It's 1800 hrs on the eve of the "epic" world cup semifinal. The scuttlebutt is mostly about fixing. Has a certain interested party, with access to more money than most major corporations, ensured that the most accomplished cricketer still on the circuit finishes his career with a winners' medal? Is this the scripted final chapter in the legend of Sachin Tendulkar? It is also production day and by that hour, since none of us have tickets in hand, we are more concerned with getting our pages in order so we don's have to come in the next day. World Cup or not, no one wants to work when its pretty much a national holiday.
The phone rings. "Kya kar raha hai," is the standard question. "Kaam pe. Kya plan hai?" equally standard reply. "Get to CP in an hour, we're leaving for Chandigarh at seven thirty."
I am a confessed non-cricket fan. In the Indian context, I guess that means I can't tell you, off the top of my head, who took five wickets against India in South Africa's first world cup game after apartheid isolation. I would have guessed Allan Donald, but that is only because I wouldn't be able to name a single other bowler on that squad. Or even which world cup it was.
I claim, if India were playing cricket and any other sport at the same time, I would watch the other. The other sports tag, I suppose, is a kind of inverse snobbery. When the call came though, I was ready to drop everything, production deadline included, and get on the metro to town and on to Mohali. Are there about a billion other Indians, including the poor sods who agreed to finish my pages at work, who deserved that call more than I did? Sure. Did I give a shit? Not for a second.
It has been a while since Mohali. The legend of Tendulkar is complete, scripted or not. But I still haven't been able to put a finger on why there was never any doubt about accepting the offer.
Was it the promise of an all-boys road trip in the middle of the week--something I haven't done in years, complete with fancy borrowed SUV to bomb down some golden highway corridor and a couple of bottles of duty free tharra for company? Maybe, but sausage-fests are a regular part my life and, back in the days when I used to drink, the missus could always drink me under. So maybe not.
Was it the joyous prospect of watching the motherland stick a sporting trident (how very Hindu) in the heart of the neighbouring rogue state? This is the tough question. Before the cricket semis, India had already beaten Pakistan in the hockey world cup and the AFC challenge cup qualifiers (football, if you must know). It was all happening in the space of about one financial year. The subcontinent can perhaps be described as the global centre for sporting mediocrity. But just because we still haven't been able to break the 10-second barrier in the 100m sprint doesn’t mean we don't relish a bit of sporting bloodshed among neighbours. And this was, after all, one step away from a shot at a world championship. Other than the giants of kabbaddi, that tag eludes most of us over-eaters and under-performers. So yes, it was that, to an extent.
The PCA stadium at Mohali is bollocks. It took us about an hour to get into the ground (this despite being part of the privileged few to get parking stickers). It was two in the afternoon and as hot as coalminer's armpit. It probably even smelt the same. Our seats were perfect, but unfortunately the host broadcaster had decided to erect a pillar in front, presumably to capture audience audio. So, when Gautam Gambhir got out, I had to ask cricinfo how it happened.
All this gave me plenty of time to think about why I was there. I realised my reasons were the same as the other 5000 people in my stand. 1) There was the possibility of being on TV. 2) There were stale samosas and flat pepsi. 3)I could update my facebook status with a cool yet understated "I was there" if we won (sadly the guy sitting next to me did it before I could). 4) Did I mention the cricket?
There is a fifth reason too. And this I say as a tribute to the hardcore cricket loving gent who got my ticket, drove me to Mohali and lovingly fed me single malt while taking a piss off the balcony of a room in a very "law and order type" part of Chandigarh. The cricket is in our bloody Indian blood. No matter how many years you spend getting in shit kicked out of you at football games in north London, or how many Kronenbourgs you drink at Roland Garros, you will scream with joy Zaheer Khan bowls a beauty, Sachin plays a cover driver or hold your head in your hands and cry when the middle order conspires to collapse after the guys on top seem to have taken the team home. There is no other way to explain it. Kindly gent, I bow to your wisdom.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Of Langurs, within and without
On a relatively lean news day in the buildup to the Commonwealth Games in Delhi, the big story was Langurs. Ok so I exaggerate a little. It wasn’t the big story, but it was an interesting side order. The background is that most ‘normal’ monkeys don’t like langurs. It seems the latter are the bad boys of the simian world, at least in Delhi.
From time to time all the major government offices in the capital pay the handlers of these ‘fearsome beasts’ decent amounts of money to save their files (and their food) from their less alpha dog counterparts. If South Block can do it, surely the Games would need the same services.
So it came about that the organizing committee called on a bunch of these hired goons, to drive away monkeys from various Games locations. I’m not about to makes jokes at the expense of the men and women behind our glorious games, so please read on, it won’t be much longer.
