From an ignoramus to a 'know-it-all'..

(I wrote this just after the World Cup 1999)

                My Heart Beats For India

      How I changed from a cricket ignoramus to a know-it-all...

For someone who’s never ever held a cricket bat in her hands, who could never have told a googly from a Ganguly, and for whom cricketers were, until recently, a blur of nameless faces or faceless names, you should hear my ‘expert opinions’ now! They’d put even Sunil Gavaskar and Geoffrey Boycott to shame! In fact, those connoisseurs of the game ought to consult me for their columns and commentaries… or maybe I should give it some serious thought and hire myself out as an advisor to the BCCI before the selection of our national cricket team.

Earlier, I knew just the basics of the game and my interest in cricket was limited to joining the guys as they watched nail-biting finishes of Indo-Pak matches, but again, only if that happened to coincide with my free time.

One day, I found myself very brusquely excluded from all the excitement. I asked an ‘intelligent’ question and was brushed off with, “Oh, you won’t get it, you women can’t understand cricket, it’s a man’s game!”

That did it! I mean, I can fix a fuse and read a balance sheet, so why wouldn’t I understand a silly game like cricket, I asked myself, and set about learning it. Since there wasn’t a handbook around with the title, ‘What To Do When You Feel You Ought To Know Everything About Cricket And Actually You Do Know Whom To Ask But They Seem To Have Neither The Time Nor The Inclination To Educate You’, I did the next best thing: I took to watching cricket and cricket-related programmes on ESPN and Star Sports all day long.

Initially, of course, my comments provoked a lot of laughter. “Actually this Kumble is a fast bowler,” I pronounced very seriously one day. My son clutched his tummy and rolled about in uncontrollable mirth, my nephew spluttered on his coffee, and my husband laughed till he coughed. “Don’t utter that statement in public!” he warned me before launching into a fresh spasm of ‘coughter’. I tried to justify my words, repeating what the commentator had said, that “the batsman was beaten for Kumble’s pace and bounce.”

I also mixed up Brian Lara and Jimmy Adams and said, “Bryan Adams is out!” and when Srinath kept bowling "just outside the off-stump", I thought the boy was hopelessly inaccurate and questioned his place in the team.

I made rapid progress. The more cricket I watched, the more jargon I picked up and before long I was talking like I was some kind of authority on the game. I gave up watching movies and TV serials, preferring to see highlights of cricket matches. Cricket provided me with all the entertainment that I needed: heroes, villains, action, emotions, thrills, high drama, tragedy, comedy – it was all here.

My bookshelves now had nothing but Sportstar, Cricket Samrat and CricketTalk. I stopped purchasing more books and hid my existing collection out of sight, under the beds and over the cupboards. And as for the morning papers, I read them backward – sports’ news first and everything else later, and I’m sorry to confess, even Kargil didn’t interest me half as much as the Kargil benefit matches did. Cricket became my religion, but Sachin didn’t grow a long, white beard and don saffron, so he stopped just short of becoming my God.

Ask me today when the next match is scheduled and I’ll also tell you our team’s timetable for the entire coming season. Do you wish to know how the Net Run Rate is calculated? I can give you tuitions in the Duckworth-Lewis system as well. Would you like a list of the ten best websites on cricket? I’ll even provide the latest Ceat cricket ratings, tell you which player is endorsing what product, give you a minute-by-minute progress report on Sachin’s back, plus the names of those cricketers who sport an earring in one ear. I’m bursting with ‘cricinfo’ and feel confident about writing a thesis on the game, including domestic and women’s cricket, in addition to successfully performing a SWOT analysis of the players.

I’m the team’s fan, cheerleader, coach, manager, selector, strategist, analyst, statistician, umpire, square-leg umpire, third umpire, match adjudicator, commentator, doctor, physio, psychiatrist, motivational trainer, tax consultant and  mother all rolled into one, only it’s such a pity that nobody knows it.

Whenever a match is on, I wake up earlier than usual (“Aaj match hai, aaj match hai”), finish all my cooking and other chores at dizzying speed (“Aaj match hai, aaj match hai”), rush the maid and the family through their routine (“Aaj match hai, aaj match hai”), disconnect the phone, put a ‘Do Not Disturb’ placard around my neck, arm myself with the remote control, and sit back to enjoy the game. And if anyone makes the mistake of demanding food and beverages or disturbs me in any way, I howwwl in outrage and lament my shrinking personal space.

When our boys win, I’m there in front of the television set, cheering wildly; when they lose, I’m there, empathizing, clucking in sympathy, making excuses, getting all defensive and blaming it on the pitch.

