The Heart of a Goof

Disclaimer: This is the 4th in the series of 'Cinthol's Alive is Awesome Campaign'. This post is dedicated to the literary genius that was PG Wodehouse and it's an attempt to present the story as the man did in his book , 'The Heart of a Goof'. A lovely book, you should read it sometime.

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I watched them, the two as they came into the pub, laughing and holding hands just as all those who are mad in love do.  He cracked a small joke, and she laughed again, almost resting her forehead on his shoulder. Dear puppy love.

“They weren’t always like that” a voice suggested from a somewhat south westerly direction.
 “They weren’t?” I questioned turning obediently to my south west and facing a rather venerable looking gentleman.

“She wouldn’t even as much as look at Robert once upon a time.  But err why don’t you hop over to my table, son, and I’ll tell you the tale right from the beginning?” said he, and his eyes shone, as he contemplated the various angles and dash he would add to the story, to impress his listener. 
“I should?” It was more a question to myself, than to him.

“But of course, one must always spread the tale of love”, he cooed.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be alright if we could do this spreading business tomorrow”, I was quite desperate now, but it didn’t look good for me.  “I have to be in some place in fifteen minutes.”

“It’ll but be over in a moment, done with and sent to the cleaners in a jiffy, perhaps even an iffy.”
“An iffy?”
“A small jiffy. Now come, be a sport.”

You can’t say no to a man who says he’ll end his story in an iffy and so I journeyed from my table to his, and sat down, feeling  as bright as a man who had just been condemned to the gallows.  He raised his cup of coffee to his lips and dramatically swallowed all that remained inside.  And then, he commenced on the tale of Robert Pinto, coffee droplets sitting rich on his mustache.

As a sixteen year old, Robert Pinto was just a good student. He could have had been an ace, but then they’d have to remove the first eighteen position holders of his class. He liked to draw, but not in art class, only in the back of his notebook.  He liked to sing, but when he did, it was akin to the sound that an ostrich mother makes during childbirth.

Not that he was much bothered by the lack of any skill in the aforementioned fields. Robert was at heart, a cricketer. He loved the game so much that every time his mother asked him to get dressed, he would rush up to him room and come out in his whites. That she sent him right back and forced him to change just tells us that not everyone is blessed with good taste like Robert.  When his family would talk of the bible, and how life started with Adam and Eve at Eden, he would get transported not to that orchard of poisonous apples, but to the delectable field in Kolkata, manicured and green. So strong was his imagination that he believed he could smell the fresh paint on the stadium chairs but that might as well have been the smell of potatoes that his mother had just dumped onto his plate.  That Robert loved cricket, nobody could doubt.

But there were two things bothering him that day. Lisa Mathew, and the lack of any batting form. While the latter is the devil that creeps into every batsman’s game at some point or time or the other and renders them mad till that day when they hit that perfect cover drive, Lisa was altogether a different proposition.

 Officially, she was just the prettiest girl in Robert’s school and the various profound lists drawn up by boys, such as the ‘Top Ten beautiful girls in our class’, would vouch for that. But what is math, when we can put it in words. Lisa was, and we must draw a deep breath when we mention her name, as lovely as lovely could possibly be. She could have easily been a princess, but only if her father was a king instead of an accountant. When she walked into the classroom, boys were ready to happily lie down on the floor only so that her feet wouldn’t have to touch the dirty earth. They would have readily fed her lunch from their tiffin boxes every day of the year and all years to come, if only they did not have to run out and play cricket during break.

And dear Robert, well he loved Lisa with everything in his heart. Loved her more than he loved himself, more than he loved the whole world, and almost half as much as he loved his bat.

“Half as much as his bat? That’s huge. He must have loved her a lot” I interrupted. The old man nodded, and continued.

Well, Robert chose well, especially because Lisa knew the difference between third man and square drive. Her father had been a wicketkeeper for his university and little Lisa had picked up the game from those genes. She wasn’t just pretty, she was the best batswoman in the school. As I said, Robert had good taste.

 “So what was the problem” I said, with the impatience of a man who cannot wait for the suspense to unfold. The old man would have smiled at that, but he had just brushed his mustache and having spotted those drops of coffee now on his shirt, he just shook his head.

The problem? Well, while Robert saw her face in the bedroom ceiling when he slept, saw her in the bathroom mirror when he brushed and the back pages of his notebook when he drew, Lisa was quite unaware of the power she exerted on our fellow.  She would not have even known of his existence, had he not been part of the school cricket team.  Not that she cared for the boy’s team much, her own team kept her busy, but the men had just won the finals of the school competition and Naveen Silva had become the talk of the town.

“Naveen Silva?

