Kingston Diary

Events have overtaken the terms of that debate. The question has been re-framed, and most everyone is assessing it: will India play cricket with Pakistan ever again? Not for a long time, is the quick consensus. Should they? Fifty years and more of hostility, aeons of shared history are encapsulated in the hesitant shrug that maybe they shouldn’t—at least for now.

Sport is sport, let’s keep it that way? Well, what do they know of cricket who only cricket know.

India Abroad

You have to do away cricket tours to really discover your Indian-ness, says Harsha Bhogle, gulping down his cereal to keep his pre-match appointment by satellite with Navjot Sidhu on the fourth day of the Kingston Test.

As if in confirmation, an Indian couple from South Africa breeze into the breakfast lounge at the Jamaica Pegasus. Eyes agleam at the prospect of The Boys—currently wolfing down breakfast to get on the bus to Sabina Park. Quivering with excitement are Kapila and Arvind Hari. The Windies have a lead of 375, some of us have decided to wear the exact outfit we had on that glorious Calcutta day when V.V.S. Laxman reversed the ignominy of a follow-on. But our hope is spiced with nervousness, with memories of far, far too many meek surrenders.

By dinnertime we are all vying for seer-hood status. “See, I told you, they wouldn’t do it. Dash it,” is the sentiment of the evening. Not the Haris. They have taken time off from his chartered accountancy and her medical practice in Johannesburg, and since 1998 they have been zipping off around the cricketing world to take in as much action featuring the Indian squad.

And tonight they are the only ones satisfied with the exploits of Gangs and company. “You have to see it like a ladder,” explains Arvind patiently. “Three years ago, after conceding a 210-run first innings lead, they would never have been able to come back into the game and pack off the other side for less than 200. we think they have done wonderfully.” The ever cheerful Kapila agrees—ah, don’t be hard on them, they came SO close, if only Das had not been declared LBW, if only Sachin had not lost his concentration, if, if.

Kapila, a third generation South African with few other ties with India, explains this devotion to the Indian team. She is a child of apartheid, all her growing up was circumscribed by her race. Her school had only Indians, she had to wait till medical school to even have normal conversation with white students. The subcontinent was far away, but never reminders of her Indian origins.

The result: seasoned players and cricket writers now bid them goodbye with queries like, where will we see you next. In England? In Dhaka. No, wails Arvind, we have too much work to catch up on. But maybe New Zealand, he perks up.

Dismal end

The Haris scheduled their departure for Friday, not quite sure when on Wednesday play would conclude, not wanting to miss even one uneventful over in the Sabina Park Test. But what do you say about a team which had its five Test-but-not-ODI cricketers rescheduling their journey back home after India were limping at 237/7 in a 408-run chase, at stumps on the Tuesday? Three of the five of them, it may be added, playing the fifth and final Test?

You could quibble with them when they approach a mammoth run chase by blocking the daunting target from their pressured minds, while conceding—however reluctantly—that it’s a matter of perception, that as a plan it’s not necessarily dead on arrival. But your empathy is stretched when they are headed out of town an hour before scheduled close of play, no matter how dismal the prognosis on a wet, grey morning.

Write if I am wrong

Your empathy may be strained further when a few straws come floating in in the fierce gale. Rahul Dravid may keep wickets, Sachin Tendulkar may slip down the batting order in crunch games. Right, I know the argument. Our batting lets us down so often, Dravid as keeper would allow the inclusion of one more batsman, what with Virender Sehwag and Yuvraj Singh working out furiously in the gym, all pepped up for the task ahead. Right, when Sachin gets out cheaply, the morale of the entire team dips, keep the Little Master for later.

What sagacity. But if these tactics don’t work, remember this cynic.

Kingston calling

Never forget, however, that on the eve of the opening one-days, we are in Cool Kingston. It pulsates with energy—with reggae and ska sounds, with political graffiti, with its Rastafarian consciousness underlining a turbulent post-colonial shakeout. And in a funny way it does its best to keep visitors on edge.

Warning bells are rung long before the airplane taxis down Manley International Airport. You take care in Kingston, you hear, said every cab driver and emigration official as we left St John’s. Veterans on the cricket circuit cautioned, don’t look like a tourist in Kingston, or else. It seemed a strange tip, but it’s echoed on tourist promotion booklets! Your fate appears sealed: a hotel to stadium routine.

Once in Kingston, however, the city beckons. Its multicultural cuisine. Its Bob Marley museum with the reggae god’s little herb patch intact, his old house still reeking of his favourite joint. Its abundant bookstores. Its rocking nightlife. But the city doesn’t help. You pass its cinema, and the attraction for the week is High Crimes. You whiz down downtown Kingston and hoardings have violent undertones: “Speed kills, kill your speed”.

“Running the red light may put out your light”.

Don’t be deterred, say friendly residents. Just don’t look like a tourist. Argh, what does a tourist look like?