Ravi the Shastri: Why did India lose? Well, the Australian bowlers, strong strapping lads all of them, got the balls in the right areas, were straight, pitched up and hit the deck. Hard. Real hard. The pitch had some juice, there was bounce and carry, and the cherry was hard. Hard.Real hard. It was an important match and the Australians brought their A game but the Indians, their body language was all wrong and soon the cat was among the pigeons. Then…. [Fat lady sings]….oh wait that’s my ringtone….need to take this call. “Oh hello, Mr. BCCI, that cheque you sent me, it was a competitive total, but it had Sunny’s name written all over it…YES don’t you understand? it was in his name…the lady at the bank didn’t agree when I said ‘It doesn’t matter how they come as long as they come”…So please send me MY cheque fast, yes…mail it to me as fast as a tracer bullet…” So yes, as I was saying…

Rahul the Dravid: Of course we know why India lost. Because I am old. Slip catches slip through my fingers. I cannot bend down fast enough to yorkers and in-dippers. Rather than laughing at my fate, you should be ashamed that a man as old has to put on my gear and face up at No 3 while younger men develop shifty injuries right after IPL and stay at home. What next? Expect A K Hangal to head Blackcat commandos?

VVS the Laxman: India lost to Australia? You are wrong. India won. I personally made 281. And I have been saying Aftab Shivdasani will be the next Shahrukh Khan. What?  Isn’t this 2001? Oh my God.I must have forgotten to take…

Tony The Greig: India humiliated in Australia? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA…..

Harbhajan The Singh: That’s what happens when you send Virat the Kohli, a mere boy, to do a man’s job. In 2007, when I gave gaalis, I turned the team around.  These wannabes I tell you…

Sachin the Tendulkar: My 100th century. My 100th century. My 100th century. I think I will make myself available for ODIs to get it.

Virat The Kohli: Behen****, Teri maa ki *****, Yeh le mera *********

The Srini: When the Australians play in India, I assure you we WILL win. All right, all right, I will win. Chennai Super Kings will win. Compulsory hai.

Michael the Vaughan: India once again humiliated? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA…

Virender the Sehwag: Lost? As far as I am concerned, I have won. Personally, this has been a very good season. Two of Delhi Daredevil’s most exciting young talents, the Delhibois—Warner and Yadav have shown fine form. We have also bought Kevin the Pietersen, a batsman we Indians personally back to form in England. Our Bramhasastra Ajit the Agarkar will be well-rested come March. And finally, my season has been perfect—-some light bowling, some light batting, so that my shoulder stays loose without locking up. The last thing I want to do is to miss IPL. Because IPL matters.

Mahendra the Dhoni (in Hawaiian shirt and cool shades): Ooooh…ooohh…spare me the drama.  First of all, let’s stop the  ”Ooh Indian players dont care for Test matches” hand-wringing. Of course we don’t. We can play 5 ODIs and 20 T20s and make many many times the amount of money in the same time that we invest in a Test. So why should we care for them? Because “we are supposed to?” Because it’s somehow “great and noble and historic”? Why do you work for a private firm and not for the government? Why don’t you serve the nation? Rokhra. Same for you. Same for us.

You know what’s the bigger hypocrisy here? It’s not as if Indians even care for Test cricket. That’s why in India we play in front of a few thousand spectators, most of them school-kids bought there for free as outing from school.

What you DO care for is winning. That’s why you are upset. Because WE did not win. Because Agneepath became Agneephossh.  This “WE” of course is a funny concept. Cause actually only “we”, the eleven players, win—we win money, we win fame and we win groupies in hotel rooms. You people convince yourself that this “we” includes you, if only to cover the singular lack of wins in your personal and professional lives. Not that I am complaining, this “WE” concept is why you paint your faces with blue, watch the ads, buy the cellphones and drink the soda and why “WE”, the real “WE”, live it large.

And that’s the thing. (chomping into a banana). I am trying to make all of us win. That’s why I hinted at retiring so that I can concentrate on ODIs and T20s.

In case you haven’t cottoned onto this yet, me and my generation suck at this five-day grind. So realistically we won’t be winning Tests abroad. We won’t be crying over it either, too much effort for not that much money.  In ODIs and T20s, we have a decent chance of winning. And we really want to. It will make us more money with less effort. It will also make you, the paying public, happier because you have more wins to feel “proud” of.

How do I know we will win? Well not less than an year ago, I did win something big for you. Remember?

Understanding now no? Here… khayega kela?

And yet above of all them was this one man. A colossus. A legend. My personal favorite.

Sir Aggie.

The fastest to get 50 wickets in One Day Internationals. A century at Lord’s. A match-winning 6 wickets in Australia. Great corkers, like that late-leaver which bowled Kallis. Montages like this.

But the thing about Sir Aggie, as in what makes him special, are not those glorious moments, few and far in between as they are. It is how he went from one of those moments to the other— the pleasure, as they say, of his journey.

An important match on. India has set the target. Opposition chasing. First spell of Sir Aggie. 5 overs for 18 runs and 2 wickets. Second spell. 2 overs for 11 runs. Some reverse-swinging. All good. Now it is the 46th over. The game in balance. Project submission due tomorrow. I have spent the whole night awake.

India has to win, to make it worth the pain.

And then Sir Aggie comes in for his final burst. Like the crack of doom.

Short and wide. Cracking square-cut. FOUR. The legend is just getting warmed up. The second. Overpitched. FOUR again. The next ball. WIDE. Down the leg side. The third ball gets the batsman one-run as Sir Aggie gets it into the blockhole. The fourth ball he misses the yorker, it becomes a full-toss. SIX straight into the crowds. Next one is hustled to deep-square leg for two. Captain moves fielders around, brings up fine-leg. With an impish delight, Sir Aggie spears it down the leg-side. FOUR. Game over, folks. Required run-rate is now 3.5 off the remaining with the only suspense being which of the two opposing batsmen hit the winning runs.

96 overs. Wasted. No sleep. Anger gurgling up like lava from the pits of Hell.

Sir Aggie has come through. Yet again.

What made Sir Aggie so brilliant, and this I have realized after years of experiencing joyous teeth-gnashing , was his sense of timing. Lesser geniuses would have had their meltdowns earlier in the innings. At least then I could have gone to bed earlier. Lesser talents would have given a string of bad performances forcing them out of the side for good. But no. Sir Aggie..he was never like that.

He was always mixing things up. Good with the bad. The holy with the naughty. Which made sure that he would always be in the team. Yes sometimes they would drop him but then, like a lingering tune that drives you mad , he would be back.

With that whippy, flappy run-up of his. Easy, measured. And that pace. Consistent throughout his career, unlike some of the new wannabes who drop their speed after a season or so. It was almost as if Sir Aggie wanted to bring his gifts to the batsman as fast as he could, like Santa on Fedex Next Day Delivery, and then run back to his mark and return with another loaded sled.

