Round and About

Round and About

One can’t but feel sorry for Dravid. First, circumstances under which he was made the captain; when he was nominated captain for the Sri Lanka Tour, the Board had the perfect opportunity to ring in a change seamlessly, Ganguly’s bad form and his failure in the home series against Pakistan had more or less paved the way for a leadership change, every body, including die hard Ganguly fans, accepted the change. But trust our Board to muddy things when none was required. Ganguly was brought back as Captain for the Zimbabwe Tour for no apparent reason; we lost the final in Sri Lanka? In the last nine years India has lost all but three finals, so that could not have been the reason. Anyway, after the Bulawayo fight and a Dalmia more than willing for compromises to retain his control over the Board, Ganguly’s fate was more or less sealed and Dravid’s return was expected (notwithstanding the odd attempts to prop us alternatives in the form Kaif and Sachin). However, the question still remains; where was the need to remove Dravid from captaincy?

A captain needs time to mould or build a team before he starts getting success and some don’t even get to see success. Naseer Hussain spent his entire captaincy in building the England team but hardly tasted any success it is Vaughan who is reaping all the rewards. Had Dravid gone to Zimbabwe then by now he would have had a fair idea what kind of team he has and what kind of a team he needs to build. Unfortunately, he will have to start the process of learning afresh. Even now he has not been given a clear mandate, he has been made captain for the Sri Lanka and South Africa series. If India wins fine, if not what next? Another captain? Who will build the team? Remember, a coach is not an on field leader and that is why a captain has such a crucial role in cricket. In any case Chappell’s pasr recored as coach does not inspire any confidence, has he improved since then? I don’t think so; in fact Chappell would be a good mentor to individuals but not a good team coach. His cricket academy is successful precisely for this reason. Now you see why I feel sorry for Dravid.

Now take a look at the team Dravid is about to inherit. Out of form Sehwag, uncertain Sachin, out of form Harbhajan and Balaji, inconsistent Zaheer and Agarkar and a bunch of abjectly poor fielders. And, post Zimbabwe, a team that is fragmented, scared, unsure and without confidence. I feel not sorry alone, I am angry as well, why should this be happening to a man of exceptional calibre like Dravid?

These Are Difficult Times

These are difficult times. As an ordinary, faceless citizen if you want to voice your concern about Islamic fanaticism, particularly in response to what is going in the neighbouring country to our east, you are liable to be labeled as anti secularist, right wing fanatic. To be branded what one is not is the most terrible misfortune that can befall someone. In a public debate a trick that is very successfully employed by many to win an argument against an opponent is to stereotype the opponent. Once that is done a section of the audience automatically turns your supporter and if that section happens to be the majority (or more noisy) then the debate from that point on is as good as won.

It is quite possible that you might have noticed this in your day to day life, in the office, the social circle, within the family and so on. When someone has been branded as a joker in his circle, whatever he does or says will never be taken seriously. Even when he is raving and ranting and going mad over something his deeds will not be seen as an act of protest or an honest expression of ones opinion.

I have talked to large number people, all of them without as exceptionally ordinary as myself, and found them equally worried about the rise of fundamentalists (and consequent violence) in Bangladesh, but no one speaks out about it primarily for the fear of getting typecast. What happens to India when Iran turns nuclear? As a friend said, the danger was not as much as that of going into war or something with India, the real danger lay in the unstable social and political environment in that part of the globe. Therefore India considers it to be necessary in her own interest to disable Iran’s nuclear program and yet, the country is being branded as a lackey of you know who.

Striking it Rich

Striking it Rich?

Claiming success over yesterday’s airport and bank strike a left leader in Calcutta asked in a press conference whether investment had come to a stop in France where too there had been a strike. A good question. Perhaps, a more relevant question would have been, how can something that has not even started, stop?

Are the left parties playing a devious game or they being clever by half? The airport and bank strike has done good to no one; while the banks will not be privatised at the moment (and perhaps never will be, whichever part might be in power. You see, the gains for the party in power from nationalised banks are immense) but airport renovation will be carried by the private parties. Although the left parties will do everything to put a spanner the bid evaluation process, if they fail there then during the process of awarding of contract, if they fail at that stage too, then at the time of execution and if they fail there too then there will be the inevitable allegation in the Parliament of corruption etc. They played this game during Manmohan Singh’s regime as Finance minister and they are playing it now. Sadly, even after fifteen years, the left parties have not been able to think any new and more effective way to tackle an issue that in their opinion is the number one enemy of the ‘people’. Well, what more do you expect form a party of geriatrics and mothballed intellectuals.

