Spot on the sport the nation worships

It was once called a gentleman’s game. The men in white, keeping up to the sanctity of the colour, were a disciplined side, inspiring generations in this cricked consumed nation.  As much as a toddler would pick up a pencil to scribble for the first time, he would also almost simultaneously pick up a plastic bat and a ball to try his little hands at a game, the craze for which would only get crazier by the years. There was a time when every shot sliced through our hearts, the good ones felt like ecstasy, the poor ones pierced straight through. Every win would translate into instant celebrations, ever loss, into days of national mourning.

Skipping meals, staying up at odd hours to watch our players in action overseas, peeping through the key holes of our study rooms to catch a glimpse of the Little Master in action at the peak of exam season, sitting like a statue in probably the most uncomfortable of positions, dreading the slightest movement could result in the fall of that crucial wicket, having two sets of televisions, one exclusively for Star Cricket, we have done it all; without rhyme or reason,  just for the love of the game.

The only game that prominently features India in the world map has also often brought us face to face with our own maverick selves. The day the Men in Blue lifted the World Cup a couple of years ago, I screamed my vocal chords out, not at home, but very much at my workplace. At that late hour of the night, people poured on to the streets to mark the day that made history. The cup was ours, a midsummer night’s dream come true.

Like most else, I too have grown on a staple diet of this so-called religion in its various avatars. Alas, today money and honey have almost stripped the game of its gentleman garb. IPL, I have never been particularly fond of this version of cricket. I don’t claim to know the rules of the game to a T, nor do I have the names of all the players on top of my mind. But I do understand more than the basics, and, more importantly, would any day choose to watch a good match of cricket over a high-voltage reality show on TV.

However, this season I chose to take a break from the yearly extravaganza, merely keeping myself abreast of the teams still in the race. And then the can of worms opened. Too little cricket (an abridged version of the already limited over format) and too much of all else put the game in the back burner, at least for me. The Bollywood buzz, the cheer girls, the glamorous wives, the corporate honchos,  the sizzling hosts – with so much to focus on, the unadulterated joy of watching the lofty shots kiss the skies, or those stumps fall apart, didn't remain the same for me. The spot fixing episode had to be the final nail in the coffin.

The likes of Sreesanth,  Chandila and Chavan have taken the game to a new low. So much so that every no ball today sparks a doubt, ‘Was it intentional?’, every on-field gesture raises an eyebrow. Murky money dealings have mired the show. The figures are mind numbing, and the way some of these unscrupulous stakeholders have cashed in on the opportunity is sickening. First came the players and the bookies, then surfaced the Bollywood connect, next showed up the underworld link, followed by a certain team owner entering the fray, and now an umpire, the latest one to join the betrayers bandwagon. The rot appears to be spreading by the day.

All these while we have made heroes out of them, cheered their every move, bestowed them with lavish praise, raised them to a pedestal, turned them into demigods.  But today they have shamed us. For a nation of 1.27 billion people who have followed their every move,  laughed with them and cried with them, they have wronged us. Is there hope? I have my doubts. Will I go back to watching the game? For a Tendulkar or a Dravid, a thousand times over. Not all apples are rotten. In fact, some of these stalwarts have sweetened the game to such an extent with their selfless contributions that the sour taste may not linger for long. But again, only if the perpetrators of such hideous acts are brought to book, the system cleansed inside out, the game restored to its days of pristine glory.

Just a few days after the racket hit headlines, I spotted several passersby crowd outside a restaurant near my office. No marks for guessing, an IPL match was on. Once again, the religion had drawn its followers to its fold.  Blinding 'blind faith’, I thought. 

Hers is no labour of love

I know not where she comes from, I know not where she goes. But I have seen her often, often enough not to miss her in a sea of faces. Those dreamy eyes -- the fear in them, the hope in them, the twinkle in them -- they reflect her story. Petite and pretty, she stands on the footpath holding a bunch of red roses, eagerly waiting for every Cupid-struck couple to ramble by. She knows these love birds’sweet nothings could earn her 10 bucks, but only if the roses, the universal symbol of love, please their romantic fancy. Sweltering sun or sudden drizzle, she knows she has to step out.  The flowers in her hand remain mute witness to the thorns in her life.

A tinge of smile, a few awkward steps and she comes imploring, “Ek phool le lo, bhaiya. Please, bhaiya. ” She nudges on, her quaint voice often drowning in the bustling crowd. Yet, she doesn't give up. Giving up is not an option. Briskly she walks, to catch up with the ones who would have unmindfully thrown a causal glance at her, enough to fuel her hopes of earning a few more pennies. While some shrug her off, a few reluctantly stop, exchange a few words with her, reach out for their purse even while bargaining for a better price. Really, 10 rupee for a rose is a lot. 150 bucks for a cup of coffee doesn't pinch.    

Her floral-print frock is all crushed and crumbled, her tiny feet in worn out hawai chappals dust-clad and tired, her braided hair unkempt. Life sure hasn't shown her rosy days. You know her innocence has lost its lustre, faded with the trials of time. At an age when kids of her age would go pestering for the latest videogame on the shelves, or that pretty dress in the shopping mall, she sits clumsily counting the few crumbled notes in her kitty, her earnings from the day, her savings for the morrow.

Even as I wonder where she gets her daily stock of flowers from, someone tells me she goes to graveyards collecting them. Initially, I shudder at the thought of it. From the graveyards? Really?  I refuse to believe, though remotely it does seem possible. Come to think of it, where else would a girl, barely 12 years old, get those fresh buds in half bloom? After all, nothing comes free in this world. And soon it begins to make sense. Money matters only to us earthly mortals. Walking up to the dead, to fend for her life comes priceless.

Every time that I see her now, I salute her courage, her resilience, her struggle, and somewhere silently wish she too sees a life in full bloom, someday, sometime.