Santa Claus. No. Sometimes I saw him in something even greater. Like when he would walk out to bat during that amazing sequence of seven zeros, like the Son of God trudging towards Golgotha, carrying his bat like a cross, wearing a helmet like a crown of thorns, amidst the taunts of the spectators. The Australians would crowd him like Roman soldiers, their eyes gleaming with the delight that comes from inflicting pain on the innocent. Then he would be mounted on the cross, his hands and toes nailed to the wood, to be crucified. Not once. But again and again. Zero after zero. And yet each time he would walk out, knowing well the inevitability of  his crucifixion . Such was his passion that he cared not, except to look upwards and say silently “Forgive them oh Father, for they know not what they do”.

Sinners love their friends. But only the truly heavenly love their enemies. Like Sir Aggie.

Which is why I was saddened to hear of Sir Aggie’s dropping from the Mumbai team. For a second, my faith wavered. Is it all over? Have the forces of darkness finally won?

No.

Because I believe. Sir Aggie will be back. Like someone else was resurrected three days and three nights later on a glorious Sunday.

And only then will those who had come to scoff remain, once again, to pray.

[Image courtesy: Rediff.com]

They did because it didn’t matter who was playing.

In 1976, with India at the door of a crushing defeat against England, 50, 000 Kolkatans had thronged the stadium to watch Bishen Singh Bedi bat.

They did because it didn’t matter who was winning.

Because the crowd always turned up at the Eden.

Not any more. Now even the glorious prospect of Sehwag and Gambhir batting cannot get the Kolkatan to the ground. So what if it was a weekday? So what if the opposition was weak? When had that ever mattered? International cricket. Yes that’s all the city had cared for.

Once upon a time.

I don’t know why Kolkata has abandoned the Eden. Maybe it’s because people are finally fed-up of the bloody-headed hubris of the CAB that has consistently shown the middle-finger to audience amenities for decades. Maybe it is because that in 2011, it is no longer as easy to sign the register and take a “casual” leave. Maybe there is just too much cricket. Maybe the people want to stay at home and appreciate the subtle nuances of Arun Lal’s commentary.

Whatever be the reason, the sight of empty stands in Kolkata is strangely dissonant, like not being able to recognize one’s own face in the mirror. Because for a generation that grew up in the 80s and 90s,  a ticket to the Eden had always been priceless, like that second cylinder of gas or that hour of power during Chitrahar. Seeing seats empty in such numbers is thus as puzzling as finding gold lying on the streets and yet people walking right by.

The first time I went to the Eden was 1983. I remember the exact date: December 10. West Indies, the reigning champions of the world, were playing the newly crowned One Day World Champions India in a six-test series, which had so far been as much as a mismatch as a Mohammed Ali vs A K Hangal heavyweight fight. But that had been expected. What had not been was the dramatic punch-counterpunch between Sunil Gavaskar and the West Indies pace battery. In the first Test at Kanpur, there had been a first-ball duck. It had followed a even more shocking dismissal in the second innings. Sunny’s bat had flown spectacularly out of his hand while defending against Marshall, something that the eternally dramatic local Bengali newspapers had dubbed as Arjun dropping the Gandeeva bow. His time was up, they had said. In the second test played at New Delhi, a visibly furious Sunny launched a most amazing go-for-broke counerattack, scoring a sub-run-a-ball century against West Indies, a savagely brutish assault which included powerful swivel hooks, razor precise cover drives and even oh-my-God-is-that-Gavaskar cross-bat swipes. “I am going to enjoy my game from now on,” Gavaskar had famously said after the match, in which he had equalled Sir Don’s record to become the joint highest century-scorer in the game’s history. The critics were not convinced. Delhi, they said, was the last desperate death-throe of a fish that had been landed. In Ahmedabad, on a minefield of a pitch, he rubbed the nose of his detractors into the ground with a top-drawer innings of controlled aggression, giving not even one chance before getting dismissed in the 90s and that too because of a moron moving behind the side-screen. In Mumbai he came out swinging but it did not work, being dismissed for twelve off six balls. And so the series had come to Kolkata with the whole nation waiting for Sunil Gavaskar to score his 30th, go past Don Bradman and become the man with the most number of Test centuries to his name.

I suppose the world seems larger through the eyes of an eight-year-old. But I suppose even if I had been older, Eden Gardens would be as overwhelming to the senses, an oval of the deepest and lushest green, hemmed in all sides by a hundred thousand screaming fans,the smell of peanuts, the feel of the winter sun, and the tightening of the stomach clamped vice-like by the shared expectations of millions.

And there he was walking out. A short man in a funny skull cap and floppy hat with a brisk, slightly rolling gait. The crowd roared. “Baba he will do it today”, I said, absolutely sure. It had to be in Kolkata that history would be made. It had to be.

He took guard. Malcolm Marshall measured his run-up. And ran in thump-a-thump. The slips went down. The stadium sat silent, holding its collecting breath. A crimson blur hurtled from one end to the other and before I could understand anything, Dujon was appealing, Gavaskar was tucking the bat in and turning around. The umpire had his finger raised. The West Indians were all high-fiving and running towards the bowler. The murmur of disappointment drew blood like a cloud of sharpened needles.

There would be no spectacular assault, no stinging cover drives, no thirtieth, at least not today.  Tears were drawn back.

And the game was only a ball old.

Soon the procession started.  Gaekwad’s bat was still moving up towards a full backlift when a Marshall express delivery passed under it and sent his off-stump cartwheeling.  Mohinder Amarnath, the hero of a few months ago but now in the midst of a unexplained slump of form, came wrapped in sweaters as if he was running a fever, pottered around like a man with a death sentence, till a slower ball from Marshall brought him out of misery. It seemed like India would be knocked over for below a hundred-and-fifty, when Kapil Dev, then the favorite son of Bengal, took over together with India’s very own Jeniffer Lopez, apple-bottomed Roger Binny (whom the Hindi commentator for some reason called Rogers Binny). What I remember most about Kapil’s batting, besides the crisp square cutting and full arc of the bat-follow-through, was how, among all the Indian batsmen, he was the only one who could physically stand up to the demonic pace-attack, in sharp contrast to the rest of the specialist batsmen who seemed to be almost physically cowed by the way Marshall and co were zipping the ball about.

This ability to see beyond what the camera shows you is what I have always felt is the greatest thing about watching the game at the ground. Home has comfort, action replays, multiple camera angles and no overpriced food and water. But what you see there is not reality, merely its projection on a screen.