Atha Gregogangly Katha

My Daughter rang up to ask what would be the end to the end to the Ganguly-Chappell spat.

Looking at it from the point of view of our TV news channels, it is exciting times in Indian cricket. Ganguly-Chappell spat and the Board’s AGM could not have come at a better time in this silly season. Sensex was turning stale and boring, the colourless monsoon session of the Parliament was already over, Lalu from Bihar was not providing any exciting fodder, even in the crime world smaller than the smallest fry like Tarrannum (hope I got the name right) were left for the headlines and in the film world they were being made to do with some Madurwho. Things were as bad as they could be, perhaps I am wrong, the situation was even worse, and the channels were reduced to see a potential Rita Katrina every time it drizzled in the Bombay. In this state of affairs Ganguly’s confession came as godsend and to that has been added the now distinct possibility of Dalmia losing his grip over Indian cricket, the bosses of Indian news channel are beaming of course. In a way it is good for ordinary people like us. We don’t have to bother, the channels will do all the thinking and concluding for us. Thank you all of out there, thank you for making our life so comfortable.

One of the channels wants me to tell them whom I support. Thanks for making me feel so important, thanks for making me feel that my opinion counts, that it is my view that is going to decide who stays to live another day in Indian cricket and thank you for letting me know that, at the end of the day, it is me who is responsible for the mess that Indian cricket is.      

My Daughter rang up to ask what would be the end to the end to the Ganguly-Chappell spat. She is a Ganguly fan. (She is also a Sachin fan, a Dravid fan and a Kumbhle fan) She was not always a Ganguly fan this is something recent. I think she turned into a Ganguly fan a little at a time. The more the press, the TV, the man on the street (except the ones walking on Kolkata’s street) turned against Ganguly, she turned into a Ganguly fan. Ganguly is a strong personality, you have either to like him or hate him an in between feeling is impossible to nurse. So, will he stay or wont he?

In the Indian context finding an answer is not difficult. If Dalmia stays Ganguly also stays, if Dalmia goes so does Ganguly, period. Chappell? Well, be it Dalmia or Pawar the response will be identical. In typical Indian fashion Chappell will not be given a straight forward answer, he will be given to understand that the Board understands him perfectly and everything will be sorted out. Chappell will be happy, he will continue to be tough with the players, with the selectors, with the petty administrators and with the Board believing all the time the Board President understands him. All suggestions from Chappell will be patiently heard with vigorous nods of head and ‘yes, yes you are right, you are absolutely right’ thrown in liberally. In practice nothing will be done to implement those suggestions. Ultimately, a frustrated and a bitter Chappell will resign and left to wonder why did the BCCI select him and why did he take up the job.  

Settling Down

The talk turned to where should one settle down after retirement. Nowadays, whenever we were among our friends the talk almost inevitably turned to this question of settling down. Old people in mid-fifties, we were approaching the age of retirement from our jobs, the oldest among us is due to retire in two years my turn would come in five years. Children had grown up and were either already set in their respective jobs or would be settled by the time of our respective retirements. We are a tight bunch of four friends who came to the city from smaller towns many a year ago and through incidents now no longer well remembered, became friends. Our friendship survived our marriages primarily perhaps due to the bonds that our wives could build among themselves. I think the sense of insecurity of a small Towner that runs through in our subconscious is responsible for the kinship that we feel for each other.

By the inevitable rule of natural progression we had moved from one room tenement to owning either a house or a flat, thus the second of the three middle classes dream, that of owning a roof above your head, had been fulfilled. It is, perhaps a rule of natural progression in the life of a working class person that he first leaves his home in search of a job or in the chase of a dream, lands up in a different town or city, some times, even different country, marries, breeds children, builds a house and settles down, away from his place of birth, from his land of childhood memories and adolescent’s dream. All of us have travelled and completed landmarks of this progression. Thus, by conventional definition we are settled for spending a retired life in this very city. And yet, I find we are discussing among ourselves more and more about where to settle after retirement. What is it that still makes us feel that perhaps we are still not welcome in this city?

