Who146;s keeping score?

I vividly remember it was Dushehra in 1964. Still in my early teens, I had gone to the city Ram Lila grounds to see the effigies of Ravana and his cohorts burn. Everywhere, people could be seen listening in to the ball-to-ball commentary of the second Test between India and Australia. India were 248 for 8 and needed 11 runs to win the Test. Dependable Chandu Borde was on strike. The Australian captain, Bobby Simpson, brought in his best bowler, Graham Mackenzie. In the happy din, the only thing that could be heard was the announcement that three successive boundaries had been hit. Lo! Chandu Borde had become the idol of the crowd in place of Lord Rama.

Whenever Test series were in progress, one or the other student would bring in his pocket transistor to keep everybody informed of the score. During the second Test of the 1967 series at Melbourne, I was so absorbed that, for a second, I forgot that our physics teacher, who had a no-nonsense reputation, was standing just behind me. Held by the scruff of my neck, I was trembling, until he asked, 8220;Has Wadekar completed his century?8221;

During examinations, I8217;d tell my friend in the hostel to knock on my door in the morning. When Test series in Australia and New Zealand were on, I didn8217;t need anyone to wake me 8212; I would be glued to the transistor long before the day8217;s play began. After graduation, when I joined the industry, the rules did not permit employees to carry a transistor, but I8217;d manage anyhow. Once, during a match, my unusually frequent visits to the toilet made my new boss suspicious. But then he too was a Test enthusiast. We had a chupke chupke agreement. I would keep him informed of all developments.

Those were the days. When a Test series was in progress, the first thing you8217;d ask entering your client8217;s office was: what8217;s the score?