When all one did was play cricket

Cricket, with its myriad delights and glorious uncertainties, has always fascinated me. During the holidays, my teen friends and I would scamper to various ‘maidans’ and watch teams lock horns in the state association’s tournaments. The humble bicycle was our salvation those days as so few sources of pastime or recreation were available to us. The distance was no inhibition and we wheeled to faraway grounds to watch the action. It was magical to watch EAS Prasanna, BS Chandrasekhar, GR Viswanath and SMH Kirmani excel in their craft.

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The Indian Gymkhana and St Aloysius School grounds, a stone’s throw away from our house, were our favourite hunting grounds. We learned the ropes of the game there and dreamt of representing our school, college or organisation some day. Some even harboured thoughts of wearing the India cap.

We forayed into the game by playing with a tennis or cork ball. A granite block or the trunk of a tree served as a wicket. We used a bat to measure the crease’s length, carved into the ground with the willow’s toe-end. As many of the players hailed from impoverished families, we seldom donned cricketing gear, save for a pair of gloves. Though this was hazardous, we played on, unmindful of the consequences.

Being given the responsibility to lead a band of neighbourhood boys in obscure tournaments, I had my task cut out. Weekends would see me hop on to my bicycle and go around imploring players to make it for the matches. Despite their promises, a few would play truant or arrive late. Luckily, interested spectators wishing to have a go would fill in for the absent players should the need arise.

Cricket, often called a gentleman’s game, would see a batsman ‘walk’ if he knew he was out without waiting for the umpire to raise the dreaded finger. But we were far from being gracious, picking up arguments with umpires and our adversaries and fudging score-sheets — which often was a page from a used notebook. Fudging scores was possible only during friendly matches as the official matches would see authorised scorers do the job impeccably.

Being regaled by cricket commentary made so much difference to our humdrum lives then, and the radio did an incredible job of bringing the action into our drawing rooms. Once a senior bank colleague and a diehard cricket fan had his ears glued firmly to the transistor, unwary of his boss hovering around him. When asked what’s going on, he responded in the blink of an eye, ‘Seven down.’ ‘You will not listen to the commentary henceforth,’ the manager growled, before turning away.

In another hilarious episode, when a bus conductor came around asking for tickets, a passenger lost in the running commentary, replied, ‘100 for two.’ Cricket today is not only a game, but a religion that transcends boundaries.