Behore Beckons

She was occupying the front seat of the bus. This was considered to be the best seat in the bus and usually reserved for special persons. Purnima realised that she qualified for the special status by virtue of the combination of her gender and education. In similar situation, while Andy, because of his age and slightly more aristocratic looks, might have been offered the seat, Subbu would have been completely ignored. Among the males, social status mattered more than education. Deciding the hierarchy among persons with similar social status was quite a complicated matter; who should get the precedence, the village pradhan or the brother-in-law of the bus owner? She had been travelling in the bus for nearly an hour, exchanging small talks with the driver every now and then. Suddenly she became aware that for sometime now they have been travelling on roads which had not a single pothole. As she looked out of the windshield she found a long stretch of smooth, beautifully carpeted road lying ahead. ‘The road here is very good’, she mildly observed. The driver shot a quick glance towards her and smiled, ‘Ji, maidum’, he replied and then added after a while, ‘this is a very special area, maidum.’ ‘What do you mean?’ Arre bhai, the road passes through the constituencies of a future peeum, the seeum and the adhayaksha of the assumbly. You follow, maidum?’ ‘Really! Then the area must be very rich.’ ‘Ji, maidum. Earlier, one major dacoity a month was common.’ ‘Not now?’ The driver pretended to concentrate on the traffic and did not reply immediately. Intrigued by his reaction Purnima felt curious and kept looking at him expecting an answer. Realising that it was useless to avoid he finally gave a broad smile and replied, ‘Now, maidum, we are not living in the times of Sholay. The Gabbar Singhs’ of today act only when they are told to strike.’ He fell silent again. Purnima too kept quiet. Though she felt that the driver wanted to say something more she thought it better to wait and not push him. They drove in silence, the bus was entering into a town the passengers were turning fidgety in their seats indicating that the bus station was near at hand. The driver looked up and spoke almost sotto voice, ‘Now only if any one of the three get upset the peace is broken.’ Along with other passengers, Purnima too got down from the bus. A glassful of tea would be welcome. She still retained her moffusil taste for tea, that is, tea leaves boiled in milk, sugar, ginger and cardamom. A friend of her had once remarked, ‘Purnima likes to drink chai, not tea.’ As she ambled towards the tea stall her eyes fell on a group of people nearby. They seemed to be agitated about something. Drawn by the possibility of some excitement more people were joining the group, which was turning into quite a crowd with the passengers of her bus also joining in. ‘Arre he is a very smart fellow, he manages to collect a crowd every day. Here, have some tea.’ The driver was standing next to her holding a glass of tea for her. She felt a little awkward accepting the tea but said nothing knowing fully well that she would feel even more awkward protesting, so she decided to buy some pakoras to go with the tea. ‘Is it?’ ‘Haan, just wait, you will soon see how he makes them buy his medicated churan. He can cast a spell with his words. I keep telling him, he is wasting his talent. He should join paultics, he is sure to become an emell-lay.’ ‘You think so’ ‘Haan, haan, why not. You see, it is like this, paultics is bijness. Buy-sell, buy-sell. You sell money buy votes, only some. For winning you sell many more things. Like you tell, vote me I will get you houses. So the voter dreams of a house and votes. You must know how to create that dream with your words. This fellow says buy my churun, all your problems with digestion will be gone. People listen, what he says makes them believe that none other than Dhanvantri is offering them the maha aushadh. They get carried away and then buy. And tell me, in this country who does not have some trouble or the other with digestion.’ He paused for a moment and then added slowly, ‘and maidum, in this country who does not need a house.’ ‘My god! How beautifully he has put it.’, Purnima thought to herself, 'these little surprises of life that’s what makes living so interesting.’ ‘He is a cunning fellow. He is.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Ji, maidum. But tell me maidum why does he sell at bus station and not at the railway station?’ Purnima was taken aback by the question, ‘Well . . . er . . . may be . . .um . . ., oh, I don’t know’ she surrendered with a nervous laugh. ‘I’ll tell you. One day this fellow comes and tells me, bade bhai, why don’t you halt the bus for half an hour. I say five minutes halt. Tell me maidum how can one halt a bus for five minutes after driving for two hours, aree bhai passengers will pee, drink water, take tea is it not? Our afsars! What do I say they are so dense. Anyway, I actually halt for fifteen minutes but tell five minutes. I say how long I halt what is that to you. If you halt longer I do more bijness, he says. I say more bijness? Why don’t you go to the railway sation for more bijeness? Then he tells at the railway station, people are in a hurry, either to board the train or get back to their home. No one waits. Here no one hurries, they like to stretch their legs, he tells. So I joke, why not one hour, more bijness. He is serious, he says no not one hour, when customers have more time they start to think and then they don’t buy. See, I told you he is a cunning fellow. Now he gives me twenty rupees and I halt for half an hour.’

