Not Quite Cricket!

“Swallow your pride!” snapped his bat, the one he’d so fondly kissed just a match ago, and risen it in honour, while the scoreboard beamed with his exploits – The walk back to the pavilion now, was perhaps the longest ever, the peering eyes of a whole stadium puncturing him more than that moment of dismissal. Somewhere in the crowd sat an eager heart slapped by a sudden lull, lips murmuring a chant till a few seconds ago, eyes closed in anguish, and a sigh long heaved. Who was she that the cameras panned to? Haven’t we seen her in toe with that man taking a walk back now, perhaps on the shimmery pages of a tabloid – the dame who swept him off his feet, and the one he married off in style? The one who got lucky and won herself the booty of a lifetime? Of course, she is all that – The “Madam”, whose husband is a prized possession. Or so she believed – till this day, when the ball and the bat got together and plotted his fall. The shutterbugs stopped flashing; the mumbles became louder, the colleagues walked past, as if there was never a name. The scoreboard mocked too, the one which had played a number game and made him a little God.

          Rummaging through my old notes, I found these lines scribbled on a piece of paper, awfully creased and waiting to be discarded. I remember borrowing it from one of the attendants at the President’s box, with the logo of the state cricket association flashing on it so unambiguously. One look at the leaf was enough to stir up and bring back the events of that evening, at one of the IPL matches, when I had so desperately wanted to pen down my thoughts. Would you stop reading on if I were to tell you that I didn’t after all lay my hands on some secret match fixing file, and didn’t even stumble upon an earth-shaking and news-breaking piece of top secret about a popular cricketing star? Well, I certainly can’t guarantee a fascinating read, but what I may suggest, might, of course be worth a thought or two.

So, what impelled me to make a note of my musings that evening, when around me, the glitterati in all their fineries had come to enjoy an adrenaline pumping show at the IPL? Well, this one lady, who occupied a comfortable corner seat, looking eager, and yet very calm. I am not sure who she was, yet there was something about her that made me feel connected. Just like the woman I saw the other day, at the long room of Jaipur’s Sawai Man Singh Stadium, dressed in a simple Salwar Kameez, upset with an odd call that disturbed her persistent mumblings.

If you’re a regular at such places, you’d know that that woman occupying the solitary spot is perhaps the mother/wife/girlfriend of the man on the crease, fervently calling upon the Gods to watch over him. Of course, the umpire’s index finger going up is as horrible a sight for her, as perhaps a bad accident on the road, or the news of a terrible misfortune or of something which you hopelessly wish never came true!

I’ve been in that spot too, several times, much to my discomfort. It is strange how this story unfolds – A good score reiterates the power of prayer, a bad one tells you that it is all but a game. And then before the next big match, you invoke that one mantra which had spelt magic. Haven’t I heard such success stories far too many times, or have tried and tested one too many... And then the urbane, logical and balanced self of me, with a masters in film making, and an ex career in News, takes over the Holy wife just to jolt me out of a believed mumbo jumbo.

My husband’s poignant words from his book ‘Beyond the Blues’ fiddle with my thoughts at this point–"Being an India cricketer is hell in many ways because of the intense scrutiny you are subjected to by a billion people, but not being an India player is worse." That perhaps sums up the absurdity, the enigma and the paradox of Indian Cricket—and more of the lives of those cricketer stars, relentlessly living on the edge. The advert of a popular Insurance Company featuring Sehwag summons up -- “Jab tak balla chal raha hai, tab tak thath hai, jis din balla nahi chalega, us din...”  And that perhaps, is the single most dreadful thought playing ever so often on a Cricketer’s mind... and that of his family’s.

For long, Cricket to me simply meant Ind vs Pakistan, and it was only just to hurl abuses at Indian Players for dropping a catch or for getting dismissed cheaply. The following moment I'd be jumping in joy to see a Pakistani batsman taking the long walk towards the pavilion. And it continued to be just that, till of course I met my husband. How silly have we been to be driven by a vulgar sense of nationalism?, I wondered, as I came across Cricketers being harassed by relentless and embarrassing sarcasms, and of course the anguished faces of many a women sitting on the corner seat of some President’s Box, hoping their son, brother, husband doesn’t face the ire of a nation, so numb and so thoughtless.

