(Clockwise from left): Nani Soren, who sells jerseys outside the stadium; The Shaheed Veer Narayan Singh International Stadium on the eve of the second ODI against South Africa on Tuesday; Krishna Gup-Chup Chaat Centre. (Express Photos | Sandeep Dwivedi)About an hour back, Rakesh Prajapati had lost the race that could have changed his life. But still the 20-year-old held hope. The boy from Bhadohi in Uttar Pradesh, in a discoloured and dusty shirt torn at the shoulder, was 16th among the 100 ‘agniveers’ he was competing with. A Top-8 finish, he says, would have made him an Indian Army soldier and the first from his poor farming family to have a stable job.
Crestfallen while dragging his feet out of the BSF ground, the armed forces recruitment venue that had attracted thousands from around the country, Rakesh says his mood changed dramatically as he walked past the cricket stadium next door. The shining laminated faces of Rohit Sharma and Virat Kohli on the huge poster made him, and hundreds of other tired and famished army hopefuls, sprawl outside the venue on newspapers and wait for the Indian stars.
On the eve of the second ODI, Team India were training late in the evening under lights. Kohli’s hundred had give them a 1-0 start against South Africa, and the tempo was set as they aim for a winning lead in the series. Rakesh is a knowledgeable fan, he knew the context of the game, fully aware of Kohli’s roaring comeback in the last game.
Agniveer aspirants outside the Shaheed Veer Narayan Singh International Stadium in Raipur on Tuesday. (Express Photo | Sandeep Dwivedi)
“The moment I lost the race, I was desperate to leave for home. I had gone silent, and didn’t want to speak to anyone. But once I saw Virat and Rohit on the poster, I felt better … my pain was bearable,” he says. He is smiling now and wants to know his chances of getting a ticket for Wednesday’s game.
If any sociology student wants to understand the impact of cricket and cricketers on India’s psyche, a stadium visit around match day is mandatory. Not all die-hard fans paint their bodies or wave the Tricolour. There are also those who, even on their worst day, don’t give up on their passion for the game. Cricket is their cheap prozac pill.
A few hours on the other side of the tall intimidating walls, where broadcasting cameras don’t venture, also gives an idea of cricket’s off-the-books economy. The little business that thrives on the popularity of cricket. They don’t have ad budgets, don’t time their product launches with the cricket season, their logos aren’t on the shirts of players, nor do they get thanked by broadcasters at the end of the game.
Krishna Gup-Chup Chaat Centre wouldn’t be on the billboards around the boundary line any time soon. Nor will its owner Gendalal Patel hand a trophy to the ‘spiciest shot of the game’ winner in Raipur. But his handcart is a regular feature during every match in Raipur, a back-of-beyond venue where this monstrous stadium from a bygone era sits in empty acres of land 21 kilometres from the heart of the city.
The proposed new smart city – Naya Raipur – is to give the stadium, living in isolation here since 2008, company in the years to come. Soon, the government machinery, the chief minister’s abode, business establishments, malls and international food chains will move here, Gendalal has been quelling the hunger pangs of those who take the long journey to this middle-of-nowhere ground. The message on his cart informs that he takes orders for weddings and parties; he could have added that he also feeds cricket fans. He actually makes a killing.
The man is busy breaking golgappas with his ungloved fingers. With bare hands, he dips the broken balls in the steel container with hot and tangy syrup. He then dips the moist fingers in every section of the spicy masala box. No customer complains, not even the cops on duty. “We always come to him, he is there all the time,” says one policeman.
Gendalal lives in a village five kilometres away, and has Raipur’s cricket itinerary on his messy fingertips.
“I am here even when Chhattisgarh is playing Ranji matches. Next January, there will be another India game here, there is also the IPL,” he says. The golgappa balls in the giant polythene bag are almost finished and it’s early afternoon.
Not far from him is fake merchandise seller Nani Soren. His home is near Juhu Chowpatty in Mumbai but he follows the Indian team everywhere. There isn’t a footpath of an international cricket stadium in India where he hasn’t spread his wares. There are three piles of jerseys in front of him – Dhoni, Virat, Rohit. No other Indian has the same street cred. No one buys other jerseys, so Soren doesn’t sell them.
He needs to travel light. Carrying sacks full of shirts isn’t an easy task. “I travel by train. Book these shirts in the luggage coach and get into the general compartment,” he says. In the coming days, he will be following India’s T20 team for the five games. Whose jersey will sell there? “Surya bahut bikta hai (sells a lot),” he says.
It’s late evening now, and the air is chilly. The young boys, the agniveer aspirants, have got their blankets out. Suddenly, there is a ruckus. The police chief has decided to distribute the extra lunch-time thalis – plastic-sealed in disposable plates – among young boys waiting for the team bus. They seem revitalised.
Soon, the siren hits the air – the signal of the Indian team’s arrival. The agniveers are now competing in another race. In the melee it wasn’t clear if Rakesh won this one.
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