At the ground, you define the reality (sometimes the Kolkata crowd takes this too seriously like it did in the World Cup semi-final) with the physical presence of the players, their body language, providing a dimension that is totally missing at home. Which is why after so many years, the most vivid images in my mind are of Michael Holding gliding over the turf like a breeze from Hell. Malcolm Marshall, steaming in like a perfectly-tuned engine. Clive Llyod, stooped forward, professorially pensive. Vivian Richards, standing in the slips, arms crossed, chewing gum, lost in his marvellousness. And Kapil Dev, chin-up, brave and brash, heroically rebellious  in his uniquely rustic way.

It was in the shadow of the biggest controversy of the times that I returned to Eden the following year, a controversy that involved Kapil Dev. In the second test against England in Delhi, Kapil Dev, with India facing defeat, had executed an agricultural Devil-may-care hoik that had landed in the hands of the fielder in the deep. Rumors were that all was not well between him and Gavaskar who had taken over the captaincy from him. It all came to a head as Kapil was dropped for the third Test at Kolkata, ostensibly for his insubordination. Posters went all around Eden “No Kapil No Test.” Rage swelled in the streets. Like the city’s, my sympathies were solely with Kapil.  A year before, against West Indies in the second innings at Eden, it was Sunil Gavaskar who, with the match to be saved, had gotten into a four-hitting contest with Michael Holding and thrown away his wicket with a shot as egregiously reckless as one could hope to see. Only then nothing had happened to him because Kapil had been the captain. But now, with the tables turned,…

I did not see much action at Eden though. Just three overs, if I recall because the rest of the day was rained out. There was just one shot that I remember in the middle of the gloomy grey disappointment, a lazy flick through square-leg by this stick-thin guy who was making his debut. Some guy called Mohammed Azharuddin. A man who was to make Eden his happiest hunting ground for years to come.

The last time I went to Eden (I would go once again in 2010 for an IPL game but that’s not really cricket) was 1993, again on the first day of the Test. India had come back from a disastrous tour of South Africa and the country was baying for the head of Azharuddin, whose technical shortcomings against raw pace on bouncy pitches had once again been exposed. I remember the scattered booing as Azhar came to bat and took guard. The first ball he faced was a casual flick, which took the leading edge and dropped right in front of cover. The man sitting next to me, opined, in that expert tone Bengalis so love to use “Five balls. That’s all he is going to last. If he does last more, you can name a dog after me.”

The problem was that I could never take that man up on his bet. Because Azhar did last five balls. And a few more. He did start out tentative, scratching around, some edges flew here and there, the timing  a bit off. Then in familiar surroundings, against a rather weak England attack and on a pitch which held none of the terrors of Durban, he went crazy. Ape-shit crazy.

Of course when Azhar, at his best, went crazy, he was not a caveman swinging his club brutally at everything that came his way. He was like a surgeon turned serial-killer as he sliced the English attack to ribbons wielding his bat like a razor-sharp scalpel.

To be honest, I do not remember much of the game, except for this one sequence that repeats in a loop—–hapless British bowler comes in, Azhar’s wrist comes down and gives a savage twirl, the bat catches a ray of the setting sun, a blinding flash, the sweet sound of perfect timing  and next second, the metallic clank of leather hitting the fence. No one moves. And then 100,000 rises as one, applauding and screaming at the top of their voices, as Azhar stands in the middle like a conductor of an orchestra and, in that manner that was so him, adjusts his collar and strolls out to pat the pitch.

Years have passed. The man has been disgraced, his legacy forever tarnished.  But the image that shall always remain etched in my mind would be of him as he was that day, striding tall like a gladiator that had speared a lion, with every blade of grass bowing to him.

At the Eden.

Where memories, I would like to believe, still live.

There are the legends.

And then there are those sportsmen who transcend labels, those who represent something greater than merely excellence in their respective disciplines.

Jessie Owens. Mohammed Ali.

And Shahid Afridi.

For me, and dare I say for many others, Afridi is not just merely a ball-biting, pitch-scuffing, boom boomer that wears the jersey of our next door bomber.

He is the very anthropomorphism of its foreign policy.

Like when he sticks out his crotch after getting a wicket, Afridi becomes an emphatic visual metaphor for the Pakistani position of  ”Yeah so we are going to support the Haqqani Network and other terrorists, so what you going to do about it eh?”

The Pakistani establishment attacks the car windows of the US with vigorous blows, threatening to puncture their tyres or scratch the side with their can-tips unless the Yanks cross their palms with silver. Then after filling their pockets, they turn around, burn the US flag and arm their enemies, before running once again as the US car stops at the light.

Reflecting that defining characteristic of Pakistani foreign policy, Afridi can be found aggressively insisting on playing in the cash-rich IPL (not for himself, as he adds, but for other Pakistani cricketers)and then abusing Indians for not being big-hearted enough, at least not in comparison to Pakistanis, when rebuffed.

Both of them share the same love for the unvarnished truth—the Hindu-Zionist conspiracies, India stage-managed 26/11, India lost to Pakistan in every war and that Afridi was sixteen when he first burst onto the cricketing arena.

And together, they are responsible for two of the greatest laugh-out-loud lines of modern times, morbidly ironic because of the mouths they come out of and their track records.

The first is ” We are fighting terrorism”.

And the second is, of course, “I retire”.

Welcome back Shahid Afridi. We missed you.

They were in a small clearing, many miles away from battle. The dense woods hemmed them from all sides like a phalanx of ancient giants, silent sentinels from the time of Early Men. The roars, the battle axes grinding against each other, the fizzle of sparks flying, the cries of anguish, the jeering of the crowds seemed far far away, almost as in another world. The only sound was that of the brook gurgling forward, its waters glistening like diamonds as it caught the last rays of the setting sun.

The Wall sat on a giant black rock by the side of the stream balancing his chin at the edge of his broadsword. His chain armor, heavy with the memories of blood, tears, sweat and time. His face, black and ominous as an approaching storm. His lips pursed into a grimace, as if trying to dam an ocean of wrath.

But the Wall crumbled. It had to.

“We should be ashamed of ourselves, us, the House of Bharat. Hiding in the forest like craven eunuchs, decimated by the House of the Lions. There is no shame in defeat, never. But not like this. Not like this.” The Wall gripped the handle of his sword hard. “How long must we avoid the Emperor’s Road, how long must we hide like exiles?”

The Marauding Knight sat a distance away, the one known as the Daredevil because he fought under the Daredevil banner. He looked up lazily, like a peaceful pigeon fattened by corn from the bountiful granaries of the Middle Plains. “Do not look at me Wall. I never wanted to be in this battle. I have fought too much. I needed rest in my castle. But they sent me here to act as the vanguard for the troops. ”

The Wall’s anger showed no sign of abating. “We know you do not like to fight after the Great Golden League. Every year, your shoulder becomes as frozen as ice, which many call rather fortuitous  since it always happens the Great Golden League.”

