Cricket, lovely cricket
Other than bat and ball, charcoal stumps drawn on compound walls werethe only accessories we needed
V Ramnaryan
21-Dec-2001
Cricket is perhaps the most visible relic of the British empire in the
Indian subcontinent. Little could the white sahibs of the East India
Company have imagined that the game they introduced to their subjects,
probably to amuse themselves during weekends and holidays, would one
day become a passion of epic proportions with the native population.
Cricket madness spares nobody, it seems, cutting across social and
cultural barriers.
Other than bat and ball, charcoal stumps drawn on compound walls were the only accessories we needed. Across the street, we had a huge playground to ourselves for years before Madras became the vast concrete jungle that it is today.The wicket on our ground was a beauty, levelled by innumerable humans and cattle using it as a short cut between two streets. |
As a former cricketer with a keen interest in what makes the other
three-quarters of the world tick, I sometimes interact with achievers
in other walks of life, including the performing arts. Even as I am
constantly looking for greater insights into the psyche and work
habits, not to mention the home and social backgrounds, of my
subjects, they invariably divert the conversation to cricket. Thanks
to the likes of the Channel Nine team, Geoffrey Boycott, Sunil
Gavaskar, Harsha Bhogle, Ravi Shastri and Navjot Sidhu, their
knowledge of the game is quite prodigious. I may be seeking
illumination on matters relating to the nuances of classical music,
but all I will get to discuss is the aerodynamics of reverse swing or
the relative merits of Steve Waugh, Brian Lara and Sachin Tendulkar,
Shane Warne and Subhash Gupte, Gundappa Viswanath and Sunil Gavaskar.
Recent writings on Indian cricket, especially by western, mainly
British, writers, focus on the frenetic ardour with which our cricketcrazy millions follow the fortunes of our Test and one-day stars. This
is thanks largely to the huge role played by television and the cola
giants in propagating the game as it is played today - high fives,
electronic gadgetry, action replays, coloured clothing and all. What
these post-modern analysts may not know is that the Indian love of
cricket was not always confined to merely hero-worshipping superstars.
The cricket fever was of a different intensity when I was growing up
in the sleepy Madras of the 1950s. No doubt a Madras Test was an
exciting adventure, demanding much advance planning, right from the
buying of season tickets to queuing up bedroll in hand the night
before the match outside Corporation Stadium or Chepauk. But cricket
was not all about Test matches. In our suburban neighbourhood, for
instance, life revolved around cricket, just as I am sure it did for
countless other children in other parts of the city. In a family of
cricketers, as mine was, all adult discussions seemed to centre around
cricket, as indeed all our juvenile duels and pitched battles.
Other than bat and ball, charcoal stumps drawn on compound walls were
the only accessories we needed. Across the street, we had a huge
playground to ourselves for years before Madras became the vast
concrete jungle that it is today.The wicket on our ground was a
beauty, levelled by innumerable humans and cattle using it as a short
cut between two streets. The lush outfield was manicured by grazing
buffaloes. When it rained, the hoofmarks of the buffaloes on wet soil
hardened into dangerous ridges from which the ball reared up steeply,
challenging the technique and courage of barefoot batsmen, and
transforming our military medium-pacers into demon fast bowlers.
Batting then became largely a matter of survival of the luckiest. On
this ground, we played the first matches of our lives.
Everywhere else in Madras there were countless such private grounds,
which the cricketers simply entered one day and occupied, so to speak.
Until the Rip Van Winkle who owned the plot woke up suddenly to build
his dream house, shattering the dreams of many prospective Prasannas
and Venkataraghavans, Pataudis and Bordes. But the dreams were resumed
in glorious technicolour as soon as the intrepid young cricket
warriors conquered their next new territory. Informal or 'sign'
matches were played almost throughout the year. A 'sign' match was one
at the end of which the losing captain affixed his signature to a
written statement on the outcome of the match, attested by the two
umpires and the rival captain. It was the ultimate humiliation.
Those who did not have easy access to open grounds made do with quiet
streets and alcoves or residential compounds, or even the corridors
and halls of their homes, much to the chagrin of their elders. Cricket
did not stop even in the classroom, where boys played book cricket by
opening pages at random and affixing runs or dismissals to the two
imaginary batsmen; they could be Mankad and Roy in one generation and
Gavaskar and Viswanath the next. If, for example, you opened page 54,
the second digit was the reference point for keeping score, and the
batsman got four runs (or two, under a different set of rules). If the
page number ended in a zero, the batsman was declared out and so on.
In my extended family, we invented our own brand of home cricket, an
ingenious adaptation of the bagatelle board in which we gave cricket
values to the various points on the board. 150 was six runs, 125 was
four, LTP was bowled, 75 was two runs, 90 three. We had different
positions for different kinds of dismissals - caught, lbw, stumped,
run out, even hit wicket. A skilful player, experienced in steering
the little steel ball bearings we used for marbles, could score
300-400 runs, if he held his nerve. It gave you perverse pleasure to
make Laker and Lock or Desai and Surendranath score centuries after
the top order had failed.
A Test match in which maybe four participants took turns to play the
two innings of the match could easily take all day. During summer
vacations, nothing, not even Monopoly could be a better way of
spending your days. This is the kind of cricket madness most of us
growing up in the Madras of the 50s and 60s carried with us when we
stepped into adulthood to play or devotedly watch league cricket.
I listened to John Arlott and Johnny Moyes, Pearson Surita and Berry
Sarbadhikari; I read Fingleton and Gurunathan; I took rickshaw rides
all the way to Corporation Stadium to watch Test cricket; I started my
own cricket career as a member of the school junior team. Like many
other boys of my generation, I knew no life outside cricket as I
approached my teen years. It was the perfect life.