Today I witnessed one of the most historic moments in Indian history – India winning in style over West Indies in what will be remembered as an iconic match of our times. I could not believe that India actually won.
Not all that long ago Indian cricket team was not so much a disgrace as an embarrassment. You watched them play, or rather watched them go through their antics, and it was a problem deciding where to hide your head. You squirmed and under your breath cursed ‘louts’ and ‘yahoos’ — my selection of words when describing our cricketing heroes. Some times they batted well and bowled miserably or vice versa. Sometimes they did both well, and fielded miserably. Never did they do everything well. I am sure these players are great devotees of Indra Devta, because He has saved them more than any one or anything else, with all those timely rains that saved us from the otherwise guaranteed shame. Men in blue have taken that color so literally that they get beaten blue periodically, and are great harbingers of that mood as well. The only player who seems to be consistent in our team is the real Mr. dependable, the great run-getter Mr. Extra.
Not all that long ago Indian cricket team was not so much a disgrace as an embarrassment. You watched them play, or rather watched them go through their antics, and it was a problem deciding where to hide your head. You squirmed and under your breath cursed ‘louts’ and ‘yahoos’ — my selection of words when describing our cricketing heroes. Some times they batted well and bowled miserably or vice versa. Sometimes they did both well, and fielded miserably. Never did they do everything well. I am sure these players are great devotees of Indra Devta, because He has saved them more than any one or anything else, with all those timely rains that saved us from the otherwise guaranteed shame. Men in blue have taken that color so literally that they get beaten blue periodically, and are great harbingers of that mood as well. The only player who seems to be consistent in our team is the real Mr. dependable, the great run-getter Mr. Extra.
We were used to India snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, till the last match with West Indies happened.
I sat down to watch that match (Which was as soon as I entered the office, reached my desk, left my strolley there and headed diligently for the TV room; one needs to get their priorities right in life). I kept a tissue box next to me. What a game. I kept dabbing my eyes with tissue paper, this being the kind of emotional high this game produced. The way all of them played, it just took my breath away and I must have sobbed the room wet. What a Game.
It seemed to me that dark-ages of Indian cricket were over. At least in the case of Indian cricket, I like to quickly rush to reckless conclusions; because all joy is short-lived (I say this from experience). I am busy hero-worshipping Ganguly these days, before the next series begins. God knows what will happen - rains are still some time away. (May be they will have all the matches in Chepauk, Chennai, where rains seem our constant companion. I will write to BCCI in this regard. I am from the age of innocence in case you did not know))
Then there was Sachin. I have been his constant fan. One needs to have some constants in one’s life and one of mine is Mr. Tendulkar. (If and when you read this Sachin, please know that you will have at least one shoulder to rest your head on, even if the world turns against you. I am ready to fly to Mumbai, when you need one)
I sat down to watch that match (Which was as soon as I entered the office, reached my desk, left my strolley there and headed diligently for the TV room; one needs to get their priorities right in life). I kept a tissue box next to me. What a game. I kept dabbing my eyes with tissue paper, this being the kind of emotional high this game produced. The way all of them played, it just took my breath away and I must have sobbed the room wet. What a Game.
It seemed to me that dark-ages of Indian cricket were over. At least in the case of Indian cricket, I like to quickly rush to reckless conclusions; because all joy is short-lived (I say this from experience). I am busy hero-worshipping Ganguly these days, before the next series begins. God knows what will happen - rains are still some time away. (May be they will have all the matches in Chepauk, Chennai, where rains seem our constant companion. I will write to BCCI in this regard. I am from the age of innocence in case you did not know))
Then there was Sachin. I have been his constant fan. One needs to have some constants in one’s life and one of mine is Mr. Tendulkar. (If and when you read this Sachin, please know that you will have at least one shoulder to rest your head on, even if the world turns against you. I am ready to fly to Mumbai, when you need one)
Dhoni, true to his buffalo-milk antecedents, was another thing altogether. I have discovered one thing about him – his arms are no longer under his control. The way they go about swinging the bat, his body shakes and rattles to stop our man from going into a spin. When I see him, I am pleasantly reminded of our hostel dog (named ‘clinton’ for some divine reason), whose tail was never in its control. You show the mongrel a little love, and the tail went mad, oscillating from east to all the way to west, in the process vibrating clinton’s body so forcefully that I could see only a shiny nose standing in one place – everything else was a blur. Same is the case of our man Dhoni. The only difference that instead of him, the bowlers usually complain of blur and nausea. May God help them. (I am seriously contemplating switching to Buffalo milk these days).
