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It’s only cricket
C.K. MEENA
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Newspapers treat a win in cricket as though it were the equivalent of India sweeping every event in the Olympics
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PHOTO: AKHILESH KUMAR
Topsy turvy No other game or sport interests the nation
I am probably the only member of the TV-owning class who did not watch the world cup-winning T-20 match. Since I was tapping away on my keyboard right through the event, I wouldn’t have known when it began or when it ended but for the maniacal
rooftop party going on in the adjoining office building. The gang of employees had hired a home theatre system, by the sound of it, and although my windows were shut as decisively as my television set, my neighbours and I in a half-kilometre radius could not ignore the thunder of the commentary and, when it was all over, a blistering attack of music that began with the inevitable “Chak De”.
You might discern a certain degree of irritation in the headline of this column. Read it out loud, emphasising the second word. Now, read it with the stress on the third. Both make sense. I’m not playing grammar teacher here, just trying to make a point - and it’s been a sore point with me, I can tell you - about a game that has been hijacked by advertising, overplayed by the media, and reduced in recent times to little more than a horse race.
It’s only cricket. No other game or sport interests the nation, according to the media. Newspapers treated the historic win as though it were the equivalent of India sweeping every event in the Olympics. If you had scanned the vast ocean of blue (six pages, in one English-language daily) you might have noticed a group of shipwrecked people bobbing above the waves. It was the hockey team. “Hello, we’re here, we won, too,” they managed to gasp before going under. Whoever doesn’t attract the millions - talking in terms of both money and people - is ignored. Here’s an unlikely scenario: exultant crowds bearing Vishwanathan Anand on their shoulders in a victory parade through the streets of Chennai.
It’s only cricket, after all. Not a war, earthquake or peace treaty. Why should it make such a media splash? The game is not without its advantages, though. Broadcasting a cricket match between India and XYZ country, preferably a one-day against Pakistan, could be an effective solution to traffic jams. People wouldn’t stir out unless it was absolutely necessary, and those who were out already would congregate around shop windows, leaving the roads free.
Over a week ago I went out to find surprisingly jam-free streets. A man got into the bus and sat next to me, his ear super-glued to a silver-grey transistor radio (yes, they still exist, folks). From the faint crackle that issued forth from the microscopic space between his left ear and the tiny speaker, I could imagine that a cricket match was on. I didn’t know who was playing who (India was, or he wouldn’t have been so engrossed) or whether it was a 50-50 or 20-20 version, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before someone behind us asked “Score yeshtu?”
I waited. Roughly 25 seconds later came a voice from behind us, “Score yeshtu?”
The listener, who was only too eager to share the news, said 36 runs needed in 34 balls and five wickets down. Two pairs of nostrils breathed down our necks. Two sets of questions had to be answered, two sets of comments responded to, but my obliging neighbour was ready to intermittently peel his ear off the radio and issue terse statements – “30 runs 32 balls”, and so on, until finally he settled on announcing sets of two numbers that were self-explanatory.
Outside, a pharmacy overflowed with customers - no epidemic had struck, they were all watching the match on the shop TV. From the “tent lighting house” to the Xerox place, every shopkeeper had obligingly turned the screen to face the road.
“Odadubidittare (they’ll hit),” my neighbour kept saying at intervals. “Symonds is 72. Manushya alla avanu (he is not human).”
The others were as despondent as he was about our chances. “They keep taking two-two runs. Oh, how they run.”
“If we take a wicket it will have an effect.”
“We missed a run-out.”
“We keep missing.”
“We can’t hit the stumps, that’s our problem.”
“Our fielding is not good. See how well they field.”
“28-20,” said my neighbour. He listened wordlessly for a while. The passenger behind me was palpably tense. When he could bear it no more he asked, “Score yeshtu?”
Silence. A smile on his face as he kept listening. “One wicket down,” he said at last. The conductor, who was hanging around expectantly, couldn’t help asking the familiar question.
“Symonds is out. He is not human, he’s a daitya (divine being),” said my neighbour with a self-conscious laugh. After a while he reported, “One more wicket down” but he didn’t have to because a roar emerged from a distant electronics showroom. By now the men behind us were on the edge of their seats. Despite my best efforts I felt myself being sucked into the proceedings.
And then the man with the radio suddenly realised that his stop had arrived. He leapt off the bus.
What an anticlimax. My lingering sense of disappointment quickly faded as my thoughts turned to other things. I said to myself, “It’s only cricket, after all.”
(Send your feedback to ckmeena@gmail.com)
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