As had become routine, I was hanging around outside the big building that houses Mr Kalmadi and the organizing team, when I saw a large crowd of reporters and camerafolk surrounding something near the parking lot. Hungry for a story, or at least not keen to miss out on something that the rest of the world had caught onto, I naturally made my way there.
Of course I found a bunch of about eight of our ancestors, along with their handlers, were the centre of attention. It was disappointing, for about 30 seconds. That’s when I saw a young girl, intent on playing the intrepid reporter, microphone in hand, make her way as close to one of the langurs as she could. I thought, maybe she wants to cop a feel. But the confident young lady proceeded to shove her mic, hopefully I might add, into the monkey’s face. And thus she stood, for about a minute, until a kind soul from the crowd mentioned, “Madam, I think the langur is saying no comment.”
I didn’t get a story, but I wish I’d have gotten a picture.
From time to time all the major government offices in the capital pay the handlers of these ‘fearsome beasts’ decent amounts of money to save their files (and their food) from their less alpha dog counterparts. If South Block can do it, surely the Games would need the same services.
So it came about that the organizing committee called on a bunch of these hired goons, to drive away monkeys from various Games locations. I’m not about to makes jokes at the expense of the men and women behind our glorious games, so please read on, it won’t be much longer.
As had become routine, I was hanging around outside the big building that houses Mr Kalmadi and the organizing team, when I saw a large crowd of reporters and camerafolk surrounding something near the parking lot. Hungry for a story, or at least not keen to miss out on something that the rest of the world had caught onto, I naturally made my way there.
Of course I found a bunch of about eight of our ancestors, along with their handlers, were the centre of attention. It was disappointing, for about 30 seconds. That’s when I saw a young girl, intent on playing the intrepid reporter, microphone in hand, make her way as close to one of the langurs as she could. I thought, maybe she wants to cop a feel. But the confident young lady proceeded to shove her mic, hopefully I might add, into the monkey’s face. And thus she stood, for about a minute, until a kind soul from the crowd mentioned, “Madam, I think the langur is saying no comment.”
I didn’t get a story, but I wish I’d have gotten a picture.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Willie Wood, Man of Steel
In the midst of all the abuse that the Organising Committee of the Delhi Games are taking (or at least were till a couple of days ago), one man is telling the real story about the spirit of the Games. The abuse comes largely from people gifted with skin of which the hue is several shades lighter than the locals, and those of us who tell stories on newsprint or espouse wisdom on TV.
The Commonwealth Games are perhaps the only big-ass, multi-event games that afford people as young as 12 and as old as 72, the chance to compete. And while world champions and olympic gold medallists, prime physical specimen, men and women who we would all want to have as the fathers or mothers of our children, are dropping like flies, Willie Wood will battle Delhi's mosquitos, humidity, searing heat, and represent Scotland for the eighth time in the Games that celebrate the British Empire, as part of their lawn bowls team.
It should have been 10, but Willie missed out on the Games at home in Edinburgh, in 1986, when he was fighting with the Scottish Bowls people, because they wanted him to put all his money in a Trust. Wood made his debut for Scotland in 1966, when my father was just a couple of years younger than I am now. In 2007, he was inducted into the Scottish sporting Hall of Fame. Normally, that means one of three things; that the player is retired, has one foot in the grave, or also has the other foot, head, arms, shoulders, and everything else, in the grave with the first foot.
If you suggest that to Willie, he would probably just laugh. He says he still plays for 10 hours at a stretch on some days; and golf when he isn't practising or competing. He feels 30 years younger than his years, making him, with a due respect, a good contender for some serious wood, on a regular basis. But then i would never ask him that. Turns out i cant ask him very much at all, because after two full days of interviews, the Scots have decided that he needs time to focus on practise. Perhaps they will let him loose if he wins a medal, though, the team's media manager in Delhi told me. If he does win a medal, he will add it to the two commonwealth golds he already has, including one in singles competition.
For those who say bowls is not a sport, I have very little time. It may not be as intensely physical as rugby or wrestling, and it may not require the stamina needed to run the marathon, but Willie will spend long hours getting baked under the Delhi sun (which incidentally decided to reappear after weeks of beautiful weather that brought the city, parts of the country, and very nearly the Games, to their knees), both when he is training, as well as when he competes. And the sport requires intense concentration.
In January, the legend was battling for his spot on the team in extreme conditions of the opposite sort. Britain was freezing, and the Norfolk coast, where he was competing, was as cold as an eskimo's arse (and to preempt questions, no I haven't visited one of those, I've only heard they're pretty cold).
