The league of the disgusting out in full

The tenth edition of the Cricket World Cup began over a month ago, but it was on Tuesday that the business end of the tournament actually commenced. “Business” in terms of the quality of cricket on show as well as obviously, the increased match ticket prices, ad revenue rates etc. For the record and to quote Graham Swann, I do believe that by removing the Associate nations from the World Cup in subsequent editions, the ICC will be removing the “World” from the World Cup.

But moving on, with said business end in motion, the first quarter final between Pakistan and the West Indies petered out into a foolishly one-sided ho-hum so-not-worth-it squash. Really, there’s nothing more that can be said about that particular match. And then this Wednesday rolled around. India V/s Australia. The Big One. The media, general public and the people that call themselves experts painted it as a “revenge” match. Revenge for what? For a game that took place eight years ago (WC 2003 finals)?. I’m certain commentators and sportscasters have described other Indian wins over Australia as revenge for that drubbing by 125 runs in Johannesburg all those years ago. And yet, they haven’t had their fill.

Ok. Sports rivalries often use the word “revenge” repeatedly (England-Argentina matches where England wins are still referred to as revenge wins), so I’ll let it pass.

While on one hand, the buildup to the game was quite well handled online (more specifically, on Cricinfo), television and newspapers had already started talking about an India-Pakistan semi-final. Talk about jumping the gun. Regardless, match starts. Sways back and forth. The four-time champions get off to a solid start until India hit back. The home team looks like restricting the Aussies to a low score. Ponting has other ideas and hits a gritty 100. India get off to an okayish start but lose Sehwag early. Solid partnerships. Clatter of wickets. Last recognised pair at the crease with 70-odd still required. Sensible batting and cool heads prevail and India earn a well-deserved win. All good so far.

That’s when the bullshit begins. A cable news channel that has over a period of time become my most loathed television channel (nope, it’s not India TV) immediately runs with these screaming banners about how “India thrashed Australia”, “Aussies taught a lesson” and most indescribably, “Ponting plays dirty”. I later discovered that what they were referring to was a moment in the game where the ball was in the air and Ponting attempted to catch it and “did”. He wasn't sure if he had caught it so it went to the third umpire, who ruled that it had bounced before it was caught. So, not out. The system works. Why that equals Ponting playing dirty, I’ll never know.

And then the bile overflowed in cyberspace. I guess this is what Fear Factory referred to in the track Cyberwaste. It's probably not, but the lyrics fit in perfectly in this case. Anyway, before long some of the nastiest and sickest shit was splattered all over the entire gamut of the social networking universe. From pathetically over-exuberant chest-beatings of triumph to atrocious and bitter little rhyming four-liners, schadenfreude spewed in the form of status updates and tweets. After a while, it just got puerile, shrill, crass and disgusting. To think that some idiots actually mocked Brett Lee who ended up with a bleeding head after diving to stop the ball.

Was it a collective outpouring of an anti-Australian sentiment? Perhaps in light of all the violence being doled out to Indians in Australia. If so, that’s bullshit. Far more Indians have been beaten up, killed and raped in the United States of America than in Australia. But the Americans don’t get any such reaction. Was it an overly raucous and boorish display of disbelief that India actually won? Or was it just a widespread display of what bad winners we really are? Bad losers are one thing, but bad winners just stink. With bad losers, you know why they’re acting like shitheads, but with bad winners... What the hell is their excuse?

But, what’s done is done. Bad karma caused by being a bad winner follows you around. It better not screw up India’s chances at the trophy. If it does, it’ll be those TV channels’ and those people’s fault. They can write their moronic four-line poetry then.

(Reprise)

This post was originally going to be titled “Your truth, my truth, teri maa ki-.....”. Catchy ain’t it? Anyway, it’s been over two-and-a-half months since I last posted, as the more astute (or bored enough to check regularly... you decide) among you would have undoubtedly noticed.