During that mega event, the World Cup 1999, I went and bought truckloads of World Cup memorabilia – diaries and posters, calendars and coffee mugs, pencil boxes and key-chains all marketed so cleverly by Archie’s. I indulged in some plaintive bleating and sang "All the best" just like the younsters in the LG ad, I even waved miniature flags and chanted “Come on, India, dikha do”, encouraging the team from long distance. Each time Dravid or Ganguly hit a boundary, I was there, sipping Pepsi and begging, “Yeh dil maange more,” and believe it or not, that was me who discreetly wiped a tear when we lost that match to Zimbabwe.

Hey Sri, Jadu, Dada, Chopra, Monty, I hope you’re reading this, kids… when you guys toured Sri Lanka, Singapore, Australia, Toronto, Kenya, Sharjah or Dhaka, did you notice me as I tagged along, loyalty personified, following every ball from my hot seat at home?

I’ve been stumped, watching cricket up close, and as for the match-fixing scandal, well, that, in my opinion, is just an obnoxious interlude; what’s a little money got to do with it, I ask you, maybe Hansie and a few others could resist everything except temptation, like Oscar Wilde might have said, and besides, I can forgive anything as long as it’s unforgivable.

In the meantime, as I make myself a nimbu-paani, I await the launch of the new Coke campaign – will it be Srinath, or will it be Sourav? Whatever they promote, this ardent fan will sip, will eat, will use, will wear. Umm, I wonder what’s the price of that Tissot watch on Azhar’s wrist…

THE REJECT SLIP - a dig at the ways of editors

(An old article of mine)

Dear Gautam,

I got your letter and poem yesterday and was glad to know of your much-deserved Goan holiday. It seems to have done you a lot of good, it has apparently given your creativity a boost. Now this poem that you’ve sent me for publishing here, I like it, of course, but let’s get a few things straightened out first. You’ve written:

“Mary had a little lamb,

Its fleece was white as snow.

And everywhere that Mary went,

The lamb was sure to go.”

I must say, Gautam, that’s a delightful piece of work, in light vein too, and will definitely appeal to little children. But to tell you honestly, most Indian kids will find it difficult to identify with the name ‘Mary’, and I mean, why make it sound like a hangover from the Raj, I suggest you be politically correct and change ‘Mary’ to ‘Meera’, what’s in a name anyway, as the good bard very rightly put it... so your first line now reads:

‘Meera had a little lamb”

But again, don’t you think you should be more specific? Make it:

“Meera had a little lamb as a pet”

Yes, I think that would be wiser, you know how precocious children are nowadays, and the various sexual connotations they can cook up with innocent words, you have kids, Gautam, you should know… (and something tells me that this poem of yours, once I publish it, will be selected by the Education Department for the kindergarten syllabus)

And now for your next line:

“Its fleece was white as snow”

AS white as snow, surely! Grammar, my dear fellow, elementary grammar! Have you forgotten your Degrees of Comparison? But wait a minute, Gautam, I can bet you that most kids mustn’t even have seen pictures of snow, not to mention the actual stuff. Better make it “as white as milk”, yes, that sounds more apt:

“Its fleece was as white as milk”

But just a moment, hold on, Gautam, you know, with so many of our countrymen suffering from malnutrition, living below the poverty line and all that, I wonder if it wouldn’t be Chinese torture to mention the word ‘milk’, I don't know, I feel it would be a bit insensitive, I think you should stick to:

“Its fleece was very white”

And now for the third line of your lovely little poem:

“And everywhere that Mary went”

Everywhere, Gautam? Not everywhere, please. We don't want to put parents in a soup, do we? I mean, imagine their offspring pleading: “Can I take Moti / Tommy / Mithu to the loo, mummy, please, mummy, pleeeeze???” So let’s be a bit practical and let it read as:

“And most places Meera went”

Now for your last line:

“The lamb was sure to go”

Hmmm… Sure to go? Well now, Gautam, you know how children’s imagination can work overtime... I think it would be prudent to avoid using those naughty little infinitives, I say let’s keep it simple:

“The lamb went too”

So now after these few minor modifications, your poem reads thus:

“Meera had a little lamb as a pet,

Its fleece was very white.

And most places Meera went,

The lamb went too.”

Actually, Gautam, I’m not too comfortable with the “Meera went” and the “lamb went too” part, but never mind for now, we’ll see how it works out and the kind of response we get. You could make a few alterations here and there if we get too many letters of protest from well-meaning parents, teachers and NGOs, so don’t worry about it now, we’ll cross our bridges only after we come to them.

