Cricket Mouthful

The mouth goes sour, when the allegations troop in, when the buck passes quick, when Greg Chappell8217;s stock plummets, when the same Sachin speaks out in aggro, when Team India is falling apart, when our pride and joy is gone, when Chappell is gone too. In this restaurant today, dipping my thoughts in lager, I believe there must be more to life, to preserve, just like the salmon. I turn around, they are deep into the stock markets, into cricket8217;s mud-slinging, into rapid change in viewpoints. Where is the sport? nbsp;

Thoughts drift. I was the last reporter to have interviewed the great Col Mushtaq Ali before he passed away. His legacy is an asterix in memory now, and what I remember most is the way he described a cricketer. He had this un-urbane attitude to it: 8220;What you call one-day cricket today, I, and we, used to play for five days in a Test then. It was all about enjoying it, all about pride, all about your lachakta hua kamar.8221; Basically, all about class, style, a natural aura of superiority, very un-proletariat. But, at 90, I saw the Colonel, tall, ramrod straight, proud as hell. 8220;I did come from a poor family, but I mixed with the Holkars, imbibed royal taste, dedication to honour.8221; nbsp;

Is that the problem? Is it the soccer crowd dilemma? Should we ban laptops and coaches? Should we tell them to just go out and enjoy? Should we try to understand the game?nbsp;

And I drift straight back, to that day. It was that damned waiter again, standing directly in my field of vision, in front of the television set. Where8217;s the replay? When8217;s the replay? That8217;s the awkward nature of our species, the oddity called hope. Nah, Sachin was walking. Robin Uthappa had gone for 18, caught and bowled Chaminda Vaas. That8217;s when my friend Sujoy had wisely commented that it was time the Pace Foundation was shut down; we don8217;t need to train any more of those Vaas-like characters to come thumping down the wicket at us. I hadn8217;t taken notice, he always talks garbage after a few pegs. And hey, we were chasing, weren8217;t we? And we were chasing a piddly 254 weren8217;t we? Uthappa grew out of statistics, highest in the domestic circuit. So what? Cricket is like that salmon. nbsp;

Ah, the salmon; never leaves your palette. Come to think of it, why do I remember it? Why do I recommend it? Probably the reason why I don8217;t recommend India games. Probably the reason I don8217;t buy those cricket books any more. My brother had rung up from Kolkata that evening. 8220;Can you arrange tickets for the semi-finals and the final?8221; he was asking. 8220;Why? You want to go all the way to the West Indies? India won8217;t be there.8221; 8220;Eh? C8217;mon, don8217;t joke.8221; Okay, so he was on a few pegs too, but he runs a business, he is careful with his money, so why? 8220;Everyone is talking about it. I have to be there.8221; Memories do slip. What was he saying after the 1-4 West Indies walloping? He was crying for Dravid8217;s head.nbsp;

That wasn8217;t the easiest evening to slip out of office, and not the easiest to hold down the sheer urge to drink yourself silly. Eight friends around the table, friends; some claim they played the game at some 8216;level8217;. I8217;ve never seen, but believe. Why shouldn8217;t I? They were to buy my first round, weren8217;t they? When Sourav 8216;Dada8217; Ganguly 8212; I swear, I don8217;t say this just because he is from my hometown 8212; went for seven, an edge ballooning to wide of mid-on, Murali lunging to a beautiful catch, I really believed it was for luck.