“The boy’s team captain. The most good looking boy in school and probably the whole town. His was the first boy voice to break in class when they were in seventh grade. His hair was wavy and smooth like a film star’s. In comparison, Robert’s hair felt like burnt hay.

“Burnt hay, eh?” I suddenly felt sad for Robert.

“It gets worse. Naveen had just scored a hundred in the finals, and had immediately become the most eligible bachelor in school.  Nobody cared that they dropped three catches of him. Three. Can you believe that?” the old man was getting quite upset now.

“Yes, you can’t win a game if you drop someone thrice. Urm anyway, what happened then?”

Well, the entire batch decided to go out over the weekend to celebrate. A camping trip besides a river.

When they reached there, there was music and food, tents and bornfires.  Lisa sat with Naveen and he told her how he had told the bowler he would hit him for a six straight down the ground, and he had. Lisa gushed, and Naveen said she was pretty. Everyone was happy, except for Robert.

“Yes, it feels terrible when you like someone and they are busy occupied liking someone else”

Not just that, he was upset about getting out on zero, too. Between you and me, I do not know what upset him more, the girl or the dismissal, but for his sake I hope it was his batting.  He got out on a full toss, you know.

“What happened then?”

They all sat near the river,  some kicking the water with their feet, some splashing water on others.  And then came Naveen, taking off his shirt and entering the water, his body glistening. Spotting Lisa on a rock, he flexed his muscles a little more and she smiled. “Pass me the soap will you?” he ordered one of this cronies and they passed it to him obediently.

“Don’t throw the wrapper in the river” came a cry. It was Lisa. Naveen just laughed and having chucked the package, continued with his bath.  Neither did he look too bothered when Lisa icily told him that what he had done was not very environment friendly.

"Not cricket, I should say", I was quite peeved at this Silva fellow's behaviour.

It is during these same moments that Robert had entered the water, hoping the water would take away some of his sadness. Seeing Lisa perturbed in the manner she was, he scanned the water for the packet. There it was, that yellow thing, floating away as fast as it could. But what can a packet do, when its at battle with a man in love. In swift, quick strokes Robert chased  it and having captured it, sped back to shore.

“You got that back because I said so?” Lisa said, and I am not sure if she was more moved or shocked or even pleased for the matter.  When Robert nodded, she felt this strange knot in her stomach. Was it because he smelt nice or was it something more.  Couldn’t be his hair, why did it look like hay. Nice hay, but.  Lisa could not quite understand why she was feeling the way she was.

With my experience in these matters, son, I think she felt special because she could not remember the last time someone had done something so selflessly for her.  Of course if you don’t count Hrishikesh Kanitkar hitting that last ball boundary to get India a win over Pakistan. But that joy she had had to share with the whole country, while this was hers, hers alone. In a movement that shocked Robert, the school and the sparrow that was cooing on the tree above, she stepped forward and gave Robert a big hug, and the packet fell out of his hand again. Thankfully, not into the water. Cinthol it was, I remember, because I was watching the Alive is Awesome Campaign the other day, and Robert said that if not for that, things could have been so different.

“You smell nice and lemony” she said to him, when they eventually stopped hugging. 

“Haha, and then?” I asked.

Well, they have been together ever since.  And Robert, he never has missed hitting a full toss ball again. 

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You can read the other parts of the "Cinthol AIA campaign here,

A Night Adventure with a Croatian Backpacker

The Merry Adventures of Hector Narayanan

An Andamanese Affair

A short story on love

Disclaimer: Once upon a time the author wanted to be be a writer for cricinfo.com, the leading cricket website in the world. And fuelled by optimism, he sent them across his credentials. Below is the text of that orginal cover letter. Yes, just after this neat line made of a lot of neat dashes.

                                      

                                        --------------- beginning of cover letter ---------------

‘You can know more about a person in an hour’s play than a year of conversation’

Right from that handsome age of nine when he first watched Sachin and Co crumble at the World Cup ’92, Neeraj Narayanan knew that he was destined to pursue a career in cricket. His conviction received further strength when he won every single match in his home ground, rather the house car park, against his sister. Since his neighbourhood only had bullies who refused to let him bat or bowl, he would run home after school, and grumble as his mother insisted he eat lunch before donning the whites. 

 In his tiny white shorts he stood, bum jutting out like Roger Binny’s, bat in left hand. With his right hand, he would throw the ball onto the wall and before it could ricochet and reach him, he would grasp his bat swiftly with both hands, and drive the ball gracefully through covers, or two broken pots.

The intense and grueling work ethic saw him become captain of his colony and school, and when they appointed him leader of the set that represented the college team, he knew that there was a little spot in the Indian dressing room that was crying for his presence.