Daredevil kept his voice soft, soft as the lard that slides off the carcass of a suckling pig as it turns in fire. ” We are all sell-swords here. The Great Golden League pays more gold than anything else. And I fight for gold. Let he who does not fight or work for gold cast his first stone at me and my ilk. Long five-day battles are not worth it—-they take away too much and give too little. And spare us the lectures of honor and tradition, I have heard such stories at bedtime from old chambermaids. I have no wish to hear them again.” Daredevil wiped away the spittle that drooled from the side of his mouth. “We fight too much. Too much. There is so much that flesh, bone and spirit can take.”

The Wall pointed his sword towards the clump of trees. “For some it is too much fighting. For some it is too less fighting. Look at our master archer Zak the Mighty. He walks onto the battlefield and falls before a feather can strike him, holding his thighs. I wager that even a song-bird is more sturdy than him.”

The Daredevil sneered “Too much meat and mead sire. You seem to have forgotten we are the Conqueror of the World, a crown won by our Great Doctor King, who used his famous whirling sword-move to slay the Enemy From the South. Oh I understand why you do not recall Oh Wall. I forgot, you were not fighting under our banner at that time.” A smile lit up the Daredevil’s face, a smile that had no mirth in it.

“Mind your tongue Daredevil. My blade may be old but it can still cleave through flesh and bone as silently sure as a ghost’s whisper.”

The Little Bird hopped between the two. “Please knights. Let us not behave like childlings on the playground.”

The Wall laughed “Here comes the Little Bird who stands cravenly on his back foot in front of the enemy archers lest they send arrows above his shoulder. You sir are a disgrace to the Banner.”

The stones crunched as the Little Bird paced between around. “Be it the case. I command more gold than you and let that be the last word on the matter.” He knitted his eyes together “Why do you take this so personally sire? As the Daredevil said, no one cares about long battles. The Men of the Seven Kingdoms care only for the shorter jousts. That is where the gold galleons are. This five-day scrap is too trivial to feel shame over. Yes some subjects may be vexed but all we need to do is wait and bide our time. Let the shorter jousts begin and everything will be forgotten.”

“That may be Little Bird. But I will not forget the craven capitulations of  our once proud Banner. Defeat is one thing. This is abject surrender.”

“So what do you want us to do sire? Fall on our swords?” The Doctor King, the standard-holder, asked, his voice steady as a ship through rough seas.

“Considering how well you used your own sword, you would possibly miss if you tried doing that.” snorted Wall dismissively.

The Doctor King was known in the Seven Kingdoms for his patience. He never lost his equanimity. As he had told his newly-wed queen “Whenever anyone insults me, I tell myself—-every breath I take is worth golden galleons. No use wasting them for free.” The Wall’s verbal thrust made no impression on him. He smiled his smile that made maidens liquify like ice when put on flame.

“Sire, we were not prepared for battle. By the time we understood the grounds, the Lion’s Army had overrun us. We bled, we broke and we never recovered. Every time we tried to stand up, our enemies scythed our legs from below us. It was a massacre.”

The Wall’s eyes were hard as flint.” We could have had more time if the Grand Committee gave us time. But no they only care for the golden coins of the Great Golden League. As do you.”

“But everyone cares for the Great Golden League sire. The reason why there is gold in it is because the people watch it. And they want it. If they wanted long five-day battles, there would be more gold here. And the Grand Committee would give us more time for the longer jousts. Why blame us for being human? Why not blame the people for not caring for the five-day battles?”

The Wall fell silent, his anger scarcely constrained.

The Doctor King continued “We were blessed by the Gods to have had the crown in the five-day battles for some time. Very blessed. It was inevitable that sooner or later the Gods would turn their heads away from us. To be truthful, even the Gods cannot save our archers once Zak the Mighty withdrew. Look at them.” He pointed to the Ser Nath Berserker, climbing a tree trying to frighten birds in the branches, a man who it was whispered had half his brain eaten away by crows when he had been born. “Not even the Dragon Kings would be able to defeat a village of dwarves with these jesters on his side.”

The Doctor King raised his sword idly. It glowed gold. “The Gods were against us. Our mighty swordsmen, on whom we have always relied heavily on, failed us. The Daredevil did not bother to lead the vanguard and even when he did, I wished he did not. The Ever-Angry Lord, always reliable, after he joined the Cursed Banner in the Great Golden League has most unfortunately been put under a black hex, unable to see, unable to move. The Victorious Viscount of the South , who has always brought up the rear of our flanks, failed miserably too. The Little Bird, I think we do not seriously expect anything from him unless he puts on the Yellow Armour of the Super Lions and does short jousts. And the less we say about the Prince of Paunch the better, he must be having venison and summer ale as we speak happily surrounded by fair maidens. All these disasters we still could have weathered had the Grandmaster…..”

The Doctor King looked to his side. Beneath an ancient white tree sat the Grandmaster, his white beard flowing down to his knees, his heavy broadsword propped against the trunk. He was using something that looked like a card to work on his helmet, adjusting a bolt that had come loose there. At the mention of his name, he looked upwards where the branches rustled in the evening breeze. And said, to no one in particular “I need the Sapphire Stone that will unleash the Century of Centuries. I must have it. My precious. Else I cannot….concentrate.” Hearing him speak, the Easily Offended Squire, who had been sitting at his feet, asked with hope “But have I made it large?”

The Doctor King shook his head sadly and breathed heavy.

The Wall said “At least you feel grief. It’s a start on the path of redemption.”

The Doctor King breathed heavily once again, this time with greater force. Holding up his shield and twirling it around like a fan, he smiled towards a gap in the foliage and said ” Kone main hawa naheen lagti?”

The Wall looked at him, befuddlement writ large on his face.

The Doctor King smiled seductively: “Orient PSPO. Kone kone main zyada hawa”

The Wall wept.

I might deny saying this later but I actually felt bad for Shahrukh Khan and his team. They did a lot of things right but when you have your star bowler painting balls on woman’s hands, the star maverick going “Brrrrr” (if Lalit Modi was in charge, it would have been “Burrr”), Sanjay Kapoor rubbing off his charisma on the team as a celebrity supporter, their dud buy for three seasons going on to become pure platinum and a Trojan horse in the team, there is not much you can do. That they got to the fourth position was creditable. Though what many have forgotten is that this time they won just one more match from what they did last disaster season. Food for thought.

But this post is not about the IPL. It is about this so-called club versus country battle that is raging on in the media space, now that some of our great stars have discovered the worth of spending time with the family or came to know of the brittle condition of their body-parts just after IPL. Not that this is the first time this has happened, our loaded superstars frequently find the need for down-time after the IPL showing the middle-finger to the so-called “official” engagements that follow.