Perhaps all of us need to swap places, every now and then, to really go through this set of emotions. After all, it’s these emotions which cobble together and make us aggressive and it’s these same emotions which would prevent us from doing so.

After all it’s just a game. Isn’t it?

Dolly, only the name is cute!!

What brand of television does Dolly Bindra make? Foul– Perhaps, but don’t we all love the dirt flying, especially when it’s the celebs cursing. Voyeuristic – Now, we have no qualms in revealing the ‘peeping tom’ streak in us. Watchful – “God, I am not like her, I better not be like her!” Indifferent – A psycho always makes for great TV. Or, even the kind of TV we put on parental control, and in fact encourage our kids to trick us and watch? Whatever it be, make no mistake, the lady has forced us to move over Big B’s KBC, grabbed Headlines, and has sent many nosy parkers into a tizzy. Now, wasn’t she just a sidekick till yesterday? Playing the heroine’s wicked step mother, a scheming sister in-law, or even trying her hand at some over the top, silly humour. Boy, Google takes me to her official website, splashing her once-upon-a-time pictures trapped in the wannabe fashion of the late 80’s, when she somewhat looked a wee bit bearable. Even though she insists on being a ‘who’s who’, she failed to persuade an ‘oh-my-god, look-who’s-there’ effect all these years, -- but for this one time that Big Boss played his cards well, and got her to add more than a little something to the show, transforming her into a property of public interest. Of course, it isn’t her imaginary oomph doing the trick, or even a warped ‘know it all’ that seems to be working in her favour – Dolly Bindra is riding high on a secret code that she deciphered much before she entered the Big Boss house, and perhaps even before that, in her everyday life.

The brilliant French psychoanalyst, Jacques Lacan explains that “when anything or anyone threatens us with the truth of our essential fragmentation, the quickest, easiest, and most common defence available—to hide the truth of our weakness and to give the illusion that we possess some sort of power—is aggression.”

As luck would have it, Dolly could lay her hands only on the last bit of Dr Lacan’s theory, the one which said that -- to hide the truth of our weakness...give the illusion that we possess some sort of power – ‘aggression’. The lady couldn’t make much sense of it anyway; the only word she could read and interpret was ‘aggression’, it being her favourite in the English dictionary. And since then, ‘aggression’ became her middle name, swearing and name-calling her pass time activities. Vicious fights sent the fur flying time and again, but Dolly remained unfazed. Not a drop of tear or a hint of remorse, in fact, a stronger vow to be even more malicious and wicked each time. And in some twisted way, it worked for her – at least in satiating her mammoth ego, winning those petty fights, and shutting up her detractors. And if her bad mouth, and high pitched foul wasn’t enough, the lady’s horrifying make up, and absurd dressing sense made for the final blow, perhaps even making Frankenstein’s monster look perfect.

But what when ‘the moment of realization’ dawns upon her? Would she understand the damage done, and more importantly, acknowledge the harm she has meant to herself? Pray she does, because Dolly Bindra fails to amuse, victims hardly ever, especially the ones soaked in by a bogus sense of pride, raring to avenge themselves against any insult.

“But all of it is pretended, including Dolly’s nonsense!” many of you might say, and that in fact is even more worrisome than a sick Dolly. For the show doesn’t come with an ‘A’ certificate and gives itself the all important permit to leak the idiosyncrasies of a bunch of terminally ill celebrities, even if their madness be meticulously scripted. And no, I am not just talking about young minds getting disturbed, but a whole population, who starts recognizing ‘rage’ as a vehicle to ‘take control’ and the relentless need to be ‘in control’.

And just in case, the woman is acting herself, then do we really need such appalling people on national TV? Spare me the humbug that it is all but a representation of the ‘real’ society -- violence, hatred, war and aggression all a part of it, so why not have the spine to have it in our face? – Ok! But, do we identify them damaging and destructive enough for a social order? If we do, and I hope we do, then should we nurture it and produce its offspring, OR should we work towards building a society in good health? Think.