Our story of his heroics with bat, ball and ground fielding ends here.

Late 2005, he became a part of the Cognizant family, a clan that insisted on pleasing American clients by delivering software codes on time. But much as he tried, he never ran around the floor or screeched like a madman or pumped his fist on solving a difficult piece of code, the way he had when he was in his whites. Ecstasy no longer was part of his character. Expressiveness still held on belligerently though, and whenever India lost or Tendulkar touched a new realm of success, he wrote and sent it to all to his colleagues.
Exasperated by him, they directed him to the company blog and it was here he found respite. In 2007, they recognized his blogging efforts and transferred him to the ‘Branding and Corporate Communications’ team, just so that he stop writing eulogies on self, and do something similar for the organization.

Mica and MBA happened, and he wrote more. As member of the Sports Committee, he spent a lot of time thinking about the annual cricket tournament, campaigns for promotion, and writing articles on matches he lost, so much that when the yearbook came out, they only spoke of his deluded die hard love for sports , and a few tidbits on his writing. This, when he had expected long testimonials on his charm, dimple, brilliance and what not.

And when it all ended, he was staring at an office cabin that read ‘Communication Expert - the Government of Gujarat’. Gandhinagar, it has been rumoured is the capital of Gujarat but we don’t believe everything we hear, do we? It is in fact a country of old men and older women, a civilization that is set back in time, which has ancient written all over it. If Gandhinagar was Jambavan, the wise hundred and something year old monkey in the Mahabharat, Mohenjodaro and Harappa would be frisky two year old puppies, sprightly and full of beans.

 Since most sentences here began with ‘Under the dynamic leadership of CM Modi’, he observed that the only way that he would not forget the language was to write on other mediums. So he began writing his own book. Then when Sachin scored his fiftieth century, he mailed a piece to a friend. The clever fellow asked him to send it to Cricinfo, just so that he could avoid reading it himself. The article was then published by the website. Being of mediocre quality, he insisted on sending another article, this time on Rahul Dravid, and it was published too. Like someone said,

‘It is hard to write, but harder not to do so’.

Hi, my name is Neeraj Narayanan and I love writing almost as much as I love the wonderful sport. It would be my happy and fervent desire to be part of the Cricinfo team. I love the work that the team does, and believe that I have the potential to offer something both similar as well as distinct.  Do let me know if I could fit in somewhere.

Neeraj Narayanan

http://garam-samose.blogspot.com/

p.s Here are the links to my published articles on Cricinfo and two videos we made for the annual cricket tournament at Mica. Do remember when you are astounded by the absolute shoddiness of the video, that the vision was excellent, just that the actors (read: friends) and technology was pathetic. 

http://blogs.espncricinfo.com/inbox/archives/2010/12/what_tendulkar_denied_to_the_w.php

http://blogs.espncricinfo.com/inbox/archives/2011/01/an_unassuming_man_called_rahul.php 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9GXj8wRgek

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHgKUQ-e7Go

History will be kind to me …. because I intend to write it.

------------------------- end of cover letter ---------------------------------

Conclusion: Well, in reply they did call him for an internship, during the course of which he met Rahul Dravid, even shook a trembling hand with him. But, as things go, not all organizations accept siblings in the same setup, a sensible thought as Nishi Narayanan and I  do love lifting up computers and throwing it at each other. (I do wonder what Mark Waugh would have ended up doing if the Australian Cricket Board had thought the same way.)
Anyway, Cricinfo continues to be the wonderful website it is, with its tremendous dedication to the game. And I, well I have moved onto the travel world, a worthy second fiddle. Writing about travel is nice, reading about it even more so.

Sachin and Rahul, however, will always hold a special place.

Stand up, for the champions, for the champions, stand up!

If only you knew Sachu, how I felt, when you held the cup in your hands and ran joyfully past me. Up in Sachin Tendulkar Stand, every single person screamed your name as hoarsely as they could, but I just stood there, mute and stunned, the world a blur. For that one moment, you did not hear me chant your name, neither did you see me close my eyes, but that is how we have always been. If only you knew how my heart cried and sang with happiness. April 2nd, 2011 stands frozen in time

The previous night, as I boarded the train to Mumbai, all that I carried was the ‘Cricket Revolucion’ tee and my flag, in the hope that if India won, I’d sprint to Marine Drive from wherever my television was, and join in the celebrations. Then 330 in night, Aneesh Madani told me that he was going to the Wankhede in the morning in a last ditch effort to try for tickets, and I could join him.

