Picture courtesy my friend Jyoti Mishra, who helped make the page look more interesting. That's the pretty Jyoti and her daughter Shagun
It isn’t often that god comes to bat at number 2 for India, and shows one billion plus people (holding their collective bad breath) that he has a scratchy, nervous human side too. Not once, not twice, but six times (four dropped catches and two LBW appeals, wasn’t it?). But then there has been some magic in the air this week and those of us with the colour blue waving madly from our hearts are hoping it will stay and do its job today. The 2011 ICC World Cup has generated a madness seldom seen before. 2 pm today, it reaches its glorious nadir.
Was Minister Malik calling up the guys in green at Chandigarh with a menacing: “I’m watching you” earlier this week? (It didn’t help, though, did it!) Was Dawood downloading “dallars” into secret accounts, as some cynics insisted? Were we watching cricketers or just darn good actors on the field of Mohali? We don’t know. And, fact is, we don’t care. For the time being (and till the last ball meets willow bat today) the world for us Indians (with the Tricolour unfurling from painted cheeks) has simply shrunk into the precincts of a stadium – it was Mohali on Wednesday, Wankhede today.
It is time once again for time to stop. No, the birds won’t stop singing, the wind won’t stop blowing, tsunamis will not halt in their track; but yes, radiation threats will not matter anymore. Phones will stop ringing, SMSs will stop coming, roads shall empty of all traffic, kids will abandon their PSPs, offices will get deserted and nobody shall be pinging anybody, even on Facebook chat.
What we shall witness is the power of cricket, at its most awesome. Every Indian and her grandmother has an opinion on what Dhoni has to do. At Mohali, he had to bat first before the dew factor turned the game, in Mumbai today, we shall be deciding closer to 2 pm. The entire country and all our brethren who have migrated to foreign lands know that we cannot afford to take our eyes off the ball for even a second (even on television screens). Otherwise it will just go stumping out a wrong wicket. Too much is at stake. We have a cup to bring home. So we’ll be staying home today, closeted in with friends and family. Glued to the plasma TV, ordering butter chicken and Chinese, we will be shouting ourselves hoarse and drinking ourselves silly to combat the tension.
For fat ladies with flowery hats and plump cheeks sitting in hot stadia, for little boys who forgot to take fingers out of itchy noses and for teenage girls who don’t want to look at Aamir Khan’s new handlebar moustache but rather Ashish Nehra’s crooked teeth: it is D day. All that matters is cricket, all that we can hear is the sound of bat meeting ball and the roar of excitement sweeping across stands and sitting rooms.
We have just returned breathless from a rollercoaster ride of high emotion. We have fallen in love with Sehwag’s swashbuckling style, we have envied the grit in Abdul Razak’s stance, we have been frightened by the madness in Shahid Afridi’s deep brown eyes. And yes, we have returned from the dead when Sachin was declared out right in the beginning of the Mohali match, and then saved. The world cup fever has done more than tweak emotions in our lives. It has reduced (no, lifted) us from lowly mortal entities - with 9 to 5 jobs, families to take care of, homes to build and children’s education loans to pay off - into higher more evolved beings who are so meditatively into eating, drinking and breathing cricket that we have almost touched nirvana.
We have bought India hats from department store, we have coloured our faces saffron, green and white, we have been waving the National Flag in stadia and at home and we have learnt to scream “chakka laga” at the top of our voices. Yes, we have lost our marbles but we don’t care, do we? Balls are what matter more today (no pun intended). We are waiting breathlessly with rolled up sleeves for the stadium gates of Wankhede to be thrown open. We are ready to spit into our hands, tighten our grip and take on the first ball. We are ready to stop breathing. And why not! It is our time for a tryst with destiny once again. Jeetega bhai jeetega…..
Jeetega, bhai jeetega: we shall win brother; chakka laga: give us a sixer
A version of this article has appeared in the Deccan Herald
Was Minister Malik calling up the guys in green at Chandigarh with a menacing: “I’m watching you” earlier this week? (It didn’t help, though, did it!) Was Dawood downloading “dallars” into secret accounts, as some cynics insisted? Were we watching cricketers or just darn good actors on the field of Mohali? We don’t know. And, fact is, we don’t care. For the time being (and till the last ball meets willow bat today) the world for us Indians (with the Tricolour unfurling from painted cheeks) has simply shrunk into the precincts of a stadium – it was Mohali on Wednesday, Wankhede today.
It is time once again for time to stop. No, the birds won’t stop singing, the wind won’t stop blowing, tsunamis will not halt in their track; but yes, radiation threats will not matter anymore. Phones will stop ringing, SMSs will stop coming, roads shall empty of all traffic, kids will abandon their PSPs, offices will get deserted and nobody shall be pinging anybody, even on Facebook chat.
What we shall witness is the power of cricket, at its most awesome. Every Indian and her grandmother has an opinion on what Dhoni has to do. At Mohali, he had to bat first before the dew factor turned the game, in Mumbai today, we shall be deciding closer to 2 pm. The entire country and all our brethren who have migrated to foreign lands know that we cannot afford to take our eyes off the ball for even a second (even on television screens). Otherwise it will just go stumping out a wrong wicket. Too much is at stake. We have a cup to bring home. So we’ll be staying home today, closeted in with friends and family. Glued to the plasma TV, ordering butter chicken and Chinese, we will be shouting ourselves hoarse and drinking ourselves silly to combat the tension.
For fat ladies with flowery hats and plump cheeks sitting in hot stadia, for little boys who forgot to take fingers out of itchy noses and for teenage girls who don’t want to look at Aamir Khan’s new handlebar moustache but rather Ashish Nehra’s crooked teeth: it is D day. All that matters is cricket, all that we can hear is the sound of bat meeting ball and the roar of excitement sweeping across stands and sitting rooms.
We have just returned breathless from a rollercoaster ride of high emotion. We have fallen in love with Sehwag’s swashbuckling style, we have envied the grit in Abdul Razak’s stance, we have been frightened by the madness in Shahid Afridi’s deep brown eyes. And yes, we have returned from the dead when Sachin was declared out right in the beginning of the Mohali match, and then saved. The world cup fever has done more than tweak emotions in our lives. It has reduced (no, lifted) us from lowly mortal entities - with 9 to 5 jobs, families to take care of, homes to build and children’s education loans to pay off - into higher more evolved beings who are so meditatively into eating, drinking and breathing cricket that we have almost touched nirvana.
We have bought India hats from department store, we have coloured our faces saffron, green and white, we have been waving the National Flag in stadia and at home and we have learnt to scream “chakka laga” at the top of our voices. Yes, we have lost our marbles but we don’t care, do we? Balls are what matter more today (no pun intended). We are waiting breathlessly with rolled up sleeves for the stadium gates of Wankhede to be thrown open. We are ready to spit into our hands, tighten our grip and take on the first ball. We are ready to stop breathing. And why not! It is our time for a tryst with destiny once again. Jeetega bhai jeetega…..
Jeetega, bhai jeetega: we shall win brother; chakka laga: give us a sixer
A version of this article has appeared in the Deccan Herald
RSS Feed
