THE MATCH

It was a day-nighter, the first we had played in Bangalore. I wasn't sure how good the lights were going to be, but we had to deal with it, whichever way it was. I was at the nets from the morning, swinging my arms, testing my grip on the ball, working on releasing it just so. I had developed this inswinger over the last few months, which worked really well.  Whenever I was blowing with the wind, I could reverse the ball in and confuse the batsmen totally. I worked on it a bit that morning, then went home to rest a bit before the match began at 2 pm.

It was very muggy that day and it looked like we were in for one of our typical Bangalore thunder showers. The sky was overcast and all of us were worried that the skies would open up and deny us a result. These were the days before the Duckworth-Lewis system was introduced into cricket, and a rain meant a washed-out match. Since this was part of the Pepsi Cup series of ODIs, we would have to replay the match with Pakistan the next day, if it got rained out. Not a very happy prospect for all of us.

Pakistan, as a team, were a very interesting opponent, particularly because there was such nationalistic mania around playing them. A very talented bunch indeed and I enjoyed bowling to their batsmen. Whenever my ball beat Ashraf's bat, for example, I experienced a high that has to be felt to be understood. I even thrived on the pressure that an India-Pakistan match brings, because the high of the victory is so sweet, though the low was enough to send me hunting for my pills.

On match days, I didn't use, how much ever I wanted to. That was one discipline I stuck to, aware that if anyone really got to know how dependent I am on my pills, I would not only be kicked out of the team, but be so disgraced that I wouldn't be able to show my face to anyone. It is not as if I was not aware of what I was doing, to myself and to the sport. But..

Unwittingly, the face swam before me, that of Achala. No, this time, it wasn't Achala. It was that media woman, Anju, that Dillip identified for me. Anjana Narendra of National TV he said. I told him she looked like a classmate from school and Dillip had promptly told me her name and her channel. I wonder if I can find her in the crowd? I smiled. What a foolish idea, really.

The match started, and Cream lost the toss. We were put into bat by the Pakistani captain, Aseem Nawaz.  ''Seemu'' to his teammates, I am told. Not that we, the Indian team, called him that, but the others -- Kiwis, Windies -- did call him by his nick. Our guys didn't play very well, but Ganesh managed to hit a 45 and we managed 246 for 9 in 50 overs. I hit around 6 runs and got out to to their spinner Akram Raja.

Well, it was hot and humid, at least we didn't have to bat under the lights, I thought, though bowling and fielding would be tougher. We didn't know how good the lights would be and whether we would be able to field the ball or sight the wickets properly to bowl. Well, we would find out. We had an average total, defendable, and a run-rate of nearly five. In those days, it was good enough.

The second innings started and I couldn't do much in my opening spell. The humidity was really getting to me, my run-up was not as good as it should be. I wasn't light on my feet and though the ball was swinging, it was not enough to beat Ashraf. The game went on and on and Ashraf had already managed to hit a century. He was in great form and Pakistan was on 181 for no loss, at the end of 20 overs.

Less than a 100 runs to score, I thought to myself at one point, and shook my head. The crowds were screaming and roaring, everyone unhappy. All of us were afraid to field at the boundaries, though we had been told that no one was allowed into the stadium with anything that they could throw at us. I remembered the Eden Gardens crowd and hoped that this lot, my home crowd, wouldn't shame us by rushing into the field.  

Bhupen, our spin bowler, Boopy to the team, was bowling to Ashraf. I still remember it like it happened before my eyes, so crystal clear. He spun it in and crack went the ball, straight to the cover boundary. What a shot. I shook my head, no way any of us could have reached that ball in time to stop it and anyway I was too far off.

Then I stopped in shock. From my position at extracover, I had a clear view of Ashraf. And the fellow lifted his bat and showed our amiable Boopy the entire route that the ball had taken from his bat to the cover boundary. As if to say, see how I've hit your ball. Mocking Boopy! I felt the blood rush to my head as I went towards him. How dare he!