I am not a fan of Dravid, so let me not waste my time writing about him. The only thing noteworthy of his batting was that he reminded me of another cricksting nemesis, Dinesh Mongia, whose claim to fame could be in road-rolling, given his perennially leaden feet and overly light head (almost floozy actually), which never seemed to understand that the game being played is called cricket, and one of the elements of the game is taking runs. He stands on end, and….just stands there. If you are a bowler with bad economy rate, stand on one leg and pray to God that Dinesh Mogia face you in all the matches. If your wish is granted, you will enter the hall of fame and rub shoulders with the likes of Hadlee and Imran insofar as economy is concerned.
Dravid was no better. The transmission seemed to have frozen in one place, until Sachin forced him to run and took the strike. Were those tears of happiness in my eyes when Dravid got out? I am yet to witness so much joy in one place, as was the case when all of us went into rapture when ‘the wall’ came down. (What an apt name – walls don’t move!).
If you thought I am being partial towards Dravid in comparison to Mongia, perish the thought. I am usually comatose during Mongia’s batting (God save us from that torture)
I am not a fan of Dravid, so let me not waste my time writing about him. The only thing noteworthy of his batting was that he reminded me of another cricksting nemesis, Dinesh Mongia, whose claim to fame could be in road-rolling, given his perennially leaden feet and overly light head (almost floozy actually), which never seemed to understand that the game being played is called cricket, and one of the elements of the game is taking runs. He stands on end, and….just stands there. If you are a bowler with bad economy rate, stand on one leg and pray to God that Dinesh Mogia face you in all the matches. If your wish is granted, you will enter the hall of fame and rub shoulders with the likes of Hadlee and Imran insofar as economy is concerned.
Dravid was no better. The transmission seemed to have frozen in one place, until Sachin forced him to run and took the strike. Were those tears of happiness in my eyes when Dravid got out? I am yet to witness so much joy in one place, as was the case when all of us went into rapture when ‘the wall’ came down. (What an apt name – walls don’t move!).
If you thought I am being partial towards Dravid in comparison to Mongia, perish the thought. I am usually comatose during Mongia’s batting (God save us from that torture)
I think the best thing to have happened to us in the recent cricketing past is Ganguly’s resurrection. In the land of Saas-Bahu, make-up and glycerine, where all good things come to an end (unless you are a politician), we Indians have witnessed the light at the end of the tunnel, and seen how someone down, out, and written-off, can actually come back, and show why he was called the ‘god of off-side’. In a hero-worshipping yet hero-starved country of ours, that is some example of determination.
All said and done, I came back home with that bounce in my feet that even Nike Air cannot replicate. One of my most fulfilling office days, filled with a great sense of satisfaction and achievement. Ah, the smell in the air!
May God bless our saviour - the hunter wielding, undertaker with thick black moustache. Colonel Vengsarkar. Thank you sir!
Tailpiece: Sidhharth Pande has been quite a source of my literary discoveries. This poem, whacked from his profile, is dedicated to Ganguly:
Out of the night that covers me,black as the pit from pole to pole.
Tailpiece: Sidhharth Pande has been quite a source of my literary discoveries. This poem, whacked from his profile, is dedicated to Ganguly:
Out of the night that covers me,black as the pit from pole to pole.
I thank whatever gods may be,for my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance,I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance,my head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears,looms but the horror of the shade,
and yet the menace of the years finds, and shall find me,unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,how charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;I am the captain of my soul.
- "Invictus" [William Ernest Henley]
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