First of all let us couch the problem properly. It is not a question of club versus country. It is club versus club. Yes BCCI is a club, a private registered society. To be honest, it is as representative of the “country” as a franchise with the name of a city is representative of the city. Yes we associate patriotism, pride and honor in playing for the “country” (i.e. for BCCI) but that association is something we are encouraged to make, thanks to the “Hoo Haah India” advertising bubble that is created precisely for that reason—-to make an emotional connect between us, the viewers, and the BCCI club. The players are not obligated to buy into this spin and should have every moral right to choose the tangible corporeal delights of IPL over the intangibles of “glory” in the same way that people choose the increased pecuniary benefits of industry over the supposed prestige of academia.

Sunil Gavaskar has said that while the players are free to choose club over “country” (let us use apostrophes here for country), the “country” should also have the freedom not to select them should they opt out of an ICC-event after playing the IPL. Very true, they have the right not to. But the thing is the BCCI actually does want their main stars to play the IPL because the BCCI head-honchos are personally invested in the tournament and are making money off the big-ticket players. The international fixtures (Test and One Days) are principally the ICC’s concern and the BCCI is absolutely fine if the West Indies board or the ICC loses money on a West Indies vs, what if effectively now, India A series.

With the proliferation of new leagues like IPL, Big Bash, the one that Sri Lanka has got going, there will be a few players who will become guns-for-hire like the Gayles and the Pollards and the Tens. These players will typically belong to countries with financially not-so-well-off boards. But most of the big Indian superstars will still stick to the “national” club because I doubt there will be people bleeding green in order to make them endorse colas, mobile phones and motor oils if they do not play for the “country”, since the emotional catchment area of city-based franchises is still too small to justify signing the heavy-hitters on. The BCCI might make some noise in public, because it does not want to be perceived as being “unpatriotic”,  but as long as the Indian players play IPL and generate revenue for their franchises, they really could not care less if they drop out of the odd ICC event or two. Sure the ICC loses, the other board loses, the guys who bought TV rights loses but the BCCI officials do not.

And that my friends is cricket.

If the IPL has any redeeming value, it is that it provides Indian first-class cricketers, off the radars of selectors, who otherwise would be consigned to a lifetime of playing great innings in front of empty stadiums in Ranji trophy, an opportunity to showcase their skills in front of thousands.

Because otherwise this IPL, in comparison to the other three, has been tepid. I am not talking about the quality of cricket (after all, cricket is to IPL what character development is to porn) but about the masala.

The primary reason for that obviously has been the banishing of Lalit K Modi, the man who  could keep a nation entertained purely by the “Dont you wish you had my life” Hugh Heffnerian aura that he gave off, his eyes almost always on the “game” so as it were. With his post-IPL parties (Girls are welcome, baaki sara bheer kam, karna bas enjoy, naughty boy naughty boy), this very very naughty boy sold a fantasy as big as the outdoors—-if you had the money, you could stand at the buffet line with superstar super-rich sportsmen and even if you were poor, you could at least salivate over their dinner. Now of course the master impresario of the IPL circus is merely history, control having passed to a joyless bunch who just want to milk the cash cow without enjoying a feel of the udders. With their dour sense of school-masterish propriety that seems to consider conspicuous consumption as unnecessarily asking for attention, they have made the tournament as much fun as browsing through Excel sheets, as tingling to the tastebuds as food served in a nursing home.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. Some teams have still managed to provide us with entertainment, albeit more on-the-field than off it.

Mumbai Indians: Why don’t we just give Sachin the IPL trophy and be done with it? One of the biggest beneficiaries of the retention rule which gave franchises that had a good team in the first 3 IPLs a greater advantage by providing them a much larger pot of money (since the full salary of the retained players did not count towards the “purse” as per the weird laws), MI has a boringly perfect line-up where even Bhajji and Symonds are caught on camera cozily together, with its only weakness being Sachin’s often bizarre captaincy. But then again perhaps mere mortals cannot understand the workings of God’s mind. Whatever it be, the Mumbai Indians provide me with very little excitement. Yes they want to win. Win it for Sachin. So please let them.

Chennai Super Kings: Equally uninteresting. Excellent batting line-up, the best brand identity among all the franchises, the man who can do no wrong as the captain, their owner the head honcho at the BCCI, they again are drab in their perfection. While I do like their canary yellow tweety bird costumes, what gets my goat is their cheerleaders, fully covered from head to toe and I am sure suitably split into Iyers and Iyengars, raising the temperature as effectively as a vat of liquid nitrogen. Male cheerleaders? What is this—the Indian Prisoners League? Which genius came up with that idea? The same people who wrote those keep it simple silly stand-up routines for Ranbir Kapoor?

Delhi Daredevils :  While an impossibly strong franchise like MI and CSK is boring, so is an overtly weak one. Delhi Daredevils had it all the first three seasons—a batting line-up to die for and what I had mistakenly thought was a good think-tank which showed its sagacity by getting rid of Akshay Kumar as their brand ambassador after one season. (though I did not approve of this decision even then)

And then shockingly last auction, it totally denuded itself of talent transforming themselves into Delhi Dimer Devil (Bengali for egg-devil). They could have saved themselves though if they only had the good sense to play one of the players they bought, the magnificently marvelous Ajit Agarkar. They could have been really exciting then, exciting for the other team that is and exciting for me, who has over the years acquired a taste for Agarkar, like you build one for double malt whiskey. Like whiskey, watching Mr. Ajit play initially hits you bitter but, with time, it settles down in your throat giving a warm fuzzy feeling.  There are few sights in cricket as awe-inspiring as Haarke Haarnewaale Agarkar with that “I have no idea how the batsman hit me for a six” face after every other ball and DD, for reasons best known to them, has so far kept him in the hut.

Deccan Chargers : They once understood both the process of charging as well as discharging—having the hottest cheerleading Catholic school-girl type uniforms. Now they just have a guy called Christian. Sangakkara, as was evident in the World Cup final does not know the difference between giving head and getting tail. Not just him but the entire team has a rather cold vibe, nothing like what it was when it had Andrew Symonds and Rohit Sharma, India’s best Rahul Mahajan look-alike with however none of his raw hitting ability. Whatever positives it has is the owner-lady Ms. Reddy but not enough to make the Chargers a team I am keen to follow.

Bangalore Royal Challengers :

Khuli Hai Supermarket Baap Ki
Kya Hai Pasand Kaho Aap Ki

Truer words have not been spoken about this franchise, in the song ironically pictured on Deepika, the “girl-friend” of the Junior Mallaya. That’s all they have —-the arrogance of the baap ki supermarket where they can buy anything they want. But where is the oomph? Where is Katrina? Where is Deepika? Where are the flashes of light reflected from the Washington Red Skin dancers or from Charu Sharma’s bald pate? All we have is Junior Mallaya’s accent and Senior Mallaya’s angry grimace. Not that those arent fun.

