The surgeon who had the opportunity to look at my heart during a bypass might have been puzzled to see the word CRICKET engraved all over it. My interest in the game is so deep-seated. Yet, on the big day of the World Cup final between India and Sri Lanka. I was not allowed to be one among those present in the noisy hall. The reason is simple — if I sat like a Nandi before a Sivalingam opposite the television, India would lose.
My son, a modern guy who fancies rock band and double burgers and wears a pair of jeans which is either stonewashed or never washed (I am not sure) and who naturally scoffs at rahu kalam, yama kandam and bad omens like a cat crossing his path, discovered this season a bad influence in our family, which is me, mercifully, insofar as cricket is concerned. As I bemoaned, I should not sit with others in the hall in my flat and watch India playing. I should be conspicuous by my absence.
I received this dictum with a sinking heart. In as much as I wanted to watch the proceedings live in all their glory of colour, glamour, noise and interesting visuals, I wanted Dhoni's Dashers to win — not without a special reason, for I had told my cronies, as if I were a human form of Paul the Octopus that predicted the winners in the 2010 FIFA World Cup, that India would win or else I would shave off my moustache. Though greying a bit, it had stayed with me for more than five long decades.
And so it came to pass I sat in my study opposite the desktop staring at the score updated by a news channel. I was told to enter the hall only during the commercial breaks or replays but never during the live telecast.
Three times I had to cross the hall briefly for reasonably strong reasons. Needless to say, India lost Tendulkar, Kohli and Gambhir during those inauspicious periods. I was not quick on my heels to take off from the hall before the first ball was bowled by Lasith Malinga and with my momentary presence Virendra Sehwag was declared lbw. My son breathed fire like a dragon.
The telephone that rang ceaselessly the next morning poured into my ears strange stories. My cartoonist friend sat through the match sporting the same lungi he wore when India won against Australia and Pakistan in the quarter and semi-final battles. Another friend watched the match through the long mirror in the steel almirah, when India batted, as his direct gaze will mar its winning chances. My daughter from New Jersey had kept a paper cup of espresso before her, which she did not sip throughout India's batting, though coffee is a must in the morning for her. She kept her five-year-old daughter on her lap, tempting her with cookies and candies as the kid's absence would make India lose wickets. My daughter, who had spotted Rajnikant in the box, felt that because of his charisma, one run hit by Dhoni and Yuvaraj during the batting powerplay would be equivalent to a hundred runs!
Going back to the game, towards the tail-end, my son ungrudgingly invited me to the hall.
The fireworks had already started in the streets. India had to face three overs and its chances would be dicey if I did not watch at that stage, arriving like the police in the last scene of a Tamil movie. Perhaps, India did win not because of the gusty innings played by Dhoni towards the end but because of my humble presence!
After squeals of delight, kangaroo-like jumps and all-round distribution of mysorepas, I conveyed my displeasure over having missed such a high-octane, high-pressure clash between the titans. “Don't worry pa. You can watch it tomorrow during the ball-to-ball re-telecast. Good for people like you carrying a repaired heart!” He said that putting a comforting hand on my shoulder.
(The writer's email is: jsraghavan@yahoo.com)