By now, my dear fellow, you must have noticed that the thing doesn’t rhyme any more but surely that should be no problem for a poet like you, and I'm sure you'll soon sort it out. After all, you’re the expert, old chap, it’s such a pity you don't believe in "vers libre" though, and you’re still very old-fashioned in that respect, I must say.

Anyway, do the needful, send me the fresh transcript, and I'll do the rest for you. Always at your service, pal, and never hesitate to send me more of your brilliant work. What are friends for, editor friends, at that… But for God’s sake, Gautam, do something about that blood pressure of yours before it kills you... So long, then, regards to Bhabhiji and love for the kids.

Affectionately,

Sukhwant King

The Lady is a Tramp

(Another favourite article - this was published long ago in The Indian Express)
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THE LADY IS A TRAMP

One day, I saw an abandoned dog whose ladylike mannerisms and gentle disposition appealed to me. I brought her home and decided to call her Laika.

"Either that dog lives in this house or I do!" pronounced my aunt, dramatically packing her bags and threatening to go and live in an old people's home. My mother reproached me for the dharamsankat that my action had put her in and spent a sleepless night anticipating sister-in-law trouble.

The next morning, I saw Laika sitting at my aunt's feet and looking up at her with mournful brown eyes. My aunt was gingerly patting her and asking, "Kya khayegi? Omelette aur bread khayegi?”

Thereafter, Laika adopted the old lady, and in no time, she had trained her to hand out biscuits and wafers, chaklis and chiwdas, chips and chocolates every half hour or so. The two of them got along fine and we soon had a thoroughly pampered, roly-poly Laika waddling around the house.

"If the dog is fat, the owner isn't getting enough exercise," chided the vet, but each time we took her for long walks, she huffed and puffed along so heavily that my Dad especially felt sorry for her. "Don't torture her, she's too old for such strenuous routines," he said time and again. Before long, her walks were restricted to twenty-minute strolls down the lane and Laika spent her days leading a life of happy inertia, barking at crows twice a day for exercise.

She got everything she wanted - a biscuit on demand, a pat on demand, a meal on demand, a hug on demand - everything except sex on demand.

When she came into season, I couldn't handle her. One morning, she woke the household very vociferously at 4.30 a.m. Milady was restless and wanted the balcony doors to be opened for her. My mother obliged and she sat there looking out, howling loudly, barking, crying, whimpering and making all kinds of embarrassing noises. "Hush!" I scolded and dragged her inside, but she growled at me and almost bit me, so I left her alone and tried to go back to sleep, the house and the neighbourhood meanwhile reverberating with her sound effects.

Attracted by all those seductive noises, two dogs came and sat on the pavement down below, looked up at her quite lovingly and wagged their tails non-stop. They weren't exactly handsome specimens either - one of them was scruffy-looking, the other patchy with mange.

"Laika! Don't you have any taste?" I accused her, but Laika just looked at them, howled enticingly, squealed coquettishly, and yowled invitingly. She kept running to the front door, wanting to be let out.

To humour her, I took her down for an early morning walk. It was a mistake. Her paramours followed her at an uncomfortably close distance. I wasn't armed with sticks or stones to ward off the suitors, so I flapped my arms about in frenzy, trying to protect Laika's honour. But the lady was a tramp; she didn't want her honour protected... I quickly bent down, picked her up in my arms and carried her back home, while she looked longingly at her admirers from over my shoulder, whimpered sadly, and generally behaved like a tragedy queen of yore.

I had to take leave from work in order to chaperone her, since she was "my" dog, and had to be very alert all the while. Each time the door opened, Laika somehow managed to give us the slip and go bounding down at top speed to meet the objects of her affection, while I, guardian of her morals, kept running down barefoot in hot pursuit, trying to prevent any amorous mishaps from occurring.

Evening saw me a nervous wreck. I was exhausted from playing police and listening to her never-ending wails and ululations. I phoned the vet and related the events of the day. He laughed and suggested Calmpose. For a moment I thought the good man was prescribing the sedative for me. "If one doesn't work, give her two tomorrow night. This will go on for about a week."

The Calmpose had little effect. The next morning, her acoustics began much before dawn. “Oh, no! That nymphomaniac is up already," I moaned, taking a deep breath and bracing myself for what lay ahead. While the neighbours collectively wondered if it was an ill omen when a dog 'cried' like that, I privately wondered how I could pack Laika into a virginity sack.

Mercifully, this was the only fertile phase of hers that we witnessed. We were debating on the pros and cons of getting her operated but were spared taking a decision when she developed an infection and had to be sterilised. Her life remained a contented continuum of sluggish lethargy - with a biscuit on demand, a pat on demand, a meal on demand, a hug on demand...