Long Hopper

That’s where I found myself, a bleary-eyed, walk-in contestant among about 200 enthusiastic young men—alright, mostly men—some of whom had already given voice tests over the telephone, many of whom were young students or call centre employees (leveraging their voice training no doubt), and all of whom had come suitably togged, down to the loud tie that is the modern cricket commentator’s trademark.

They gave me a form to fill up. I listed cricket and ice hockey as my favourite sports—yes, yes, I was being cheeky. Asked for my sports prediction for 2004, I wrote: ‘Australia will win the Test series in India’.

The volunteer nodded sagely. As it happened, Australia had won the Nagpur Test the previous day. It came with the territory. ‘‘To be a cricket commentator, it is best to be wiser after the event’’: Old Jungle Saying.

Now began the long wait. Job seekers had the option of an English Premier League football game or the Natwest Trophy final that Kaif and Yuvraj won for India in 2002.

I opted for cricket, was handed a scorecard of the match and pretended to mug. Jeez, it was like an exam.

I caught the eye of an executive I knew at ESS. Oh lord, no, let me not be found out. Please! She looked at me quizzically, walked up, and asked, ‘‘Er, you’re taking part?’’ ‘‘Umm, yes, I am,’’ I shrugged. ‘‘Why not?’’ Then I slunk away.

I heard that advertising bigwig Sunil Gupta had also filled in a form, as had emcee Geetika Ganju (eventually, he came, she didn’t). Michael Ferreira, the billiards badshah, wanted to audition in Mumbai the following week.

Good for them, but why would they want this job? As it happens, that’s exactly what Harsha asked me, but later.

They called me in at 5.45 pm. There were four of us; one chose football and got full marks for gusto. He was asked to render commentary to the pictures of an Arsenal match. Making remarks about the songs the crowd was singing, cracking jokes—boy, this lad had practised.

The next two chose cricket, one in Hindi—a senior citizen, probably an old AIR hand, I guessed—and then it was my turn.

Harsha had my form before him. Cricketer Wasim Akram and actor Perizaad Zorabian flanked him. ‘‘But you’re a journalist,’’ he said, to my horror—Grr!—‘‘why would you want this job?’’

‘‘For the travel,’’ I said, for lack of anything better. ‘‘Travel?’’ asked Perizaad, looking as nonplussed as only apro dreamboat can. ‘‘Surely that can’t be the only reason.’’

‘‘It is,’’ I insisted, more than slightly nervous by now. ‘‘I once saw Harsha do a programme from New Zealand, always wanted to go there—he must have so many frequent flyer points.’’ I didn’t know what I was saying.

Okay, down to work: Harsha took charge. I was shown, I think, the 43rd over of the Natwest match. Harbhajan hit a six and then hung around, Kaif at the other end. As a commentator, I was a disaster—vintage 1970s-era Doordarshan stuff. ‘‘And Harbhajan’s hit a six,’’ I said, as the replays went on and on, “and just waiting for the next ball, looking around—’’

I failed to recognise Collingwood. He looked familiar. When Harbhajan ran what must have been the easiest run of his life, I raised my pitch, almost screamed, ‘‘He’s taken a sharp single…’’

I was a knock out, as in a candidate to be knocked out. Funnily, they told me they wanted to see me again for the regional final. I wondered why.

I didn’t go over the next day, but that one question will always nag me. Why did they choose me from among the four? Could it be, could it be because Perizaad—damn, if only that other job had been on offer!