I don't know what I would have done, but Cream quickly came there and with a touch of his hand, calmed all of us who had crowded in, down. The crowd was roaring in anger and the cops were pushing a section of people back, physically. I was furious, but we didn't say anything, any of us. The  neutral umpire, a Kiwi, gave all of us a warning glace and sent us back to our positions. This was the first time we had seen a neutral umpire and all of us were trying to be on our best behaviour.

I saw it later in replays and I still don't know how I did it. Most of what happens on the cricket field is by instinct and reflexes, though we train and train for it. Boopy sent in a slower ball and Ashraf cracked at it again. It flew towards me, just about a foot off the ground. I dived to my right -- my wrong hand -- as I saw it coming and yes! I felt it, I felt the ball in my hand, plop right into the curve of my palm and my fingers closed around it securely.

Yay! I jumped into the air as everyone came running towards me, Cream, Viky, Ganesh, Suri, Anu, Boopy.. Yes! We had done it. Ashraf was out and nobody cheered him, as he walked all the way to the pavilion. Nobody even clapped, though he had hit a century. I think even the guy at the opposite end, Qamarul Aleem, did not clap or send him on.

After that, the blood started pumping in all of us. I bowled really well, so did Boopy. We got them all out, like a pack of crumbling cards, and I returned to the pavilion with the second best figures of my career...5 for 37.   I got the Man of the Match award, but I think it was more for the catch than for my bowling!

I see her again..

Naturally, after a night like that, I was in no shape to practise the next day. The team knew well enough what 'indigestion' meant, but that is what they told the media. That I had 'indigestion'.  But after waking up late -- for a man who practises from 7 am in the morning, 10 am is terribly late  -- I went to the stadium anyway.

The thought of that woman I dreamt about nagged me.. would she be there at the stadium?

I sauntered in, absently saying hi to Kenchanna, the man guarding the gate. I knew him quite well, had given him some money for his grand-daughter's school fees just the other day. But I was in no mood to talk to him now. I wanted to see if my woman had come.

I could see lots of fans had managed to sneak in to watch the practise. Kenchanna must have been feeling benevolent and his hands must be very full of notes indeed.  My team mates were at the nets still, but I could see Tiwari and Coachie talking to the media. I screwed up my eyes to see more clearly .. now a days my vision wasn't what it used to be .. yes, my short-haired woman was there, wearing a really lovely yellow salwar kameez. I smiled.

By now, some of the fans had seen me and had started crowding around. I signed some autographs, smiled and nodded, and feeling very tired, looked for a seat. I didn't have much choice, only some seats were empty and I sat down at the nearest one, still looking at the media and their mikes and pens in the centre. I could see my friend Dillip Peters, listening intently, but not bothering to write down. Well, he was senior enough to know what to write without scribbling..

At last, the media broke up and everyone started scattering. Was my woman going to go away without my getting another good look at her? I frowned. Should I go there, nearer to the field? Then, I saw her, coming my way. Oho, had she seen me? Would she come and talk to me again? I felt tingly all over, and I didn't even know why.

She came unerringly to my seat. Wow, could she spot me from that far? Me in the shadow, she in the sun? I stood up as she came near and said: ''Hi.''

She gave me a look. Now what had I done to bother her? Then I realised she was again looking at my feet. What, really was this fascination? I looked down myself and saw the handle of a woman's bag -- orange! -- sticking out from under the seat.

''Oh is that your bag? Wait, let me get it for you,'' I said, bent down and fished it out for her. She just stood looking at me, gaping, so I bowed, to show her that it was really a pleasure.

She turned red, but looked around quickly, I don't know why. I just stood and stared at her, for all I was worth. ''Are you going to play the match?'' she said. She looked tense and irritated. Did she also have a bad night like me? Some hopes. ''No sleep?'' I said and smiled. ''I didn't sleep either,'' I said.

She just looked more irritated. What had I said wrong? ''Please tell me, are you going to play the match?'' she said again. I looked at her. How did it matter, really? I probably would, but I didn't see any need to tell her that.

She slung her bag on and turned to go. Then she said: ''I hope you play.'' How sweet of her.. ''Your wish is my command madam,'' I said and bowed again. She turned away, though, and bumped into Dillip.