***

Subhankar was now settled in his seat. He would have liked to take the window seat but when he arrived in the compartment he found that that seat had already been. Instead of three persons five persons were sitting on the seat. Sandwiched between two fellow passengers, one of them a fat middle aged lady smelling of garlic, sweat, body odour and hair oil, Subhankar was feeling squeezed in and uncomfortable. He decided to shift to air-conditioned coaches, the coach attendant demanded five hundred rupees to allot him a berth, after some haggling the matter was settled at one hundred rupees.

Paddie Paddington

A
s soon as Paddie woke up in the morning he was struck by the horrible truth: there won’t be any bed tea. It was always this way whenever his wife lapsed into one of her moods. Tea was a necessity, a dire necessity; without it he couldn’t have a good bowel movement. A few times he had tried making tea himself and bringing it to bed and drinking it, but that did not work. He had tried other remedies too. Nothing had helped. Without a satisfying shit he felt unclean. Even a prolonged cold water bath and an equally prolonged morning puja did not make him feel comfortable. He felt like a hypocrite, for he knew he wasn’t clean within and if God did not find that out, what good his prayers would be? One must have a clean bowel to have a clean mind in a clean body. Still he could not avoid sitting down for the puja lest God got angry. Prayer and meditation, however, still left him fidgety and cranky.
Arriving at his office, Paddie’s eyes travelled to his brass nameplate -- A. K. Padmanabham. The plate had not been polished during the weekend. This upset Paddie even further. He was possessive about his name and disliked it if someone misspelt or mispronounced it. Annandpetti Kumareshwaran Anantpadmanabham, his full name, had already been cut to Paddie long ago by his schoolmates as their north Indian tongues found Anantpadmanabham a twister. Anantpadmanabham did not like being called Paddie but the alternative offered was Andypandy, which was even worse. So Anant was dropped. Over the years Paddie had grown rather fond of his anglicised nickname; he thought it was quite lyrical and had added a mystique to his personality. Taking a last look at the brass plate Paddie decided to dash off a stiffly-worded memo to the head of the housekeeping division about the falling standards of cleanliness in the organisation.
Paddie started the day’s routine by going through the dak pad, the folder of incoming mails. He found it a good way to keep himself in touch with his readers since the pad would usually carry several letters to the editor. Paddie would go through each of those letters before marking them to various sub-editors with marginal notes about the action to be taken. The letter from Harihar’s mother was in the dak today. Reading it through Paddie shook his head in disgust and jabbed his finger on the buzzer. “Ask Subhankar to meet me,” he told the peon who entered the room.
“Good morning, sir.” It was Subhankar. A product of Delhi school and college, he was a handsome young fellow in his mid-twenties. Everyone thought highly of him: a smart person, who knew how to find his way when in a jam.
“Ah Subbu, good morning and howdy.”
“I want to learn something from you,” Paddie went on without waiting for an answer. “Can you fill me in on Harihar Navin. I am meeting someone in the evening and this thing is going to come up.”
Subbu was a taken aback a little, he had never heard the name and he was about to say as much when his natural inclination to smartness prompted him to say, “Not Harry Nevin, sir?”
“Subbu, you heard me,” Paddie said in a stern voice and then looked hard at Subbu. Subbu squirmed in his seat. Paddie made him feel nervous, for what reason he did not know. Of course, the man knew a lot about a whole lot of things. He was extremely good at his work, and nobody could fool Paddie easily. He was a hard taskmaster as well. But none of these bothered Subbu; something else did.
“Well…ahem…never heard of the name, sir.”
“I see.” Paddie extended the letter from Harihar's mother to him. “This might help.”
“Well?” Paddie said after Subbu had finished reading.
Subbu looked up at Paddie not knowing what kind of an answer was expected from him. He did not know which article the writer of the letter was referring to, he had not read it; as a matter fact he rarely read anything least of all the rival magazine. More importantly what did he have to do with some experiment with education taking place in some godforsaken place? An uncomfortable silence reigned while Paddie waited for an answer.