That was indoors; here there will be no respite. Despite the sheer physical violence, never mind the threat of violence of the terrorist kind, that Delhi unleashes on those kind enough to visit, Willie told the Telegraph months ago, "I would have no hesitation going to Delhi. You can find yourself in bother anywhere in the world these days, why single Delhi out? You wouldn't say London is the safest of places either, would you? Whatever will be, will be."
Many of those who are pulling out are injured. Many others have more important events to go to, but then there are those who just can't be bothered to make the trip because of the sheer physical discomfort of competing here. To those in the last lot I say, and I hope Willie won't mind my saying that so does he, a very polite up-yours.
The Commonwealth Games are perhaps the only big-ass, multi-event games that afford people as young as 12 and as old as 72, the chance to compete. And while world champions and olympic gold medallists, prime physical specimen, men and women who we would all want to have as the fathers or mothers of our children, are dropping like flies, Willie Wood will battle Delhi's mosquitos, humidity, searing heat, and represent Scotland for the eighth time in the Games that celebrate the British Empire, as part of their lawn bowls team.
It should have been 10, but Willie missed out on the Games at home in Edinburgh, in 1986, when he was fighting with the Scottish Bowls people, because they wanted him to put all his money in a Trust. Wood made his debut for Scotland in 1966, when my father was just a couple of years younger than I am now. In 2007, he was inducted into the Scottish sporting Hall of Fame. Normally, that means one of three things; that the player is retired, has one foot in the grave, or also has the other foot, head, arms, shoulders, and everything else, in the grave with the first foot.
If you suggest that to Willie, he would probably just laugh. He says he still plays for 10 hours at a stretch on some days; and golf when he isn't practising or competing. He feels 30 years younger than his years, making him, with a due respect, a good contender for some serious wood, on a regular basis. But then i would never ask him that. Turns out i cant ask him very much at all, because after two full days of interviews, the Scots have decided that he needs time to focus on practise. Perhaps they will let him loose if he wins a medal, though, the team's media manager in Delhi told me. If he does win a medal, he will add it to the two commonwealth golds he already has, including one in singles competition.
For those who say bowls is not a sport, I have very little time. It may not be as intensely physical as rugby or wrestling, and it may not require the stamina needed to run the marathon, but Willie will spend long hours getting baked under the Delhi sun (which incidentally decided to reappear after weeks of beautiful weather that brought the city, parts of the country, and very nearly the Games, to their knees), both when he is training, as well as when he competes. And the sport requires intense concentration.
In January, the legend was battling for his spot on the team in extreme conditions of the opposite sort. Britain was freezing, and the Norfolk coast, where he was competing, was as cold as an eskimo's arse (and to preempt questions, no I haven't visited one of those, I've only heard they're pretty cold).
That was indoors; here there will be no respite. Despite the sheer physical violence, never mind the threat of violence of the terrorist kind, that Delhi unleashes on those kind enough to visit, Willie told the Telegraph months ago, "I would have no hesitation going to Delhi. You can find yourself in bother anywhere in the world these days, why single Delhi out? You wouldn't say London is the safest of places either, would you? Whatever will be, will be."
Many of those who are pulling out are injured. Many others have more important events to go to, but then there are those who just can't be bothered to make the trip because of the sheer physical discomfort of competing here. To those in the last lot I say, and I hope Willie won't mind my saying that so does he, a very polite up-yours.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
football it is
at the end of the day that is what this is all about. existential angst. strippers who want too much money. days spent dreaming and talking and bitching and arguing about a sport that is never played often enough in this country. football. yet every once in a while football comes home. and home is not old trafford; it is not the emirates stadium, hell its not even yuba bharati krirangan.
football is not the teeming hundreds of thousands that can pack into the sat lake stadium an any give day, because that is not Sir Bob's home ground. his home is none other than the humble Ambedkar Stadium, the tiny football ground that lies in the shadows of the imposing new feroz shah kotla, home of test cricket, centre for excellence, host of the world cup.
when india play here, we are unbeatable. for tonight we dont fear the Thais. if it were the Japanese, we wouldnt fear them either. because in this little compound, on this little patch of grass, where i once chested a ball off the flank, controlled it and slotted it past the keeper, in a game we went on to lose 7-1, INDIA is beyond real.
tomorrow, we will beat Thailand; if not on the field, then in spirit. because at The Ambedkar, India is one. The Bengalis, The Goans, The Mallus, The other ones of us who live and breathe the sport, at Ambedkar, we come together. The Boka Chodas mix with the behen chods, and all that is is left is a 20,000 capacity stadium, full with 30,000 Indians, praying, hoping, bleeding, sweating for a win for the real boys in blue. This is football. this is where India lives. This is where india plays.and this is where bryan robson nd his boys are going to get a very, very special welcome tomorrow evening.
