At the risk of being dunked in a cauldron of boiling oil, thrown to the vultures, hurled into hell fires, dropped into the Indian Ocean with ball and chain, pushed off an aircraft 10,000 metres above sea level, sentenced to death by hanging for betraying the spirit of the nation, let me place on record, clearly and unequivocally, that the World Cup, Vishwa Cup, Cup of Dreams, or what you will, leaves me totally and completely indifferent, stone cold in fact. I don't know about other hearts, but this dil, for one, mange no more.I hasten to add that I don't mean to knock cricket. Personally, I have nothing against the game. It may not be the world's greatest sporting endeavour, but it has its moments. Don Bradman, Gary Sobers, Sunil Gavaskar, men like them, did on occasion set the pitch on fire. The British, who are a godless nation, conceived cricket as a sport that went on and on for five whole days on the village green (and still ended in a draw) to give themselves a sense of eternity, or so I've beentold. Then the Empire struck back. Kerry Parker from Down Under came along and put his cricket whites through a spin cycle, whereupon they emerged somewhat shrunk, considerably more colourful, but tolerable still. However, in my own humble opinion, what's going to happen out there at Lords, or wherever, seems to have very little to do with cricket apart from the mere fact that there will, presumably, be a batsman sponsored by a beer company, a bowler sponsored by a toothpaste manufacturer and 22 feet of grass separating them, sponsored by the Lawn Mowers International.Further, there will be a man at slip sponsored by a cold drinks company, a man at leg slip sponsored by a credit card facility, a man at square leg sponsored by a manufacturer of tyres with steel radials, a man at fine leg sponsored by a sports shoe manufacturer, a man at deep square leg sponsored by a cola company, a man at silly mid-on sponsored by a shampoo giant, a man at mid-on sponsored by a chewing gum transnational, a man at long-onsponsored by an international bank, a man at long-off sponsored by a sports goods unit, a man at mid-off sponsored by a chocolate manufacturer, a man at silly mid-off sponsored by a car company, a man at gully sponsored by a fast food chain, a man at point sponsored by a cosmetics giant, a man at deep third man sponsored by a maker of electronics goods. And if this is not confusing enough, all these players are in turn sponsored collectively by a cola company.Then you have sponsored ``experts'' - most of them former players who have lost their old sponsorships - giving you sponsored comments over sponsored programmes. Meanwhile, the rest of us, who haven't found sponsors - some 990 million in all - are supposed to scream INDIYA, INDIYA, INDIYA, HUM, HUM, HUM, WIN, WIN, WIN, at regular intervals in front of TV screens filled with ball-to-ball coverage of 42 matches to be played by 12 teams in six weeks.If all this doesn't dislocate our collective jaws, turn us collectively astigmatic and send us intoa collective fit of apoplexy, it will certainly lead up to a collective nervous breakdown. Already, havans are being performed to ensure that we emerge victorious and hens are reported to be laying cricket balls for eggs. In sort we are, my fellow citizens, in imminent danger of losing our national marbles.The supreme tragedy of it all is that the prospect of INDIYA, INDIYA, INDIYA, INDIYA, HUM, HUM, HUM, WIN, WIN, winning seems to hinge on that small god of all things (Visa Card, Reebok Shoes, Action Shoes, Colgate Total, Pepsi), or SACHIN, SACHIN, SACHIN.In other words, this nation's self-esteem is dependent on its cricket team bringing back the World Cup, which is dependent on its team's performance, which is dependent on Sachin Tendulkar's performance, which is dependent on Sachin Tendulkar's hamstring muscles. Ergo, the nation's self-esteem is rather precariously perched on Tendulkar's hamstrings, which is a rather pathetic state to be for a nation with a history that goes back to Mohenjo-daro. Ifthis be patriotism, if this be cricket, then yeh dil mange give us a break.