My heart was leaping even when our ‘local’ crossed Marine Lines and reached Churchgate. At 7 in the morning, the only people that stood outside the stadium were the caterers. Staring at the edifice, I wondered if I could ever enter it. Apparently not, because every broker was selling his tickets between Rs 40,000 to 1 lakh. At nine, the Mumbai police pushed us out of the road and we roamed helplessly around the sea front. As time wore on, and the clock struck eleven, I was getting desperate and ready to throw the entire 30k I had in my bank account. An hour later, a pan-chewing dog-eared fellow offered two East Stand tickets for 55,000. Somewhere down the road, a father was coating his son’s face with orange, white and green, and minutes later the son returned the favour. It looked magical but for the first time in my life, I wanted to become a pickpocket and run for my life with those two tickets.

“When you truly love something, the whole world conspires for you to achieve it.” At one, at our wit’s end, an IPL manager called Aneesh and told us he could offer us two tickets. We flew to the Trident Oberoi, and as Aneesh readied himself in the loo before meeting the man, I felt like kicking him for taking so much time. Later, my ticket read ‘P-374, Level 2, Sachin Tendulkar Stand’. Sachin Tendulkar Stand. How apt.

We ran to the stadium, calling up everyone we could to tell them of the news. I don’t know if I have ever enjoyed standing so much in a line that had over five thousand people representing it.

The Wankhede is beautiful.

For all the discomfort that an average Indian has had to endure to get into a stadium, it becomes all worth it once you are inside. We danced with the music, we sang with the music, we made every Lankan in the field know how much we despised him albeit only for the day. We let every single Indian know how much we loved him, even Sreesanth. With every run the Indian batsmen hit, our voices grew louder. Every time someone hit a boundary, Santosh shook his hips with an abandon that only Shilpa Shetty can match and if his id had not read “Security Officer Mumbai Police’, I would never have guessed so. It was also nice to know that police constables do have facebook profiles, and I will be featuring in one such photo album my hip as curvaceous as Santosh’s.

My father insists that we should not confuse sports with patriotism, but I fail miserably to heed his words. In my immature mind, sport has everything to do with loyalty and patriotism and whenever A R Rahman’s ‘Vande Mataram’ reverberated through the stadium, we looked skywards and sang with so much emotion that our very bodies arced backwards, and I felt goose pimples rippling through my flesh.

And then Dhoni hit his six and we were world champions. For 19 years, I had been waiting for this moment. For 19 years, I have been declaring before every world cup that ‘this time India will win’. For 19 years, I have felt hurt even angry when people poke jokes at my team, or call them ‘fixers’ or ‘chokers’, any single word against my team. If only you knew, India, that every time you have stepped onto a cricket ground, I have supported you as faithfully as I have loved. When I looked around, I knew there were several hundreds like me, each taking in the moment individually.

When Dhoni hit his six, a nation went wild. All I could was close my eyes, and soak in the moment. A dream has come true, in silence lay my feelings, and I felt numbed. A minute later, we were all hugging each other as tightly as Yuvraj had held on to Dhoni mid-pitch, some smiling, some crying and some hurling expletives at the rest of the world, pumping their fists in glorious aggression. And then Sachin Tendulkar came running out into the ground smiling, and in that one movement the entire thirty thousand plus in the Wankhede forgot every other emotion they were experiencing and the whole crowd chanted his name unitedly with a happiness that only he has received on a play ground. Later, as the team took the victory lap,as Yuvraj became all emotional and egged on the crowd to scream louder, the crowd roared madly. There was so much fire in his eyes, one knew how much it meant to him. There is so much one can say about a man by the way he plays his sport. I will never forget those moments ever.

As we packed into the crowded corridors on the way out, there was not an inch of space and we moved at a snail’s pace. Then someone from the back broke out singing, “We are the champions”, and every body in that hall joined in, making it the biggest chorus in Mumbai ever. The policewalas who had looked so tense and therefore rude, earlier in the morning, smiled broadly now, and the crowd hugged every single CPRF and Mumbai policeman on our way out. Out at Marine Drive, a city went ballistic in its celebrations, bikes, cars, roofs of card adorned with people and flags. It seemed as if the whole city had come out on one road and had gone berserk in its joy. We stood on top of police posts and waved our flags, we hopped moving cars’ roofs and sang, we went mad. What a shot Dhoni, tu stud hai yaar!

Hours later, when I finally returned to Bandra at 7 in the morning, they were still showing people celebration on television. Tomorrow, they will reward all the players obscenely, hold interviews with their families, friends, chaiwalas; ask celebrities what they think of India’s win; show countless repeats of the match; ask ex-players what they think; hold state functions and give honorary positions to players which they have no clue about. Dhoni knows it as well as we do, that it is a fickle country and we reward only when we win, never to improve. But that is tomorrow. Today let us just dance on the road with the man who walked out of the stadium, or the one who came all the way from Singapore just to see this game, or the one who ran till Marine Drive from his slum after the match - who does not even know where Sri Lanka is, but is dancing because their country is now world champions. From the other room, I could hear Aneesh hum the song “stand up for the champions”

Two days later, the song still refuses to leave me.