Punjab King’s XI: Most guys have this fantasy of hitting a six in an important inter-college game while his hot-hot-superhot girl-friend cheers him on from the side (a fantasy captured in the “Kuch Khaas Hai Hum Sabhi Mein”ad). Priety Zinta has done this “bubbly hottie who cheers up the squad” act for three seasons now, pretty well I would say. But it is getting more than a bit jarring. With all the arrogant, self-confident jocks gone, leaving behind only “Please Use” Chawla, it’s time Zinta looked for a different role. They do have a trump card though—Valthaty, the underdog story of the IPL.

Kolkata Knight Riders : Brrrrrr………what’s wrong with these guys? The single-most-exciting team in the past three IPLs has metamorphosed into a lean and trim fighting unit losing much of its Keystone Cops appeal. There is no misti doi vending Rohan Gavaskar (who would bat at No 8 and not bowl), no demi-god Agarkar, no cataract-afflicted Murali Kartik, no Gang Bangar, no Bhondu, no Mortaza, no Chucktar  and most importantly for home-base Eden Gardens—no Dada. Of course there have a few gems like Balaji and of course Ruby Bhatia, Delhi’s revenge on Kolkata for Chittaranjan Park. But most importantly, even when it is doing so well, there is still an air of expectancy about these guys because of the Lady of Shallot kind of curse that seems to hang over the franchise, like a glass vase kept at the very edge of the table. And of course there is Shahrukh Khan, sometimes looking like he wandered off the sets of Khuda Gawah and sometimes making immensely amusing sarcastic “We will win this for Dada” kind of statements that keep me hooked to these guys.

Rajasthan Royals: They have two big wins. One is Shane Warne, cricket’s very own Ron Jeremy, who can do the flipper anywhere and on anyone, bowling like a dream and doing the Hurley Burley. And second is of course Ms. Shetty, whose face is the epitome of uncomprehending desolation. Even after three years, one gets the feeling (purely from that smile of hers) that she has no idea of the rules of the game and I can spend hours speculating as to what exactly she is asking her beau, like “Should I get up and cheer now that that the middle stickie has come out of the ground”?

Pune Warriors: I have a very personal fondness for these guys.  A Bong franchise with fetchingly attired cheer-queens (the Bengali bodhu thing I totally loved) with a desi flavor they have brought Pona maach to Puna, packed their team with Juboraj, Oothappa, Monish Mishro, Smeeth, and made them wear uniforms cut out of special edition Mahendra Dutta’s black umbrella cloth. And in their sagacity, they have kept their business as far away from Kolkata as possible.

To top it off, they have gotten Bappi Lahiri to pump up the team which means inspiration will not be a problem. To every Bengali parent who has ever told his son/daughter that “business is not for Bengalis”, Pune Warriors is the response. Go Pune.

Kochi Tuskers: My favorite franchise. Dressed like gigantic orange-flavored condoms touched by someone eating purple baingan bharta, these people are a force of nature. There is McCullum, code-named Baz, possibly after Karishma Kapoor’s “Baaz a Bird in Danger.” And if one KKR alum is not enough, there is that old man with a stomach ache, Hodge, with that permanently pissed expression on his face as if he will hit you with a cane if you get close to him. There is Ramesh Powar, the male Shakeela. There is Ravindra Jadeja, the new generation’s Agarkar,  whose fans get elated if he scores 20 runs because it shows his promise. Finally there is Sreesanth, a mad elephant in his own right, in the throes of passion whose magnitude one cannot imagine.

And on their day, the Men in Orange can toss Mumbai Indians to the side, like a small plant in the path of a charging tusker .

Love these guys.

——–

Rudyard Kipling, that endearing old-world colonialist, once called cricket a game of  “flanneled fools”. They don’t wear flannels any longer though, favoring tacky, garish uniforms made glossy by shining droplets of sweat from the foreheads of those who made them, in Mexico or closer home in Dhaka. What still remains are fools, namely those who believe they are watching a gentle competition between bat and ball and not a few hours of vacuous manufactured reality, whose raison d’etre is to serve as an orgiastic assertion of  India’s overwhelmingly Hindu middle class’s hyper-nationalistic vanity.

The world may not know much of cricket. In India though it is a big deal, being the only game that the Bramhinical population, not comfortable with the physical labors of games like soccer, excel in. If you can call coming first in a game played by ten other countries, “excelling” that is. When I use the word “deal” I of course mean it in every sense of the word. Cricket in India is a commercial behemoth, fuelled by post-liberalization (or as the Hindu fascist parties labelled it with the finesse of an ace advertising agency: India Shining) prosperity that, if we believe the media spiel, was brought in by the economic policies, initiated by the present Prime Minister when he was the finance minister. It is another thing that this so-called prosperity is built on the shoulders of tribals, minorities and the lower castes. Neither were the good doctor’s policies dreadfully original or imaginative, being simply a clerical regurgitation of World Bank/IMF handbooks.

But I must not mention it, lest I prick the bubble of gloating self-achievement. As many dissidents like me, SAR Geelani and others have found out, such an action does have consequences in a “democracy” like India.

Last week, Indians won the cricket World Cup, held in their own country. As if there was any doubt that would be the case. I was there for the last week, when India (which, strictly speaking, is merely a representative team of a private club, the BCCI, governed by some of India’s most well-heeled industrialists)  defeated Pakistan and Sri Lanka to lift the trophy. India, as a country, is not without its ironies and the fact that India would beat two of its neighbors, who bear the brunt of its imperial and expansionist muscle-flexing, was just one of them.

Irony. Not just irony I would say. Symbolism too. Dhoni, the small-town ticket-checker and now the dashing national captain with more zeroes in his bank account than villagers displaced by the Narmada Dam, the poster-boy for the post-liberalization “Indian dream”, thumping an enormous six to win the tournament, the sound of the ball striking the willow reverberating with the hollow pride of a heartless nation. Then there was Yuvraj Singh, the man of the tournament, with his girth representative of the lard of Indian civil society and his double chin, its two-facedness and Sreesanth, his scalp as verdantly vegetative as the hills before the logging mafia denuded them, symbolic of the Indian idiocracy. He is lucky to be in the team though unlike Rahul Dravid, who has been left behind because he is a Dravidian.

The final coup d’grace? Sachin Tendulkar, the chaste Brahmin Hindu, being carried, inhumanly I would say,on the shoulders of Yusuf Pathan, a Muslim from the state of Gujarat, site of a state-sponsored pogrom against people of his kind, whose chief minister was, not insignificantly, a chief guest in the quarter final which was held, again not insignificantly, in that state itself.