''Oho Anju,'' he said and looked at me with a grin. He could obviously see how attracted I was. For he said: ''Now I understand why AK got indigestion.'' I grinned, but she was upset, I could see that. Why should she be upset now? I had said I would play, didn't I? For her?
 
 

signed article in Bangalore Star

Bangalore Star, March 28, Friday

 

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1_YR2HGFqD1CUZHrm4K69SCxn6KHt4V4sSK90C1aPmJE/edit?usp=sharing

Another Sad Day for Indian Cricket

by Avinash Katagi

It is another sad day for Indian cricket, with stories doing the rounds that Mahendra Singh Dhoni’s name is also part of the cricket betting scandal. It reminds us of the day when the then most successful captain India had ever seen, Md Azharuddin, was named in the match fixing scandal that shook India and the world.

As a cricketer who has gone through a very tough battle with himself and a bigger battle with the BCCI which ended only when I quit the game, I think I should talk about the pressures that would have pushed Dhoni into this situation. He was known as this simple boy from Jharkhand who grew up drinking milk. The wonder of such a simple boy turning into a match-winning finisher and then a shrewd captain who got the nickname Captain Cool, has sustained him all these years.

But Dhoni is also growing old. At the last T20 World Cup, he disarmingly told the world media that he is the oldest man in his team. And that is increasingly true. Other than Yuvraj Singh, who is also obviously not at his best, Dhoni is the oldest and is under huge pressure to cope up with younger, fitter and more attacking cricketers. He has to match up to the best of them, and like all of us, he is facing that burden round his neck, of expectations.

Dhoni’s crime in the case of BCCI N Srinivasan and his son-in-law Gurunath Meyyappan is one more of omission rather than commission in my opinion. Perhaps he knew that wrong things were happening, at least where Meyyappan is concerned, but he probably chose to close his eyes to it rather than upset a winning team. I have been in similar situations and other than my captain and friend Ratan Ghatge, I do not know of any others who could have faced up to the situation and fought.

Dhoni’s biggest problem is his fame and his own image. The two are out to crush him and  it is very difficult for anyone in his position to extricate himself without taint. Look at how Azhar is still struggling to overcome what happened to him -- one of India’s greatest players who couldn’t play his 100th test, due to the findings of a committee on match fixing.

Achala redux

I had dinner with mom, shut the door to my room. By the time I sat down on my bed, I had the blue pill in my hand. A groundstaff at Calcutta had passed me the pill with the whisper: ''Try this sir. Nothing to match this one in the market.'' It cost me Rs 2,000 just for one pill, but then, what is money to me? I've just signed a Rs 1 crore endorsement deal with a sports shoe company and a soft drink. I am rolling in money.

The groundstaff had warned me that I should not eat much before taking the pill, but hey life is for risks, right? After all, my mom had cooked bisibele bath for me and of course I had to eat that. I grinned foolishly at the pill, took my bottle of water and swallowed it down in one gulp. Blue, hmm, this is a new colour. Marketing, even in the shady underworld, was always the last word.

A warm tingly feeling started up from my toes as I lay down on the bed. Interesting, I thought, and shut my eyes. Whoosh, it was like going down an endless tunnel of white light at top speed. I put out my hands to the sides, trying to control the speed as my stomach turned upside down. I was nauseated, and felt all the bisibele bath coming up to my throat.  Suddenly,  white tunnel split into colours and became an eight cornered box all around me. I was suspended mid-air, slowly turning around, seeing my room, all the colours -- red-- yellow-- orange -- blue -- violet -- green -- all fluorescent, washing one into the other, the whole universe brightly lit.

And emerging from those colours was the face I always saw, the face I was always trying to forget, the face that pushed me into these drugs in the first place. Achala, Cream.. no Ratan's girlfriend.. she called him Ratan, not Cream like the rest of us. Of all the people in the world, did I have to fall in love with my best friend's girlfriend? A heartless girl, that is what she was. I had gone all the way to Malaysia just to speak to her, and she slammed the door in my face. Ratan had said it was ok if she and I got together, but did she listen? No. She threw us both out of her life. And I was left hanging, gasping for breath, with even my best friend hostile and unhappy with me..