Virender Sehwag, in middle order. He had walked onto the pitch as that big bearded man had walked in through the restaurant door with his petite wife. Heard a 8216;toast to Sehwag8217;s health8217; comment from a pretty young thing sitting by the wall, just under a rather modern-looking, utterly meaningless painting, and Big-Beard guffawed. Anindo said I was being a voyeur, eyeing girls. Excuse me, who should I eye? Boys? But there8217;s something about this guy Sehwag 8212; and not sheer oodles of talent, as my colleague Vivek believes 8212; he has this natural aura about him, reminds you about Krish Srikkanth sometimes, two-fold. I felt the 8216;technical experts8217; scared the hillbillies out of this kid. 8220;Let him be, let him handle his cricket at his own pace,8221; said Arvil Deshpande, stock broker. Right, too.nbsp;

Yes, Deshpande, I had gotten to know his name in the first innings. He liked my taste in salmon and had ordered the same. The heavenly taste had brought him over to our table, and he had offered to buy us a round drinks. Only, I had refused, saying I needed to remember Mr Salmon for a while longer. That8217;s when he had talked about the World Cup and the Sri Lankans, and of India, the no-hopers. Stock-broker my left toe, I had thought. I knew India would get over this little hillock in their post-dinner walk. And if Upul Tharanga could hit 64, Dada could do more on this placid strip. And Bangladesh were just a blip. Heard me? Just a blip. History. Deshpande had rolled back to his table, fitting his girth into the chair-table divide. He had smiled at me, winked too. 8220;India8217;s at 10-11 on the bet,8221; he had hollered, coming off his cellphone, 8220;any takers?8221; Tankards clicking8230; Cutlery on crockery, funnily quiet!

Sehwag was steady-handed orthodox defence, straight bat, runs on the run, balls thudding off the 8216;meat8217; of the willow, Big Boy Joe gulping, Pretty Young Thing choking on a dimsum, Big Beard coochi-cooing into his wife8217;s ear, I contemplating taking up Deshpande on his drinks offer, Sujoy talking to his glass. That8217;s when it had happened. That8217;s when I finally needed the drink. And Deshpande turned to me, winked again, and had shown me a finger the index, not the middle one 8220;ek peti8221;. You stay with your petis, and your insensitive index, I8217;d stay with my scotch, Patiala. nbsp;

The Wall was there, and Viru Dada. There was a sad hush, my friends carefully talking films and music. In between Dustin Hoffman and Depp and Stone and Shakira, Anindo and Rohit had bet on who would be the Pirate of the Caribbean in the World Cup. But The Wall looked like he would last. Gentle smiles returned, Big Boy Joe ordered yet another jug that he would surely have rued the morning after, Big Beard ordered an overeating guarantee for his wife, and Deshpande was telling his friends he could end up making a 8220;killing8221;.

nbsp;Anindo was looking around to the screen. Boy8217;s a trifle sensitive, gets quickly emotional, but has a good eye. 8220;This is too quiet, we8217;re nearing the death, this is too quiet, we need to pick up,8221; he had said. We agreed. We were drinking a toast to the Wall8217;s health. The bowlers need punishment. But we had to also be careful not to lose wickets. And end of the 23rd over, Mr Sehwag said goodbye, hanging outside the off, dying at slips.

8220;My God, nobody after Yuvraj and Dhoni,8221; said Deshpande. Finally, desh-pran-de, I thought. Nobody after Yuvraj and Dhoni? What about Yuvraj and Dhoni? I never really believed a kho-kho injury could ruin an international cricketer8217;s fitness, physically or intellectually. It has. Or how could he get caught out in the middle, like that? 8220;My 12-year-old nephew would run better than that.8221; This time it was that frustratednbsp;waiter, again in front of the television screen. nbsp;

Pre-trauma be damned. It8217;s post-traumatic stress syndrome actually, all about the low after spirited highs. Soccer is a collective sigh before the beer, or even a blow into a friend8217;s solar plexus, because you can identify your enemies from their T-shirts, and statistics be damned. But wasn8217;t cricket about sensitivities? nbsp; Where is the underdog theory?

When Mahendra Singh 8216;Brylcreem8217; Dhoni went, first ball Deshpande was laughing, Pretty Young Thing and family paid up and left, Big Beard explained stuff to his overfed wife, the glass was talking back to Sujoy, Big Boy Joe was stuck again, mug halfway from the table.Bye bye love, hullo loneliness, I think you8217;re gonna die.