"I was built to be the best
Number one and nothing less
Leave me to my destiny
I have waited patiently
I have vision' oh I believe
I know I can count on me
So stand up, for the champions
For the champions stand up…”

We did it, Sachu.I can now rest in peace.

An affair worth remembering

Disclaimer: After almost three months, a post that is not meant for Cricinfo, or some of the other fellas who published me, but just for myself.

‘The trouble with romantic stories is that they do not always have a happy ending. The good part about them is that they are beautiful while they last.’
- Neeraj Narayanan, the last Sunday of Feb '11

Much before this post sees the light of the day, a hundred experts would have given you every single piece of analysis on how both India and England did not manage to win the match from seemingly invincible positions. They will tell you, like they have a hundred times before, that this was the greatest match ever but what they do not know is why it became so.

It all began because of a man named Rajan. Well almost, if you are a believer in romantic tales.

After thirty five overs, England had wanted only 98 more. I exited from the stand, went down the staircase and stood outside the huge brown walls my head in my hands, unable to believe what had just happened.

Earlier, in the break after India’s batting, I had messaged the entire world, ecstatic that I had actually seen, Sachin carve a century and my team post a mammoth, unachievable target. I felt I was clever when I told people that I could now pick a favourite Tendulkar century, while they could not. But then Andrew Strauss walked into the ground and put on an exhibition that could rival the most pristine things of beauty.

It was not brutal, not carnage. No Jack the Ripper, no Achilles. Neither was it artistic, Rembrandt-like. Instead, so perplexing was his brilliance, and there was so much ease and disdain written all over it, that you would think it was almost inhuman, magical. I would pick Houdini, for I am a traditionalist, you are free to tag him as Dumbeldore, or even Voldermort if you are so partisan and Indian.

With England coasting to victory, a lot of people were leaving the stadium and I watched them, distraught that my script had gone so awry. But unfortunately, those who are fighters are also often ungracious and unwilling to let go, so I stood at my spot outside the walls, hoping for the crowd inside to erupt, just once, to let me know that Strauss was out and we still had a chance. Five minutes later, I returned to my stand, the curiosity trouncing the sadness. But England kept plundering runs.

At the end of the 38th over, Rajan, a stranger who I had befriended at the queue in the morning, shook my head and laughed at me. “It is okay if we lose, dude” he told me , “they are playing better.” I looked at him, in angst, and launched into a tirade on how no team was supposed to lose after scoring 340. Instead, he asked me to not give up and cheer our team. Maybe it was his cheery disposition, or just the fact that I was ashamed to know that there was someone more sportsman-like, but something just popped then. We agreed that we had not lost yet, and there wasn’t any reason to lose hope. For the entirety of the next over, he cheered madly, followed by Gaurav Sinha, yours truly and Mohit-someone while the entire stand looked at us bemused. Chawla gave two in that over, and buoyed by the results, a bunch of twenty or so joined the band and gave voice to the stadium. The next over Zaheer spewed venom in the park and the scenes in stand A were incredible. While when India had batted, we had shouted with joy at every shot of Sachin and Co, here every dot ball was accompanied by a roar that had nothing friendly about it. We stood on our chairs and screamed so loud and so much that we killed our throats completely. So aggressive was it that it buoyed almost everyone in the stand and the stadium, and we all stood there screaming and making the greatest racket we ever had, with our drums, our placards, our whistles, and with our hearts. It might have lacked virtuosity, as its definition demands ‘morality in excellence’ but it had a rawness in its fervor, a madness in its celebration, that dignity can never offer.

Wikipedia registers ‘battle cry’ as a war chant, a universal form of display behavior, aimed at competitive advantage, ideally by overstating one's own aggressive potential to a point where the enemy prefers to avoid confrontation altogether and opts to flee. In order to overstate one's potential for aggression, battle cries need to be as loud as possible, and have historically often been amplified by acoustic devices such as horns, drums, conches, bugles etc. In those telling moments, the Chinnaswamy had its own battle cry and it was bloody magnificent.

Do not accept it, but Zaheer’s inspiring spell was not just his doing but also because of what a thousand in Stand A did to his adrenaline. And when he captured his wickets, there were many who went ballistic, there were men past fifty who were dancing, bear-hugging and ‘high fiving’ all and sundry, and there were others like me who used the chairs as steps to travel from one level to another, and went and submerged into the arms and bodies of random strangers only because their eyes were as fiery and full of rage as I thought mine were.