I shook my head, feeling the air stir all around me and my hair stand on end as the bright colours continued to suck in my eyes. I was still suspended, still in a cocoon, but her face was slowing coming closer and closer. I knew what to expect.. soon her face would surround me and I would crash down, sick and desperate, with no way to get in or out of the situation..

I frowned. There was some change this time. Very strange indeed. It had started out as Achala's face, the familiar lines, the strong nose, the long hair, the fair skin. And slowly it had started to change into a darker skin share, the nose slightly different, the eyes a bit bigger, the knowledge in them a bit older, the hair short, cut just below the skin.. what was this new face? I blinked, even in the daze, as slowly an old memory began to get replaced by a much newer one. And I knew. This was the face of that media woman I invited to dinner.. and yes, she looked like Achala. Was that why I invited her?

The face loomed larger and larger as it took over my being and I floated along, aware that any time now, I would drop down to earth and struggle with cramps in my own bed. But this feeling of peace was amazing, something I could hold on to.. was this strange woman the answer to all my problems? A woman I didn't know, whose name I had no idea about.. why was she affecting me like this? Who was she?  

she speaks to me

I went into the hotel, but hung around in the lobby. My kitbag had to be unloaded from the bus, and loaded into my black Pajero, which my driver would have brought to the West End parking lot. I was going to my apartment in Kumara Park extension, where I live with my mother. I would join the team again at net practise tomorrow.

I could see through the glass panes of the lobby doors that Ganja had not managed to avoid that media woman. He mumbled something into her mike and came in, shaking his head. I waved him on and continued to lean against the reception, watching the show outside.

More TV vans landed up -- these guys were an absolute nuisance, but one had to tolerate them. After all, they popularized the game, made or broke cricketers with their comments, built up the hype. BCCI loved them and got huge revenues from TV rights. Well, in a way, they paid our remuneration and for our contracts..

Coachie and manager finished talking to the media bunch and came in, mopping their respective brows. I grinned at that and continued watching. That media woman.. I wonder why my eyes keep going to her? Something familiar about her.. she came into the lobby, straight to me. I mentally raised my brows, but kept quiet.

''Will you talk to me?,'' she said.
''Talk,'' I repeated. Hmm, interesting that this woman thought I would break my contract with the BCCI and talk to her. Did she think she was that attractive? I decided to be insulting and gave her a once over.

''Talk, you know. To my mike,'' she said, clenching her teeth.
Hmm, the woman had a temper alright. I hadn't even begun to rile her. I leaned back on the reception desk, enjoying myself now.
''Oh Mike. Ask the captain, manager or coach. No one else can talk,'' I said, simply enough.
''The captain has gone. You are the vice-captain. Please talk to me?'' she said. She was trying to smile and not get angry, which amused me further. And there was something about her...

She was looking at my feet. Oh well, everyone looks at my feet. It's a problem, when one is huge. ''Size 14,'' I told her.
 ''Huh?'' she said.
 ''My shoe size,'' I said pointedly, in an attempt to get her to see how rude it is to stare at people's feet.

She started looking harried. This woman was really interesting. I could see the start of  a blush on her face.. or was it just an angry flush?
''No to the Mike,'' I said, abruptly. ''But will you have dinner with me?''

Now where had that come from? I frowned at myself. Why exactly was I asking a media woman to have dinner with me? What if she got some information out of me that she publicized?

But I hadn't invited the media woman, I told myself. I had invited just the woman. Oh ho. Now that was even more strange. Why had I invited her?

''No thanks,'' she said tiredly. Huh? She refused! She walked away. Wait, I didn't even know how to talk to her again.. and somehow, it seemed essential that I know.

''Hey which TV are you from?'' I called out, across the lobby. She stopped, stared at me. The whole lobby was staring at me, but I didn't really care. I was used to being stared at.

''National TV,'' she said and left. I hung around a while after that, then my car came to the lobby entrance and I left to go home to my mother, still wondering why I wanted to see that woman again.


 

at the hotel

The bus set off in the police cleared channel for us. We were a security risk, so no vehicles ahead or behind us. Or that's what we assumed, nobody ever explained anything to us. But then, we probably never asked.