football is not the teeming hundreds of thousands that can pack into the sat lake stadium an any give day, because that is not Sir Bob's home ground. his home is none other than the humble Ambedkar Stadium, the tiny football ground that lies in the shadows of the imposing new feroz shah kotla, home of test cricket, centre for excellence, host of the world cup.
when india play here, we are unbeatable. for tonight we dont fear the Thais. if it were the Japanese, we wouldnt fear them either. because in this little compound, on this little patch of grass, where i once chested a ball off the flank, controlled it and slotted it past the keeper, in a game we went on to lose 7-1, INDIA is beyond real.
tomorrow, we will beat Thailand; if not on the field, then in spirit. because at The Ambedkar, India is one. The Bengalis, The Goans, The Mallus, The other ones of us who live and breathe the sport, at Ambedkar, we come together. The Boka Chodas mix with the behen chods, and all that is is left is a 20,000 capacity stadium, full with 30,000 Indians, praying, hoping, bleeding, sweating for a win for the real boys in blue. This is football. this is where India lives. This is where india plays.and this is where bryan robson nd his boys are going to get a very, very special welcome tomorrow evening.
and Loathing
it's not like i travelled the 8000 miles or so between Delhi and San Francisco just to take a look at the hallowed portals of the O'Farrell Theatre; its just that i'd heard, from a source no less credible than Hunter Thompson, that it was the 'Carnegie Hall of public sex in America'.
Opened by the Mitchell brothers in 1969, the O'Farrell does have a formidable reputation. And since it was barely a ten-minute, downhill walk from where we were staying, my brown brother and i decided, whether we saw the golden gate or not, o'farrell, anthony bourdain's recommended torta cubanas, and the search for at least a couple of good drunks, was the plan of action.
as it turned out, carnegie hall was having a slow saturday night. so we got in for a lot less than the normal 40 dollars a pop, but thats when the shit hit the fan. well, not really, but i just wanted to say that.
so apart from the brown brothers (respectably turned out in shoes, jackets, etc, nervously placing folded hands over crotches to conceal potential, and potentially desirable hard-ons), there was one other group of gentlemen in the esteemed establishment, fellow travellers, only from farther east. at a ratio of about 1:6 (one guy to six girls, that is), things were not only looking up, they were also looking to get expensive. that was when bully, big titted brunette number one, disappointed, that neither the brother nor i wanted a little sucky-wucky (no, there was no offer of a lap dance, i suppose when the going gets tough, these ladies get down to business), asked us, "what are you going to do, go home and jack each other off?" Stunned silence followed that remark, as each of us tried in vain to come up with a suitably witty comeback that would have everyone in the place in splits, and the ladies so floored that they might even proffer their services for free. needless to say, that didn't happen.
the state of california of course, doesnt help. apparently you can't have nudity and alcohol in the same place. if the world followed those rules, some of us would never get laid.
another brown brother often travels to phoenix for work, and i have been given to understand that life in that particular city, outside of another reputed establishment (this one by the name of centrefold), pretty much blows. "go to phoenix anytime, bro. ask for candy (name changed on request). tell her you are my friend. shell show you a good time." the strip joint has always seemed a great place to get a feel of the place, the times, the people, to fall in love even.
but then he always has been more endearing than me, so i didnt find a candy who fell in love with me.
cut back to san francisco, and it was hard to imagine that this sober house of sin had once played host to binges, hunter and his friends, police raids, drugs, subversive cartoonists, fratricide even. perhaps our 21st century morals will actually put an end to all joys one day.
this is not out of any disrespect to the girls, who, almost to a fault, were beautiful. i dont think i have ever seen as much flawless skin in as many different shades under one roof before. but one hour and one (what i like to think was manly) hug to the last two showgirls of the evening, the ones who wanted us to come and play, left us with a feeling of emptiness.
the pilgrimage over, the walk back to the apartment was more fulfilling. we had a bottle, and there were ridiculously naked hookers on the street, hanging around in the shadow between shops with neon signs. that was the america i was looking for.
but like the brother said, the significance of the piligrimage lies in that it will never be forgotten, its impact, felt one day when you least expect it, its residue (pardon the pun), may reside in the turnups of your trousers, or the cupholder of your seat, forever, marking a time in history, a frame of mind, a shared experience, and showing the light for generations of pilgrims to follow. the brother has taken to ketamine of late.
i feel another trip coming up. the loathing may have past. maybe i was to immature to undertake the pilgrimage and realise its importance at the same time.
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