Paddie was obviously enjoying the situation. Although he did not share it with others his view was that Subbu was a callow young man lacking in substance. Subbu neither had the capacity nor the inclination to go beyond a superficial examination of an issue. While he had a good general knowledge which, along with his gift for articulation, made him an impressive speaker, ask him a probing question and he would fumble. Paddie thought Subbu tried to cover up his lack of knowledge by his “smartness”. Paddie pitied Subbu the ignoramus and hated Subbu the smart aleck. He was relishing Subbu’s discomfiture. The young man needed to learn a few things if he wanted to survive as a journalist, the first of which was hard work. Paddie was now feeling a little less fidgety.
“Well?” Paddie repeated the question, waited a little and added, “Why haven’t we covered it?”
“Sir.” In anyone else’s presence Subbu would have come out with some smart reply and gotten away with it, but Paddie’s penetrating gaze made him lose his confidence.
“Awright, we can still make amends. Collect every bit of information you can find on this Harihar Navin and get back to me this afternoon. Also find out who’s SR, get every detail about that person. I can tell that person is not from Delhi. You are leaving for this place . . . whatsit called?”
“Behore, sir.”
“Right, Behore. You are leaving tonight? I want a first hand report. Okay?”
“Yes, sir. I”ll get busy.”
“Yes, and remember it is a tough world, you can’t allow your competitor to be one up on you.’
S
ubbu was at the Press Club having his lunch. He liked the place. The food, heavily subsidised by the government, was unbelievably cheap. This must be the only place in the country, he thought, where a cup of tea could still be had for twenty-five paise. For someone like him who was always short of money the place was paradise. One had to be careful about where to sit though. An unwritten code of conduct divided the place between seniors and juniors, each to their own corner, and if one group strayed into the other it meant war, well almost. Then there were corners within corners. A certain table in the seniors’ corner was known as Nikhilda’s corner. Getting invited to that corner was a rare honour. Then there was the corner that belonged to the political correspondents, the Brahmins among the journalists. There was also the invisible divide between the vernacular journalists and the English language journalists. Subbu found that the latter were invariably snobs who never gave the time of the day to the regional language ‘fellas’. Everybody freely gossiped here. And fiercely. ‘Listen carefully to all the gossip,’ a senior had advised Subbu on his first day. ‘Frequently you will read them as scoops or news analysis.’ The gossip covered every subject on earth, and one hardly ever tried to hide the identity of the person being gossiped about. One never gossiped about their own profession and colleagues, that was the only principle one followed, dog never ate dog’s meat, right?
Subbu’s attention was drawn to the animated discussion taking place in the Hindi corner. He overheard the name Harihar Navin being dropped several times. His ears pricked up. Three persons sitting at a table were trying to convince a fourth that it wasn’t really their fault that they hadn’t published any of Harihar’s poems. The poems were immature outpourings of a fourteen-year-old. The fourth man did not seem to agree. He thought their ignorance was colossal, they had failed to recognise a genius, why was it always left to the angrejiwallahs to herald the arrival of a genius? Oh, the shame of it.  
“Look,” the senior person shook his head vehemently before pausing to gulp down the tea noisily, “after chayavad and mayavad and all that, we have had nothing in Hindi literature. It seems all those vads happened a century ago and since then Hindi poetry is stagnating. The big guns are either dead or past their prime, there is no new name nor any fresh experiments taking place. Tell me, do you see any new trend emerging? In the west every new generation produces a different style giving birth to a new genre. But here? Even the new generation mixes up creativity with copying the styles of their granddads. We have a responsibility to our language, to our literature. It is for us to discover new faces and not leave it to the angrejiwallahs. My friends, it is a tough world, you can’t let your enemy win.”
“What you are saying is right, but can one make a horse out of an ass?” the one with a thick moustache and bushy eyebrows asked.