Such is the level of middle-class indoctrination in India that the man carrying another is smiling happily, blissfully unaware of his exploitation.

The emperor is naked. The Indian dream is but a sham. But I must not say this. Not at this time of national triumph. That would be the most unpatriotic thing to do.

I was at the ground during the India-Pakistan game, billed by the corporate powers-that-be as the matchup of the century. As a child, I had read of gladiatorial contests in ancient Rome, where the crowd would bay for the blood of slaves forced to fight for their freedom and where the Caesar, with his upturned or downturned finger, held the power over life and death.

I never thought I would see one of these. I was wrong.

The all-powerful Caesars were there in the royal boxes. So was the belligerent Indian crowd, representing the urban well-heeled moneyed patricians who had put aside their suits and tailored trousers and skirts for a day of neighbour-bashing, roaring with blood-lust as the national team inflicted blow after blow on Pakistan. Cest magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre. It was not a battle between equals: Indian players, fitted with the best of armor and provided the best of training courtesy generous corporate sponsorship, were the prize gladiators. The green-shirted Pakistanis, enervated by an illegal war forced on them by the Americans and the proxy battle carried by India, isolated from international cricket for years, were the slaves marked for death, set onto battle with but a trident and a cape.

Not that the crowd cared.

All they wanted to do was to hunt some Green.

Operation Green Hunt anyone? Somewhere P Chidambaram was smiling.

I looked at the innocently clueless face of Shahid Afridi, the Pakistani captain. I wanted to ask every one there, cheering wildly for India, “Does this small boy, merely sixteen years old, look like an enemy? Do these other men, who are so scared that they cannot hang onto a single catch, look like people over whom you should even cherish victory?”

Of course I did not.  That would be the most unpatriotic thing to do.

I did talk to Suhas, twenty years old. A call-center employee, who brings home a salary which would feed an entire tribal district for a year, he had his face painted with the colors of India. I asked him if he was aware of the origins of face-painting, if he knew that it is one of man’s oldest shows of aggressive intent in battle, a potent non-verbal method of opposition intimidation. I asked him why the saffron was painted more prominently than the white and why was the green smudged? He did not reply, instead choosing to scream loudly——-

Bleed Blue.

I wanted to tell Suhas that people do not bleed blue. They bleed red. They bleed red in Kashmir, where courageous youths flying green flags and calling for religious purification, go up against garrisons of Indian oppressors. They bleed red in the forests of Dantewada where innocent Naxals butcher policemen.

I wanted to tell Suhas all this. Of course I did not. That would be the most unpatriotic thing to do.

What though never ceases to shock me is how this same Muslims=Pakistan equation is made by so-called Indian “liberals” (I use the “” around the liberals because I think they are anything but liberals). Which is why anyone (like me) who doe not endorse Asha-Aman with Pakistan, because of the fact that they have refused to take action against 26/11 perpetrators and sheltered fugitives from the Indian law,  is dubbed as an Islamophobe. (This comment was made on a previous post).  The assumption is heinous—namely that not liking Pakistanis is same as not liking Muslims. It is an accusation, which if opt repeated, serves the purpose of shutting up any kind of opposition because no one likes to be considered prejudiced against a particular religion, particularly when they are not.

Now I have said before, many times, why I hold “Pakistan”  in its entirety as the party responsible for 26/11 rather than the “misguided minority section of Pakistani youth” angle our Afridirals (prefer to use that instead of “liberal”) would like us to believe. (This explains why they want us to lay out the red carpet for the Pakistani cricket team and in general slide up to Gilani from the side and press ourselves against his hyper-active arms).

To summarize why I make this association.

1. 26/11 was implemented and financed by sections of the Pakistani establishment. This is beyond doubt.

2. The Pakistani establishment has steadfastly refused to bring to justice anyone associated with 26/11.

3. The government that protects the perpetrators is democratically elected and the reason offered by most Pakistan watchers as to why 26/11 criminals would not be brought to justice is that “popular reaction” to such a move would cause the government to fall. This shows very clearly where the public sympathy lies.

4. From even a cursory glance through Pakistani media and online boards, one would see that Pakistanis either 1) consider 26/11 as trivial or 2) consider 26/11 to have been done by Indians. Both of them are nothing but justifications.

5. From the overwhelming support for blasphemy laws, the murder of even “pseudo-liberals” like Taseer and the lionization of their killers, it should be fairly obvious that the Pakistani awaam by and large, are not very tolerant of people who are not of their “religion”.

6. Unlike Americans who also provide the most trenchant criticisms of their own policies of aggression with a sizeable section of their population strongly condemning their own policies, the voice of dissent in Pakistan for their supporting of terrorism in India is almost absent. Even when muted voices are heard, they are accompanied by hundreds of caveats and thousands of moral equivalences.

The reason why I have made this lengthy pre-amble is so that I can make my point. Large-hearted Afridi’s hateful diatribe against Indians has been justified in some quarters (by Pakistani liberals and Indian Afridirals) as a reaction to Gautam Gambhir’s dedication of the victory to 26/11 victims and his reference to the fact that he was inspired  by an Armymen (I do not know exactly what he said but from chatter on Twitter this is what I deduced). Mr. Vikram Sood, former director of RAW, in his blog says: [Link]

This reaction was possibly to Gautam Gambhir’s silly comment that he dedicated the Indian victory to Mumbai 26/11. This meant terrorism, which meant Lashkar e Tayyaba which ultimately meant Hafeez Saeed. This was not going to be acceptable to some in Pakistan

So why is this a “silly” comment? Is it “silly” because we as Indians are not supposed to refer to terrorism directed at us? Is it “silly” to let a tragedy on innocents affect a sportsman so personally that he refers to it in the moment of his greatest triumph? The fact that referring to a human tragedy like 26/11 could be taken as  provocation by those who financed it is, for the want of a better word, laughable.

Let us assume that Gambhir said something more “aggressive” namely that replying to 26/11 was an inspiration for his performance. I do not know if he said it but some people on Twitter hinted that was the gist of his statements. I find nothing objectionable in that also. No serious literary critic would ever interpret an author’s creations in a historical, sociological and political vacuum. Similarly to expect a sportsman to remove any historical context from his performances would be an exercise in futility.

On the biggest stages that can be thought of, in face of physical and mental exhaustion and the ever-present fear of failure, sportsmen draw on inner wells of strength to provide that killer performance. This may be anything—-the desire to overcome poverty or to become a millionaire, the urge to prove a point to those that have written him off, the ambition of  attaining immortality in the record books or the junoon to be part of an ideal bigger and nobler than oneself. Gambhir was merely honest in saying what one of his inspirations had been. Just as had been Pakistani sporting greats, who now come as special guests on Indian shows, who in  politically less correct previous decades had said they were inspired by ancient Islamic conquerors of India.