And that is why the match was so great. Not for its scores or its stroke play, but because a crowd had found voice like no other, even if the cynics insist that is a regular trait of the Indian cricket lover. A world cup that had so far been pimped only by the media, and cared for only by the Bangladeshis, had finally found a match that could propel the interest of thousands in India, and make them queue up in front of ticket counters with renewed vigour.

Please do not think watching a world cup match on television is a better experience than watching it in a stadium. It is only when you are standing there, watching those young boys bringing the flags out, and then singing the national anthem with fifty thousand other people, that you realize that there are very few moments that could make your heart fill up with so much pride on being part of the nation that you are. I have always liked our national anthem but today I was happiest while singing it. I also had goosebumps for the longest period of time. We have all seen the orange, the white and the green in our flags but they look so much more prettier when we wear them as hand bands, head bands or as paint on our cheeks. Go to a stadium, because as much as you love Sachin, hearing fifty thousand others yell, nay, sing his name louder than you is a joyful experience. Go to a stadium because sitting at home you might be able to watch your replays but you will never be able to befriend so many people you will never see in your life again.

p.s At the end of the 46th over, with India now in the driver’s seat, I noticed Rajan holding his head and sitting on his chair. He was not alright he said, and was suffering greatly. I hugged him, and egged him on to cheer the team one last time, but he smiled back and said that he was happy enough now that the crowd was on its feet and doing its job. He left the stadium at the end of the 48th, and that was the last I saw of him. I do not know how he would have felt when he would hear that India had not won, had actually conceded 28 in two overs to a bunch of tail-enders. But I have a feeling that he would be okay about it.

p.s 2) It is 330 in the morning now, and I have finally written what I wanted to. The ‘India’ headband and the flag painted on my cheek haven’t yet been removed/washed off. It will take a while, for the aforementioned, and the emotions to fade into oblivion.

An unassuming man called Rahul Dravid

Disclaimer: This article was published by Cricinfo on a winter day early 2011.

Preface: Once upon a time, much before Cricinfo became essential to our lives, there was a delightful magazine for all us cricket lovers known as the ‘Sportstar’.

It was the year of ’94 or ’95, two years since the game had surged through my veins and made me its seduced captive. Since my colony only had older bullies who never let me bat or bowl, so right after I’d reach home from school, I would run to the porch as soon as I was done with the pesky business of lunch. Holding my bat with the right hand, I’d throw a ball onto the wall with the left, and before it ricocheted off the wall and reached me, I would swiftly grasp the bat with both hands and launch into a drive through covers, rather two broken cactus pots. That day, the first time I missed a shot, I declared Manoj Prabhakar clean bowled by Craig Mcdermott. But instead of letting in Manjrekar to bat next at three, I carefully scribbled a relatively obscure name, ‘Rahul Dravid’, in my notebook scorecard.

That week’s Sportstar edition had a picture of the same man as one of the top run getters in the Ranji circuit. An eleven year old’s intuition told me that he would play for India one day, but mostly I put him at three because he looked handsome in the photograph. He was frowning because the sun hit his face, but he still looked handsome.

Sixteen years later, the same man stood at the Centurion, with twelve thousand international test runs to his name. The next day, however, every single newspaper in India only chose to speak about Sachin’s fiftieth ton, how he missed his father still, how he went for coaching to Shivaji Park, and a hundred other anecdotes that every Sachin lover knows by heart. The third highest run scorer in tests, the man who would arguably have been India’s greatest bat if not for the boy the whole country was busy lauding, did not even have a mention.

Dravid’s greatness however is not limited to his runs. It is a potpourri of character, hard work and a genuinely good heart.

A month earlier, the same two men stood at either ends of a pitch, two runs away from sealing a 2-0 score line against the visiting Aussies. For years, the single largest complaint against Sachin, unfair as it is, has been his seeming inability to be there at the end and take India to victory. An over before, we were all glued to our sets and wondered whether Sachin would finish it off with a six to silence his detractors, if he would uproot a stump and run with it like a child when we won, and a million other things. But now Rahul was on strike and would of course finish it off himself. Just like he did seven years back, hitting that trademark square cut boundary to give India her first victory in Australia in 22 years. But we all want Sachin to do everything, don’t we? As we sat there watching Mitchell Johnson bowl to Rahul, we prayed he leave every ball alone and strangely he did. The next over Sachin won the match for India, took off his helmet, raised both his hands to exult with uncharacteristic emotion, and smiled.

