The Greg Chappell Foundation Cricket Match

I smelt my way to this game. There was a smell of burning dead rubber.

The sun was going down, as was any sense of fair play.

The pitch was longer than I recalled. It was muddier, not even a blade of 7 o’ clock grass. The fielders were murky, far off, on either long on or long off.

I was still at a second slip, not that I was fielding.

Then this guy jogs in a few paces to bowl. Why, I will never know.

So, he jogs in, and then underarms the ball.

Somewhere else, Sehwag bites away at Greg Chappell. Why, I will never know.

Maybe he is naïve. Maybe he is meant to say stuff. Will he be gagged, I doubt it.

Sehwag, every now and then, when you least expect, shoots his mouth. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. Or was this BCCI’s ventriloquist act?

Back to the game: That underarm ball.

The batsman, before delivery was already half way down the pitch.

It doesn’t matter. That flat-liner of a ball is a dead loss.

To make good contact, get elevation, he’ll need to hit it out of the bowler’s hand.

I’m asking the huddle around the tree wicket, is this a surrah (under-arm ball) match? It is. Three overs each. Wait until dark. And play the Greg Chappell Foundation match.

Before that, it’s Ricky’s number – they play for money. Ten bucks a guy.

The game gets over. I playact like some cricket hobo, starved for strike.

Make him bowl round arm. One more, boy! C’mon, one more, boy.

And they’re about to start the GC-Ricky match now – underarm money.

I produce a camera. They produce a spectacle. Straight out of Lord of the flies.

Abusing each other’s mothers, sisters and grabbing at each other for some camera space.

I look forward to play with these guys tomorrow.

Will head out with ten bucks. But leave my manners behind.




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MO-HA-LI is calling moi

MO-HA-LI is calling
With the lights wide open
And the nights wide open
MO-HA-LI is calling moi

On the edge of
some desert western town
is the town's pride

MO-HA-LI is calling
On the edge of the fourth day

On the edge of some western town
is the Town's Pride hotel
so close to gate no. 5
that old man can walk right in

be in before the gates are open
and the lights are off
just to stand in the centre
like some old baseball pro
soak it in, soak it in

MO-HA-LI is calling
on the edge of the fourth day
MO-HA-LI is calling moi
you better go boy
you better go boy

Can't take no for an answer
drive in that yellow new mitsubushi lancer

And the road winds around
And the eyes round around

You get a first sighter
on the edge of town
You get a first sighter
On the edge of the fourth day

there is nothing to play for
there is so much to play for
the win already happened
the win never happened

MO-HA-LI MO-HA-LI is calling moi

And i soar above my seat
like a wave from M0-HI-CO

MO-HA-LI is calling moi


(written on victory eve; to be performed by Youssou N'Dour, ideally)

Delhi in my belly!

Delhi in my belly!

“Next time you buy free tickets, take me also!”

That’s Vasudev, who turned seven in March, and an IPL backer in April.

I had every intention of taking him for Delhi Daredevils’ first game at the Feroz Shah Kotla.

Fact is, I had every intention of taking a lot of people.

One guy backed out because he was watching soccer.

Others were either babysitting their kids or their wife’s guests.

Guess both take a lot of handling, and don’t come naturally to men.

Both cause a lot of men to miss a lot of games.

But not the guy who made it: he didn’t have any kids. He didn’t have any wife’s guests. Heck, he didn’t have any wife. Not yet.

Fits that his company is called Happily Unmarried then?

Anyway, the reason for inviting him was somewhat selfish. The three T20 games we had watched together (2 vs. Pak and 1 vs. Oz in the World Cup), we won. And the solitary T20 thrashing in Australia, we watched in isolation.

I assumed with master Happily Unmarried as company, the Delhi Daredevils would win too. I hadn’t realised that in the Rajasthan Royals, the IPL had the perfect ingredient for a successful tournament: a minnow.

First, everybody will bash the Royal’s up, and then almost Bangladesh like, they will upset all equations by beating the best team (as in the South Africa or chokers of the tournament). Imagine the surprise when Rajasthan Royals beat Kolkata Knight Riders. Where will Shah Rukh Khan and his wonderfully gifted entourage hide?

I looked for a red ‘n’ black tee. Not quite Delhi Daredevil gear; but then, I wasn’t prepared to invest in them as yet.

