03.18.07

Don’t mourn India’s defeat, Rather celebrate Bangladesh’s victory - Sudhir Bisht

Posted in Miscellaneous, Sports at 11:13 pm by PuneTalks

I had given up watching Indian cricket team on TV, given its dismal performance on field, off late.  But then 17th March was special since it was the first match for our team against the rabbits of the world cricket—the Bangladesh. I had made plans to watch it live on the South African channel S4, in anticipation of an easy victory.

Cricket in Africa is an alien sport and only the Indian community and a few old British men talk about it whenever they meet. The younger Brits seem to have got hooked to soccer and cricket’s popularity is on the wane in England.

So when my friend, Chinmay Panth, invited me for dinner on the 17th night, I felt really good.  My wife made some quick calculations. The match would start at around 2 PM and the team batting first would finish by 7:30 PM. (I am in Nigeria, so the time variance with IST)

The match would be over around 9:30 PM, the perfect time for the Bailey’s Irish cream and uncorking the bottle of champagne, she said.  So we looked forward to a perfect evening in company of our best-ever neighbors and closest of friends.

I opened my first beer when the Indian openers came in to bat. By the time I had finished my bottle of Heineken, India had lost Sehwag, Robin and the jewel in our crown, the matchless, peerless Sachin.

I then headed for the swimming pool and started swimming vigorously. The swimmer in the next swimming lane was a thin, small Indian-looking man. We both stopped after doing ten laps and exchanged pleasantries.

“From where in India?” I asked.
“Rehman, from Dhaka in Bangladesh.” He replied.
We shook hand warmly.

“You look like a Punjabi from Delhi. Am I right?” He asked
“ I am a highlander from Delhi actually but what are you doing in the pool? You should be watching you team playing so well in the World Cup.”

“ I didn’t really know. You know, I have been traveling non-stop for the past many weeks. I would love to go back to my room now to watch the match but I would rather prepare for the meeting with a LNG company at eight. So I don’t know if I will be able to watch the match really. In any case our team is a very young team and I hope they don’t get overawed by the magnitude of the occasion.”

I went home at 6 PM. My wife Anita had switched off the TV and when went over to our friendly neighbourhood for the dinner party, Indian innings was over under 200.

All the Indian friends who had gathered there were hurling choicest abuses at Sehwag, Robin Uttapa, Sachin and the rest.

“ Look at this Dhoni. He was out at zero. And this Agarkar. It is not for nothing that he is called the “Bombay –duck”.”

“O Gosh, Look at Harbhajan with pseudo aggression writ on his face for ever, for no reason. Out on Duck too.”

“I tell you they have all been bribed by some crazy bookie. And what did Ganguly do? Took so many balls to make just sixty something runs!”

“Now shut up and stop saying anything about Ganguly. He was at least there, standing like a rock of Gibraltar.”

“ Why are Bengalis so hyper about us saying anything about Ganguly?”

“And why do you Delhites always want Sehwag in the team?”

“And what about Sachin? How many more matches will he play just on the strength of his past performance?”

“ Don’t worry guys. This match is more of a loosener for the Indian team. I am sure that we will win it easily. Look how the Bangladeshis will cave in before they reach 100.”

I looked at my host couple that was feeling a bit awkward. Mrs. Panth had made the best of snacks and there was the best of whiskies and the best of cocktails and mock tails. Their party was in  danger if getting hijacked by the non-performance of Indian cricket team.

“Now can the gentlemen please go for a refill.  Please don’t worry yourself too much. 198 is a fighting total on this wicket.” said Panth more to lift our spirits than out of any sense of conviction.

The “ O yah”, “ O yes”, “We will win for sure noises” started to fill the room.

I was bit surprised and even felt sad about the high esteem which my friends seemed to have for the Indian team of middle-aged men who were in the team more out of the fact that there were hardly any other options available. The TINA (There-is-No-Alternative) factor in Indian politics seems to have pervaded into cricket too.

These blokes are all millionaires, sitting over endorsement fees and generous pay packets. Their mood was hardly upbeat, shoulders drooping under the dull-colored outfits. Incidentally the color of the outfits said it all. The team like its apparel was a shade too dull in its attitude.

It was then that one my friends made this remark that stung me like a bee.

“These poor Bangladeshis. They ca never make it big. When will they get time to play their cricket? After they have finished with their daily grind of transporting Indians in their cycle-rickshaw on the streets of Noida?”

Immediately after the comment was made, one of the diminutive openers danced down the pitch to dispatch Agarkar’s short pitch delivery to the boundary. The Indians on the field and in the room looked surprised.

“ Just see this boy. He is hitting when all he needs to do is to take singles. I tell you these Bangladeshis can never win” A loud guffaw went in the room. Every one laughed.

Immediately after the comment was made, the same opener danced down the pitch to hit a boundary off Zaheer.

“There they go again. Just see them fall like ninepins. These poor boys!”

And Zaheer did strike and the sarcasm in the room grew louder.

And then the great Munaf Patel came and the runs seemed to have stopped. Munaf was now seen trying to intimidate a batsman half his size by saying something unkind to him. In reply the batsman just gave back an impish smile. He then danced down the pitch to hit a six of another bowler.

By the time it was nine, the team of Indians in Nigeria has changed the channel to watch a entertaining movie on Zee.

I slipped quietly into my own flat and enjoyed the boys taking the steam out of the big stars.

I for that evening forgot my nationality and became a neutral national who just wanted to enjoy the game.

I saw the players-turned-millionaire wearing odd goggles and face-paints fumble with the catches. I saw a fallen Harbhajan trying to stop a batsman by obstructing him from taking a run.

I enjoyed the innocent raising of the fists when a couple of brave-hearts finished their fifties. I was delighted to see how the batsmen ran like hare between the wickets, much to the discomfort of weary Indian fielders.

I saw a poor hungry nation, savaged by its politicians and ravaged by the natural calamities taking on a mighty neighbor. I saw a David winning over a sluggish Goliath.

Did I feel sorry for the Indian team? Hell No. Why should I? You can’t feel sorry for team that seems to have perfected the art of taking defeat away from the jaws of victory.

I rather felt great for the Bangladesh team.

And I did call up the hotel where Rehman is lodged and left a message for him which says, “Congrats. Your boys beat our aged.”

And when I sneaked back into the house of my friend again, I did savour the Bailey’s. The food was great and the evening looked perfectly set to merge into a blissful night ahead.

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