Nothing wrong in either case, since players are nothing but the product of their times. Like all artists.

Fischer vs Spassky. Miracle on Ice—USA vs Russia 1980. Sports/sportsmen and politics have always gone hand in hand. It’s a point I made in my previous post “Asha Aman Ki Aisi Ki Taisi” albeit in a flippant way. To expect politics to stay separate from sports, especially in an atmosphere that exists between Pakistan and India, is to exhibit a surprising level of ostrich-like naivete. So this is why I embrace with nothing but understanding amusement the “positive” coverage of India in Pakistani media—–Exhibit 1 (where a bunch of butchers cheerfully talk about imposing “violence” on the Indians of the types usually done to “goshts” with happy chomps of their machetes), Exhibit 2 (where a Pakistani pressman accuses Indian IT engineers of tampering with the DRS to let Sachin survive) and Exhibit 3 (where a cricket expert says that the final was fixed). Most of my amusement however is reserved for this massively forwarded article by Asha-Aman guys, a positive message from Pakistan, which now given Afridi’s rant, seems to read like a parody. What is interesting is that even here, in its first para (according to my understanding) it says that the match was lost more due to Misbah and Umar Gul’s bad luck and Sachin’s good fortune, without even once acknowledging the most important thing—- that India outplayed Pakistan on merit and not due to “luck”.

And this refusal to accept defeat in sports as anything other than conspiracy or bad luck, I would say is a natural defense mechanism built in by nations to purge itself off the humiliation that  is brought on by the political context of a sporting engagement, a context that cannot be just wished away.

Given the political atmosphere as it exists, sports will be affected. So will sportsmen. It’s not their fault.

Finally a personal message. To Mr. Gambhir. You sir have been one of my favorite players throughout the years—dependable, smart, not amazingly talented like Yuvi but always keenly aware of your limitations and playing by them. By remembering 26/11, a personal tragedy to many of us, you have only risen in our esteem.

People die when they stop breathing. Peoples die when they stop remembering.

Thank you. And not just for the Cup.

Portion sizes need to be watched. Exercise is needed just to stay alive. Trusting someone else becomes difficult.

And, worst of all, people expect you to be responsible.

Sometimes though, it’s not all that bad. Being old that is. Because unlike many of you young tykes, I was there. On both THE days.

In 1983 I was old enough to understand  we had done something great. In 2011 I am old enough to understand why it is so.

Throughout the tournament, Dhoni had made some bizarre selectorial calls, mostly involving preferring almost everyone else, including Sreesanth, over Ashwin. (It was an ironic testament to Ashwin being chronically ignored that during the presentation when Ashwin’s name was called, Sehwag stepped up to receive his medal). But then for every misadventure in selection (which Dhoni to his credit has owed upto), he  had also captained well in the field, with aggressive bowling changes and field placements.

But my main concern was that, as India’s best ODI finisher and more importantly as the leader, he had not performed, not contributing in pressure situations in the way a World Cup winning captain should do. In order to win the World Cup, Dhoni had to lead through batting , bringing to the fore that one “leading from the front” performance that Kapil, Waugh, Ponting all provided as parts of their successful campaigns. Without his individual contribution in the  runs column,which had been lacking so far for some time, I just felt the final trophy would not be possible.

Well today, Dhoni played his Tunbridge Wells. During the match, I had tweeted how impressed I was when he came out ahead of Yuvraj—-it showed intent at  a “knife edge moment”. Intent though is one thing and execution is another and Dhoni was perfect. Best of it all,unlike what happened to that epic 175, there will now be video footage for people to rewind, review and say “I was there watching it live when it happened.”

If Dhoni became Kapil, Yuvraj, with his all round skills, became the Mohinder Amarnath, finding redemption, of the kind usually seen in sports movies, on the largest stage possible.

And then there was this other man, who had had a rebirth since 2007, the second highest scorer in the tournament, sitting on the shoulders of Yousuf Pathan, representing to me my favorite generation of Indian cricketers, one that sadly will never hold the Cup, resting with that one thing that had eluded him for so long.

There are some things that are so valuable that for them even Gods must wait a lifetime.

In 1983 hockey was the game of the country. Indian cricketers were paid a few pounds a day as daily allowance. None expected them to win anything. There were no corporate sponsors. Newspapers kept cricket confined to the sports pages.  Given all that, on a sunny day in June, a motley crowd of no-hopers scripted a fairytale, bringing down one of the greatest war machines that ever took the field.It would remain the greatest upset ever in the history of the game, a shock the equivalent of “shooting a bullet at a piece of paper and having it come back and hit you”.

As a seven year old, I had remembered jumping about in joy, understanding by looking into my father’s eyes that we had done something whose magnitude I could not comprehend.I felt great, as great  as I would feel when the first sugar rush of rosogolla would hit the tongue. And that was all that mattered.

June 25, 1983 changed India. That’s no hyperbole. It laid the foundation for the phenomenal growth of Indian cricket as a commercial enterprise. It brought a new generation (the one that now hold the cup) to the game of cricket as a career choice. In a more intangible way, for a country consigned to the list of “developing” (since the word “underdeveloped” was not politically correct), the victory taught us, to quote Indira Gandhi, that “India can do it.”

April 2, 2011.

Unlike in 1983, Team India were no longer long long shot underdogs. On the contrary they were one of the favorites, number 1 in Test rankings and number 2 in ODIs, both of them well-deserved. India, as an economic power-house, had changed dramatically from the 80s.

So had I. For me cricketers were no longer “heroes” whose pictures I would cut out and paste in my scrapbook. I have become too cynical for that. I still follow the Indian team, still want them to succeed but in a certain difficult-to-define impersonal way, maintaining a certain emotional distance from all of it. There are too many games, too many tournaments, too much corporate media babble of the “Bleed Blue” and “The Color of Passion Is Red” variety and too much money (either way–loss or victory) to believe that any of it makes a difference. I do get excited when India wins and depressed when they lose but for a moment only, after which I just shrug and say “Who cares?”

But when off the last ball, Dhoni brought out his iconic shot, the one he had kept in the freezer it seems for years and the ball sailed into the night,  it was back—– the tightening of the throat, the hint of moisture at the corner of the eyes.

Yes this one matters.

It matters because  it unites billions, all across the world, in one thread of pure emotion.

It matters because it makes us believe we are part of something bigger than our insignificant selves.

It matters because it creates a new pantheon of legends for a new generation.

It matters because of the broken dreams of those who could not attain it—-the Dravids, the Kumbles and the Gangulys.

It matters because it defines a milestone in our lives—one to which we can all turn to years later and say, misty-eyed, “Do you remember….?”.

And finally, it matters because it helps many of us realize something very important.

The seven-year old still lives.