“Yes, one can if he is a good touch artist.”  
“You mean a genius can be made, he needn’t be born?”
“Precisely.”  
“Sir, Basudev sir! How can you say that!”
“I say that because I’ve been in this field long enough to know how a word here and there can transform a poem from bad to brilliant. You see, it’s not only what you say but how you say it is important. Believe me…”
“….there has been a draught for a long time, everybody is pining for a monsoon. When Nature does not oblige what do you do? You call the rainmaker. A new poet, properly packaged, will take the market by storm. You must give your readers what they want. Right now they want to discover a genius. Give them that opportunity; let them feel as if they are a part of a discovery. Sell them the dream that they dream most about, that they have a potential Nobel Prize winner in their midst.” Basudev paused for breath. He was speaking to his chief editor, publisher and owner Hariom Agarwal. “Then you see…”
Hariom raised his hands indicating Basudev to stop.“Okay, I get you. What’s your proposal?”
Basudev’s face broke into a broad smile. He felt relieved. “I am sending Nirmal to Behore. We need a name and a face behind that name. Nirmal will meet Harihar, he will know how to handle Harihar, I’ll brief him on that. My boys and I will take care of the product. After the product is ready it will be left to you and your people for packaging and marketing it. Have faith in me, between you and me we are sure to have a winner.”
“Okay, go ahead. And keep me posted.”
“Thanks. You will have to allocate some budget for this project.”
“For now, you will have to manage from your own budget. When the product is ready I will give the matter my attention.’ With that Hariom went back to his work signalling the end of their discussion.
‘Damn the filthy, kanjoos bania. Tight-fisted maggot,’ muttered Basudev as he came out of Hariom’s room.
P
addie was feeling more his natural self. His meeting with Subbu had gone off well. May be he could go for a shit now but the need to take bath after that kept him back. He ordered for a cup of coffee to enjoy his moments. He again picked up the letter from Harihar’s mother and read it for the third time. His instinct said there was something more than the plain words of the letter suggested. He closed his eyes and tried to build a portrait of the letter writer. ‘Let me see. Mother of a teenager, a boy. Small town. Must be in her late thirties. A little plump? Perhaps, you never know these moffusil ladies, some of them manage to preserve a shapely figure even in their middle age, like his Shanta Tai. Does she wear jeans? Not important. The handwriting is bold and firm, that indicates a confident person. The t’s and the i’s are interesting. The t’s stand tall and erect which point towards an ambitious individual. The i’s have no loops, such a person is always sure about her objectives, she has a clear plan that she executes systematically and with perseverance. Paddie glanced at the name of the writer, Subhadra Rawat….Subhadra….Subhadra Rawat. SR. Hey, wait a minute. Was that also not the by name of that correspondent? Boy! Do we have the making of a thriller here, Paddie wondered. He was now convinced that the whole purpose of those reports and this letter was to promote this Harihar Navin. But, what was Subhadra’s interest in promoting Harihar. Usually men promote women, it was different in the present case. Well, Purnima must also travel to Behore, Paddie decided. This story needed a feminine angle as well as feminine instincts. With that he called Subbu’s to his room.
“Subbooo, have you found out about Harihar?”
“Yes sir, Harihar is….”
“That’s good. Well done. I have decided Purnima too should travel to Behore. She will explore the relationship between the correspondent, the letter writer and Harihar. You will do only Harihar. Booked your tickets?”
“Yes sir, there being no direct flight I will…”
“Well, hand over the tickets to Purnima. Let her travel by air, you take the train.”
“SIR….” Subbu’s voice rose in protest. Paddie stopped him in mid-sentence with a stern look. Subbu quickly checked his anger and fell silent.
“Your tickets will be delivered at your residence. You may go now.”
For the first time since morning Paddie felt completely at ease. Making Subbu travel by train in an ordinary sleeper coach was a masterstroke, he thought, ordering another cup of coffee.
That evening saw three persons headed for Behore: two by train, one by air. Behore was waiting for its fifteen minutes of fame.