Of course that changed once I put on my red ’n’ black tee. I had taken the colour- combo oath – the full import of which kicks in when you’re on the ground. With McGrath, Sehwag and Vettori in the same colours.

They are one of you. You are one of them. It feels just fine. Put on a show for me - beat the hell out of royalty. Power to the masses!

But it’s a little more complicated. How do you reason Kaif being knocked over by a firang? Do you still think, a bad T20 club performance can effect his test chances? Or say, if Raina rocks, will he enhance his India chances?

Once the game starts though, you abandon all that muddled thought. You are sucked in by the partisan crowd, hell, you become the partisan crowd. You enjoy, for once, being just a face in the crowd. Being invisible in a metaphorical sea of red ‘n’ black. The red-black sea, eh?

The high point of the game is much delayed. It’s when Delhi’s icon player, Virender Sehwag takes strike – and blasts one straight over mid on. You realise, if you hadn’t before, you’re in Delhi. And Sehwag is Delhi, as Tendulkar is Mumbai, Ganguly is Calcutta, and Laxman is Hyderabad. Never mind about M.S. Dhoni and Shane Warne. They are something too: mercenaries?

Three balls and two more fours later Sehwag is out. Frankly felt like walking out then. But then, you don’t walk out on your team. No matter what.

So, I stuck it out. And though Delhi won handsomely, or rather, Rajasthan lost ugly, it wasn’t a great game to watch.

But then, when you watch 9 out of 10 games, prepare for the odd heartbreak, even when you win.

Later, long after the game, way past midnight, the Rajasthan Royal’s team bus was blocked off by an errant Delhiwallah’s badly parked car. After a bad evening, the Royals were now having a worse night.

Looks like we Delhiwallahs sure like to rub it in.

Kurta Cricket.

Instead of the green tussar kurta, the drycleaners handed me seasons’ tickets for the Feroze Shah Kotla test match. It’s not for nothing they’re called Jolly drycleaners. Gagan of Jolly fame said it was to make up for the Mohali game lapse. Just as well, we lost that one. Meanwhile, I forgot all about the missing kurta.

By now Day 3 was down ‘n’ dusted – and in all likelihood Day 4 would reveal who got busted. If ever there was a day to watch test cricket it was this - more so in hindsight.

Up earlier than usual, which isn’t saying much, I drove down Delhi like a Jedi. Once within striking distance of the Kotla, I was amazed to find big yawning empty spaces and a highly legible sign that read, “Free Parking, Pick Up & Drop”. Equally amazed to shell out 30 bucks for Free parking. Was informed that free parking and pick up was round the bend. “I’m not going round the bend.” Meanwhile a cop pasted a yellow florescent sticker that validated my purpose – Vehicle checked no. DL3CQ 3391, 1st cricket test cricket match, 25th November, 2007. Sign: Omkara or something like that.

Many checkpoints and body searches later, I started my final ascent. There’s something magical about the moment you make first contact with the greens – just like after you meander through countless dark gullies in Benaras to reach that pre-climatic point –when you see the light, literally, at the end – when you take that final step, and the Ganges swells through your senses. Yeah, it’s something like that – with equally purgative prowess.

I stood there soaking in the Kotla like a sentinel. I could not bring myself to sit. Even my slack sinuses couldn’t dampen the sensation. If anything, they made it even more psychedelic. And no, I wasn’t on any prescription drugs. I was plain high - on top of the lower level of the West Stand. My gaze accumulated parts, bit by bit, and then pulled it all together – appeared it had been far too long inside a cricket stadium. But then, it always is.

By the time Misbah-ul-haq met his maker, I was in well-informed company, always a bonus while watching cricket. Though the stray comment of, “is that Sehwag fielding?” – “No, Sehwag is not in the team” delight me as much as a pundit’s take on Misbah’s natural instincts as a dasher. Not to forget an announcement that later declared, “To win India has to score…the remaining runs”

When India started to noose Pakistan, the mood around became hysterical. And when Tendulkar came into bat, it was as if the Bastille was being stormed all over again. Guttural shouts proclaimed India’s supremacy in the most unimaginative ways – funny, when the going’s good how anything sounds swell. Chak De played during breaks, between breaks, and long after the game was over.