We will never know if Rahul Dravid did so intentionally, letting his more celebrated team mate have his moment, but it is a tribute to his character and image that we are inclined to believe so. If intentional, it was a selfless act, by a man who has been renowned for the same (remember donning the keeper’s gloves so that India could play both Yuvi and Kaif?), and it shamed us for wanting Sachin to score those runs.

One day Rahul Dravid will retire, but he will take away with him a bit of what is left of the gentlemanliness that the game tries to still portray as its unique element.

One day Dravid will retire but he will take away with him that beautiful square cut - wrists as supple and turning like Zorro’s, toes rising sweetly in sync with the pace of the approaching ball, standing perfectly tall, majestic and most importantly in control, before whacking the cherry disdainfully through backward point.

When Rahul retires, the nation will lose the greatest number three to have ever graced it, and writers will mourn saying that the media never gave him his full due. But don’t blame the media, for grace will never overcome the charms of boyish appeal or even spitting fire, traits his best mates Sachin and Saurav so regularly exhibited in that enviable Indian middle order. But when Rahul retires, that middle order and also the Indian eleven will lose its most handsome face, something that we all wrongly assumed was handed over by God, but in truth, which came about by the virtues he imbibed in his soul as he grew up.

You can also read this article on Cricinfo

The history of Gulmohar-Amaltas

“I'll give you my opinion of the human race in a nutshell. Their heart's in the right place, but their head is a thoroughly inefficient organ”
- Somerset Maugham

Disclaimer: Sports journalism in Mica has recently seen some aggressive columns and some incredible responses. We should all remember that gallantry can go a long way in the way in determining how people look at us.

A major share of the credit for the infamous Amaltas-Gulmohar rivalry of 2009-10 goes to Rohit Taneja. If it had not been for his constant raucous sledging prior and during the first two matches, the series might have even proceeded peacefully for its entirety, a controversial and arguable assumption though it is.

The usage of ‘credit’ in the opening line of the previous para is not frivolous; it is a conscientious effort with considerable thought being dedicated to it. For if Rohit Taneja had not dared to stir the beast out of the Amaltas lair, the latter’s notoriety would not have been as widespread as it eventually became. And Gulmohar would never have found a reason to become united and fight not only a bully, but also their own internal ghosts and come out triumphant.

There was another man who deserves as much accolade as does Taneja. In the Orientation of May 2008, he introduced himself to his class as ‘Chuna’. Later, the girls at Mica often sighed that he was the only hot man around (though his room-mate of first year had his own share of admirers). The cricket fraternity regularly saw him mysteriously bound out of Silver Oak in the wee hours of the morning, always being the last to enter the field.

The testimonial is dedicated in memory of the glorious fourth match of the series, which at its outset stood 2-1 in Amaltas’ favour. The tournament was already a cracker. After a convincing win in the first game, Amaltas had been pushed into a corner in the second by a tight bowling display by their opponents and Rohit’s shenanigans. However when all seemed lost, numbers nine ten and eleven (Shakey, Vipul and Sachin) rose superbly and found it in their hearts to snatch a miraculous a victory out of nowhere.

Sweet is the joy of victory and bitter the sorrow of defeat. After two consecutive losses, Gulmohar wanted to change everything from their batting order to their captain, while Amaltas declared to all and sundry that they were a team of eleven batsmen and an equal number of bowlers. They did not care who led their team because the respect for all eleven was universal (Vipul captained Amaltas in one of the games). A few misplaced souls (example: me) found new reason to stake loyalties to their abodes.

Then a few days later, when all seemed lost for Gulmohar, their strongest lad - Rohan Pujari - put the author’s first half century on a Mica ground completely into the background by an even better effort, bludgeoning everything that came his way into Silver Oak, even orbit, and gifted Gulmohar their maiden victory. It was truly a magnificent effort, eclipsed only by a fierce tiff between Nakul and Dilip that is now remembered for reasons I best not highlight. At the end of it after Pujari had guided his bat to Planet Special, Amaltas could not stomach defeat and erupted angrily when Gumohar’s ecstatic boys threw stumps all around to announce their feelings. All memorable moments now - the useless fight, the threats, the passion, the rivalry of it all. But what I remember most fondly is Mihir (someone who had never stepped on the Mica cricket field before) waking up from a deep slumber and running groggy eyed to the field, uncomplainingly half way through the match, and faithfully support his mates by fielding because Amaltas was suddenly left with ten men. We lost the match, but it was the first official statement of the hostel’s bonds.

There was a palpable buzz around the fourth match. Gulmohar wondered if they could win again, Amaltas asked if Pujari could be stopped but what no one doubted was the possibility of a fight between the two giants. Amaltas put up a good score yet again and put Gulmohar on the back foot by taking quick wickets. And then strode in Nakul Sud.