I leaned back in my soft seat, stretched. I'm tall and my arms hit the luggage rack above our heads. Cream gave me an irritated look, then went back to the book he had pulled out to read. Of late, Cream doesn't talk much to me and off and on, he has not been my room mate, but everyone has a right to moods. Cream has been there whenever I needed him and has even stuck around the times I've pushed him away..

The bus screeched to a halt. What, had we already reached West End? No, we had got caught in a traffic signal. Some traffic cop was going to get a real shouting for not clearing our path. Oh well, Bangalore traffic is a part of the city's charm and all my team mates had gone through it too many times to count.

I pulled out my Walkman, plugged my ear phones in and relaxed listening to Rajkumar and PB Sreenivas's old Kannada film songs. The bus moved and stopped and moved and stopped till at last we came to West End. Cream, ever aware that the media would be following us and not wanting to say anything at all after that defeat to Sri Lanka, grabbed his small kitbag from the rack and rushed out of the bus. I got up more leisurely, stretched, looked around, took off my earphones and ambled out of the bus.

That woman was there again, the one from the airport. She had positioned herself at the entrance to the lobby and there was no way anyone could avoid her. Well, I like enterprise, and there was something about the way she looked, which I liked. Whatever. I walked up and surprise, surprise, she shoved her mike at me. A tiny thing, she had to lift her arm and elbow to get her mike in front of my face. I gave her a pained look and walked off without saying anything.

Well, we have a policy, we have no option. The BCCI has bound us left, right and centre. I didn't particularly want to talk to anyone about anything, but I didn't like the fact that BCCI had barred all of us from speaking to the media. Only Cream, coachie Rangarajan and manager Dinesh Tiwari can talk to them. It protected all of us, yes, but its the principle of the thing no? I am not a two year old to be told what to do and what not to do!

 

how it all began

It was just one more routine journey to one more city for one more match. Except that this journey was from Calcutta to my home city Bangalore and the match was against the most formidable opponent we could get, Pakistan. We had just lost a match to Sri Lanka and everyone's form and attitude was down and low. Nobody was betting on us and even the staff in the airports, usually smiling, just gave us morose looks this time.

The dressing room was as dull as it could get and not even Ganja -- Ganesh, our most prolific batsman and inhouse wit -- could get a smile out of anyone.

We arrived in Bangalore and went as usual to the VIP lounge, waiting for our luggage -- bats, pads, kits -- to follow. It was a blinding hot day and the heat was glinting off the tarmac and the glass facade  of the Bangalore airport -- the old defence airport, not the streamlined new one at Devanahalli. I blinked as we deplaned and quickly put on my fancy new Raybans, my latest indulgence. What else do I spend my money on anyway, other than fancy stuff to wear, eat and smoke?

''Media,'' Ratan -- our captain, fondly called Cream by the whole team -- muttered tome and went into the lounge. What media? I only saw harmless old Doordarshan, an old looking dark skinned cameraman with a huge toothy smile, hanging around as usual in the lounge. Then I caught sight of a woman in a salwar kameez, standing with another cameraman, loudly arguing with the airport duty officer that she and her camera should also be allowed in, if DD was allowed. I smiled to myself.. some small relief in an excruciatingly dull and boring day..

Once everyone got there and all the luggage had been loaded into the usual AC bus parked outside the lounge, all of us filed out and got into the bus. The small crowd which had gathered outside wouldn't be positive, I knew. The airline and airport employees had already given us a taste of what to expect. I steeled myself -- even after all these years of exposure to the public mood, good and bad, I was not battle hardened enough to deal with public criticism.

The crowd booed. Well, we knew that one. Some, however, said ''Welcome'' and ''Jai'' which I didn't expect. But keeping to my expected, public facade of the grim fellow who never opens his mouth -- yes I was perfectly aware of what the media and the public thought of me -- I looked neither left nor right, but plunged straight into the bus like all the others on the team.

From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the media woman again, moving quickly towards us, but she veered away and ran to her van. Well good luck, I thought to myself and moved into the aisle of the bus and sat down by my usual window seat, third row from the back. Cream, as usual, slide in next to me and I felt the bus moving through the dust of my city's airport.