Every Mule Has Its Day

The final Test is on, the teams have retired for tea on the first day, Australia is on the back foot, it looks they are set to lose this match and thus the series and the Ashes. Whether Australia wins or loses does not bother me nor the possibility of England’s victory leaves any impression in my mind. The only thing I am grateful about is the exciting cricket that we got to watch from time to time. It was a relief to see England playing positively and not deliberately trying to slow things down, something that they are very good at doing. No wonder spectators in England kept away from cricket. Many must still be remembering the countless number of people who kept confessing to the TV camera that they were not aware that England was hosting the World Cup, several among them did not even know that cricket had a world cup and all this a day prior to the start of 1999 World Cup! It was the same World Cup where Pakistan lost to Bangladesh and that match continues to be under investigation. Six years later, playing in England, Australia lost to Bangladesh but there are no whispers this time.  

English cricket will continue to show improvement for another two years. Give it to the English their tenacity. They are like the mule; short on brain but strong on persistence. They always had a well-networked domestic cricket structure that started at the school level in the villages and went all the way up, there were spotters, spotters-cum-coaches and coaches. At the grass root these were usually the schoolteacher or the ubiquitous postman who went around spotting talent, most of the time they found none as the children were busy playing football or rugby or some other interesting game, very few got attracted to cricket. However, they persisted in their work, someone spotted a Flintoff, another found Hoggard and someone else found a Harmison. To this pool were added the immigrants Strauss, Pieterson and the like. Incidentally, no one owns up as having spotted Giles, he strayed into the team and stayed on in the absence of a better alternative. These players are yet to peak, which is a good sign and that is why the performance of the team will continue to improve for another two years. The English players are not an intelligent lot, though. Look at their bowling, it is the same stuff bowl after bowl and over after over; you will never find them trying to get a batsman by out thinking him. Don’t blame them; it is all in the genes you see.

In characteristic braggadocio English players, fans, media and administrators have started to claim that the ten years belongs to England, good luck to them but there is a team called Pakistan and a captain named Inzamam-ul Haq.    

Save the Wicket Keepers

All of a sudden there is shortage of good wicket keepers in world cricket. Except for Adam Gilchrist and Tatenda Taibu there are no wicket keepers who are good enough to play international cricket. Fumbling with collections, dropping catches and missing stumpings are the order of the day. It wasn’t so not very long ago, every team, including weaker ones, had outstanding wicket keepers in their side. The man responsible for the present state of affairs is Adam Gilchrist.

Before the arrival of Adam Gilchrist the team expected its wicket keepers to keep wickets only. Gilchrist has changed all that, now wicket keepers are expected to be accomplished batsman as well. If you look at the career averages of wicket keepers of the earlier periods you will notice their batting averages to be in the range of mid twenties to mid thirties. Mid twenties was considered fair enough and mid thirties as outstanding. Not any more, everyone is now looking for a wicket with Adam’s average. Nothing wrong in that, after all look at the difference that Gilchrist’s has made to the performance and fortune of the Australian team. The problem arises in the failure to realise that Gilchrist’s is a special talent, a person with exceptional gift such cricketers cannot be produced or groomed they have to be born.

Both batting and wicket keeping are special skill jobs that need hours and hours of practice and hard work to attain perfection. Just as among allrounders you wouldn’t find some one who can bowl as brilliantly as Anil Kumbhle as well as bat like Sachin Tendulkar, one is either a bowling all rounder or a batting all rounder. So it is among wicket keepers, one can have either a brilliant wicket keeper and a mediocre batsman (as most wicket keepers earlier were) or brilliant batsman and mediocre wicket keeper (cf. Rahul Dravid).

Though wicket keepers are taken into the team on the basis of their wicket keeping but soon enough pressure builds upon the hapless chap to be like Adam Gilchrist. The horrible part is that the pressure comes from all corners, the media, team, selectors and cricket fans as well. As a result the person starts spending more time on improving his batting and neglecting his core competence, in the bargain he remains neither a test class wicket keeper nor a test class batsman. It happened with Deep Dasgupta and Parthiv Patel and is currently happening with Dinesh Karthik, Macuulam and Geriant Jones.

To save the vanishing tribe of wicket keepers we need to bring our expectations down to more realistic level.

England's Ashes win is bad news for India

England's Ashes win is bad news for India. A safer word would have been performance in place of win, because one more Test is yet to go, but I don’t think Australia is going to win that Test. Even if Australia wins, it is not going to alter what I have to say about why victory for England is bad news for India. My views have got nothing to do with cricket because a victory in the Ashes series does not guarantee a series win against India (ask Ray Illingworth) India still is a formidable team under home conditions. Moreover, England has already committed the blunder that other cricketing nations do not commit anymore. England play both against Pakistan and India during the winter; since England play Pakistan first India will have the advantage of playing an already tired or tiring team.

When it comes to tour of the Indian sub-continent, England is the champion whiners. Its amazing the number of things they find to whine about; heat, sun, dust, crowd, playing conditions, ground conditions, practice pitches, test wickets, match scheduling, hotels, transport, toilets, tissues, water, cutleries, Sachin Tendulkar, Sourav Ganguly, Harbhajan Singh, Ashley Giles, bananas, guavas, oranges, sight screens and on and on goes the regular staple list of things to whine about. Be sure every hack accompanying the team, every member of the team, every visitor from that country coming to watch cricket and all the others and sundries are sure to find a cockroach in their soup, (amazingly the cockroach is always found in the soup and not in any other food), in the kitchen (amazing again why every one of them needs to raid the kitchen at the dead of night, are they habitual freeloaders? Members of Spot the Cockroach Club) and in their hair.