He prodded, he defended. He glided, he stole. He complained of the light and of unseen forces. And then with two overs left in the game, and when even his staunchest fans would not dare hope, he rose and changed the equations and the complexion of the series forever. In front of fading grey light, and a decently sized crowd, he dug his back foot deep into the soil and hoicked and hoicked and gave Gulmohar the most incredible victory ever seen in the grounds of Chhota. And when he won, the boy whose voice could melt honey roared like a lion and shut every single mouth that belonged to Amaltas that day when dusk fell. He just stood there mid pitch screaming and pumping blood, while all others went beserk. The image stands frozen in time, and for me the memory is an ominously silent black and white image with every expression on screaming a thousand words.

In the future, Gulmohar would fittingly go on to win the series. Amaltas would however command respect for never refusing a challenge come hail, storm, half fit team or full strength. Bhati and Pubby would threaten to kill each other while a visiting faculty from ESPN would look on bemused. But life would again also become normal. Rahul Gadi would sincerely try to improve the mess every day, Amaltas would proudly hoist a flag made of rags and Gulmohar would go on to claim a hundred academic prizes. Abhay Mehta, of course kept winning hearts with his adorable yet weird ways. MCL however knew that its thunder had been stolen and sadly reconciled itself to the fact that hard as it might try, it would not be able to match to the levels of play and passion seen in the described series. Mica had not seen such scenes before.

It might not happen ever again. Time and again, twenty two boys (and no, we can’t call them men on account of how they behaved) who had lived happily together for a year in Palash, drew daggers at each other during the series. Some took it personally, some enjoyed the absurdity of it all, some bystanders came to counsel while some others judged. But the fact is that it was the greatest rivalry ever.

The time has come again. I, room number eleven Amaltas, class of 2010, ask Gulmohar to play for pride, spirit and old times sake. This alumni. We are back.

To the health of cricket ... cheers {clink!}

The year 1992 saw Bosnia being separated from the Yugoslavian Republic, not knowing that it was heading towards decades of violence and brutalities. The same year Minnesotta's Mall of America, built on 78 acres, became the biggest mall in the world.

In a tropical country far far away, around the same time, a small boy watched engrossed, as a few of his countrymen battled it out on foreign lands that had nice sounding names like Sydney, Adelaide and Tasmania. Though the group of men did not do well, one lad with mad curly hair was busy driving his bat through covers, midwicket and the hearts of every person fortunate to see him play. I fell so much in love with him and the game that he became my synonym for eveything that was beautiful, and there developed a love for the game that was passionate, unadulterated and often bordered on the extreme. Over the years, my immature teenage mind confused this love for Indian cricket with patriotism and every win, facile or great, made the so-called Indian in me even prouder. In 2002, it wasnt just Saurav who waved his shirt on a Lord's balcony, so did seven boys on a college mess table in Belgaum, Karnataka.

Summer holidays came and went, but they always brought with them, in the Narayanan household a new scorebook made from cheap notebooks. Each of these scorebooks would have a picture of Sachin ( cut from an 'India Today') on its cover. And displayed proudly on the first page were the names of the eight Sector 55 Noida boys who would, "of course", one day play for India.

Over the years we woke up at 430 am to watch, groggy eyed, our heroes play test matches Down Under. We ran to tea shops (they usually had transistors) when electricity cheated on us and Robin Singh stood between South Africa and victory; we rode our bikes all around Noida that 2003 night when India beat Pakistan in the worldcup; we played in the rain, we played in the hottest June afternoons, we played on blisteringly cold december Delhi mornings. We did it all.

And now Lalit Modi tells me and the English County board that ODI's have reached their saturation point, test matches are redundant and that franchisees should buy out players if their national boards dont allow them to play in these commercial leagues. Lalit Modi and his rich friends believe, and maybe correctly, that players can be tempted to play for franchisees even if they are not allowed to represent their countries, on the basis of superior money power. Now Mr Modi, how do I explain to you that to my once teenage mind, India, cricket, glory and pride were all synonyms. How do I tell you that though you call test matches redundant, I still like to set my alarm so that I can see Lee bowl to VVS at six am. Will you ever understand that for me Sachin was the most handsome man and throughout my boyhood days I wanted him to marry Steffi Graf, that beautiful girl from Germany. You my friend understand business, I know love.

The BCCI might still exonerate you Lalit, but even at the cost of introducing an expletive for the very first time in my cricket writings, fuck you bastard, and may the lord strike you so hard that you suffer much more than those poor innocent Bosnians ever do.

To the glorious game, its traditions and all its lovers, a silent nod.