Kotla was Rome. We were the crowds and the emperor rolled into one. The thumbs were up for Sachin, down for Pak. Sachin Tendulkar was the Gladiator - Possessed by the frenzy that made him nearly play one short too many. But it’s incredible how a leave can reinstate status quo more than public announcements urging restraint.

A few leaves later, it was 4:30 pm again, light meters out - and play called for the day. But it was the kind of day, you’ll probably revisit again and again. Like Chak De, like the hack hip-hip hurrahs.

On my return to the car park, I learnt that free parking indeed was free. Rs 30 were reimbursed to me, sans a smile. On the fifth day, India won. And the missing green tussar kurta resurfaced. At home, I might add.

Radio Gaga!

No two ways about it: I favour the spoken word over the written one. And given a chance I would have articulated myself here in ‘talk’ rather than ‘write’. Almost like www.cricinfo.com where you have options to both listen and read. My guess is Ian Chappell has his analysis taped first, and then his flunky jots it down on a PC. And don’t we all know how the Chappells love to talk.

Anyway, I’m no different. At 4 pm when All India Radio (A.I.R.) buzzed me to drop by and yap about the Indian team selection, I swiftly swung into action. But breaking news on the channels wasn’t exactly path breaking – pretty much the same scrolls, with the same fifteen names. What next? Get on to the aforementioned website and lap up everybody’s take. Not a bad idea, ol’ sport!

Made my notes. Simon says became Dravid says – “key 6-7 players, specific roles, not manage but Smart”…and so on. And yeah, no Powar! Sehwag’s in. Kaif’s out. Kumble’s in. Raina’s out. The stuff that will keep a nation busy if WC 07 goes down the toilet. Ok, we’re done. Time to go.

Wait, need to gargle – don’t want my voice all cracked up while we’re Kaif-ing away about the fielding lacks. But then radio’s pluses far outweigh the minuses - no makeup, no blinding lights, and you can dress real sloppy and nobody will notice. I swapped my faded tracks for faded jeans. Now it really was time to go.

I was at the A.I.R. Gate No. 1. Bang opposite the glorious RBI Bank babes’ statues. As I peered through the gate, the fatalistic last RDB-Radio station scene flashed through my head. And just then, the guard swung open the gate – he’d been tipped off to allow car no. 3391 in. Yeah, that sure felt good. Entry into a ‘No Entry’ area.

So, here I was at the reception area replete with antiquated radios; another world really, before we got gaga over CDs. Made a mental note to take the old Philips warhorse out. And then a wait in the VIP area; liked that, specially the sign that read V.I.P room. Also, I was alone there. Assumed I was the only V.I.P. in all of A.I.R. But then, it was 6 pm.

Contract signed, we were cracking ready. Sports’ journo, Rajaraman and I were going to talk team selection, first in Hindi, then in English. The studio was not what I expected – as there were no visible mikes. The mike was undercover, literally – hidden well within the table.

Beyond the corner glass wall, the producer gave me the go-ahead. And while we rambled on about Dravid, Pathan and Powar, I made a few keen observations – 1) How sports’ fanatics can rattle off a team of fifteen players with similar calm and devotion as the Gayatri Mantra. 2) How certain names are spoken in tandem – like Kaif and Raina, Harbhajan and Kumble, Saurav and Sachin, Chappell and Dravid; while others like Pathan and Powar are uttered in isolation - How one’s selection and the other’s omission were going to be hot topics. 4) How, if you follow the game sincerely, chances are, you will have the trappings of a selector sans zonal bias. 5) And how, talking about cricket, be it on radio, TV, the moon, or here, is always delightful. Like Raj said, “it’s like a living room conversation.” And I think, you can take cricket out of the living room; but you can never take the living room out of cricket. For the armchair critic, there’s nothing more relaxing. Therapeutic almost.

That it sure was. 10 minutes in Hindi wrapped, we dived into 15 of English. After which, we walked to our cars, still talking about the team. The selection was done. The show was over. But we weren’t through yet. When we said our goodbyes, the soundbytes of V.V.S. Laxman were still abuzz in my ears. When I drove out, I started calculating the possible eleven from the fifteen. It struck me: I was saying the names aloud. And must resemble some freak from that T.V. show, “Motormouth”. That however didn’t deter me from name-calling.