuelled full-throats of Kolkata.Remember that stadium of almost one lakh people chanting, ‘‘Cheaters, cheaters,’’ after Tendulkar was run out during the February ’99 Asian Test Championship in Kolkata? Remember how they showered the pitch with not just bottles but fruit, fruit peels, biscuit wrappers and the like? What’s different about the Kolkata hooligan is the commitment he displays to getting his message across. Here in Delhi, once we have flung our 20-litre water canisters on to the field, catharsis generally sets in and reality dawns. We are then ready to go home and eat our roti-sabzi as usual.In Kolkata, however, there is no such thing as a quick closure. Kolkata’s spectators are known to bond together even after they’ve set the stands on fire and walked out of the match. Their deep sense of injury at being cheated out of a win is then taken to even greater artistic heights — staging mock funeral processions for players, burning an unfortunate captain’s effigy, garlanding photographs of the team with discarded items of footwear, and the like.The truly great cricket hooligan in India — teetering dangerously between patriotism and xenophobia — is, as yet, work in progress. We have not quite acquired the brilliant, beer-fuelled brio of the British football goon. But we’re getting there.