The Ashes victory is going to bring out in full bloom the haughty, supercilious, conceited, puffed up nature of the British behaviour. Even if England beats India, which they might for at the end of the day they are a good team at the moment, Indian crowd will find it very difficult to respect the team. Flintoff, Pieterson and Harmison can still build up fan following though.

That is why England's Ashes win is bad news for India. A boorish England (and sulking as well, if they start losing early) is going to spoil all the fun of a full cricketing season. How sad.    

Getting to watch Test cricket was not easy

Getting to watch Test cricket was not easy. Kanpur was the nearest Test centre, although almost every year a Test was staged at that venue, for a pre-teen non-Kanpuri it always remained a dream. Travelling alone or with a group of friends to a different city and that too for six days (there used to be a 'rest day' after either two or three days of play) was beyond question, to venture even beyond the borders of the mohalla one had to be accompanied by an elder. Girls couldn’t do that even, their boundary was set up to the next-door neighbour.  Apart from my mother no one else was interested in cricket; so my desire to watch Test remained an unfulfilled dream.

Mukesh was luckier; his elder brother Girish bhaisahab was an avid cricket fan. For a week after the Test, Mukesh would be 'the big guy'. We would surround him the moment he landed in his home, pester him, cajole him, question him to get out from him every bit of details about the match, the players, the ground and sometime even about the umpires. For sometime thereafter Mukesh would appoint himself as our coach and try to correct our stance at the crease or bowling actions. Once, after watching Subhas Gupte (or was it Balu Gupte?) he tried to teach me to bowl googly.

When we were in the primary school Girish bhaisahab was in class 10th or 12th by the time we were in the middle school Girish bhaisahab was in class 10th or 12th. Actually, we were never sure which exam he was due to take. I never saw him playing cricket not even for some idle moments of fun. He preferred umpiring. Every match that was played on our school field be that between our college team and another or between two teams from the primary section, Girish bhaisahab used to be the umpire. We had great respect for him and sincerely believed that he knew by heart every line of the rulebook. In the eyes of us children Girish bhaisahab became a legend for another reason. He fell in love Muktadi, his neighbour. Unfortunately they belonged to different castes and both parents were determined not to let them marry. One day Muktadi's father thrashed Girish bhaisahab mercilessly and got Muktadi married off within a few days. After coming out of the hospital Girish bhaisahab father set up a stationery shop for him which Girish bhaisahab cared very little about and left it to Mukesh. Girish bhaisahab never married and never went to Kanpur to watch a Test.    

I got hooked to cricket when I was a six year old ...

I got hooked to cricket when I was a six-year-old kid. My eldest sister was on her annual visit from her in laws home and she bought me full set of cricketing gear. It was an exciting year, Ray Lindwal was creating terror, Pankaj Roy got out for 99 in one of the Test and I with my cricketing gear was a leader among my friends, sort of. I have had no prior exposure to cricket but seen my mother listening to cricket commentary on the radio with great interest, Vizzy, Phadkar, Berry Sarbadhikari, Surita Pearson and Amarnath were some of the familiar names of commentators. In those days one didn’t have to be a former player to be a commentator. My mother talked with great reverence and nostalgia about Merchant, Hazare, Phadkar, Mushtaq Ali and others. Listening to mother I figured them in my mind as giants and conquerors. It was fun listening to the commentary along with mother, though for most part I couldn’t follow what was being talked about. At times noticing my perplexed expression mother would try and explain to me. Radio in those days occupied the pride of place in the household, more than ever TV would many years from them. We had a Murphy multi wave radio, which I claimed as my own (and continue to do so even now) because the set was purchased on the day I was born! The radio was set on a square table with curved legs. Ma had crocheted several covers for the radio and a few a tablecloths for the table as well. A chair with round arms and back was placed before the radio. Ma preferred listening to the commentary with her eyes closed and legs stretched out, perhaps visualising the in her mind the game that was on. Come to think of it I never asked my mother whether she had ever watched a Test match or not but the roar of the crowd and the excited description by the commentators must have helped her in imagining the atmosphere. Of course, I never made it big in cricket. About that some other time, perhaps.