This one’s going to be extremely scattered and all over the place. Bear with me.

And that is the sad state of my present blog-rust. In fact it’s so bad that I’m still a fair bit from even starting up on the point of this particular post and yet, I’ve run out of things to type. Let me try and trace my footsteps. Right. Here we go.

Circa October 2010, I hit upon the idea to try and save up and make a trip to Australia to catch a Big Day Out show in Perth. Why Perth? I haven’t a clue. And when those plans went from musing to actual planning, I got home to check out airfare and just happened to check my mail first. Total coincidence. What I saw on my screen blew me away and scorched my retinae. Could it be? Fuck going to Australia. This is what I’m going to be doing, I told myself. Watching almost every single band I love perform at one place (and that too on the edge of the earth) would have been awesome, no doubt. But the subject matter of that email I saw referred to something that was happening in my own backyard. On my own turf.

The decision wasn’t exactly difficult and my bank account was extremely grateful to me. Every single day leading up to this particular thing was no more than a stepping stone — something to do till the day rolled around. Weekends were immaterial. The holiday season wasn’t important. New Year’s Eve didn’t mean diddly squat. I was waiting for my own personal big day out.

And then it came.

January 13, 2011: THE PRODIGY live at Palace Grounds, Bangalore!

The extent of foolishness that went on before and after the show is something that’s far too much to go into. It’ll require a separate post. And yes, the show was blindingly good. But amid all the mirth-making and coming to life of something for which I’d been waiting so long, were some extremely profound moments, one of which will help this clumsy post lurch a little closer to its point.

I believe it was some time between very late in the night on the 12th and very early in the morning of the 13th, when (for some unGodly reason) we were sat around discussing a particularly prickly topic in the subcontinent. That’s right, kiddies... The K-Word. So one of my cohorts begins detailing a particularly self-righteous, moralistic and over-simplified rant he’d heard in the very recent past. That got me thinking about how a ton of people ardently believe in these supposed universal truths that are based on debatable, inconclusive and flimsy grounds.

An example. “The Indian Army is always bad” is a favourite universal truth among hot topic activists, armchair pundits, media students and so on and so forth. I’m not even going to go into the extraordinary lengths to which these people go to justify the senseless massacre of innocent villagers, policemen etc. at the hands of “disenfranchised parties”. To ensure that I get to my point in the near future, I am going to refrain from indulging in a self-righteous rant of my own about this issue. How lucky you all are!

Moving on... there were two such “universal truths” (albeit nowhere near as conflicted) that I’d been mulling over the last couple of days. The first has to do with cowboys. We’re all familiar with the shouting and yelling that greeted the release of Brokeback Mountain, with all these dissenting voices belly-aching about how it was wrong to portray cowboys as gay. Dig deeper and we found that conservatives in Utah (for instance) thought it went against “traditional families”. Someone as cool and macho as cowboys can’t possibly be portrayed as being homosexual, Cletus, his maw and the entire deep south yee-hawed. And then, Hollywood, as you all well know, has nearly always without exception, propounded the idea of the cool, smooth-talking and the epitome-of-all-things-masculine cowboy. It’s the WILD West, not the Mild West, after all.

But wait, just a damn second.

Who the hell decided that cowboys were so cool? And the next inevitable question is, if cowboys are so cool, why aren’t goatherders considered cool? Why aren’t farmers considered cool? Why don’t kids get plastic combine harvesters for Christmas? Why don’t they dress up as millers for Halloween? The real cowboys are often lazy layabouts who take naps while their cattle graze and then herd them back and that’s the end of their day. Historically, I believe cowboys were cowards too. I mean who the hell goes with a revolver and shoots people armed with nothing but sticks and maybe bows and arrows? And then tries to act like the victim and complains, “Damn Injuns got me” or something like that.

The other “universal truth” is far more newsy and far more fun. For time immemorial, I have seen men, a majority of whom were British, go on and on about this particular institution (I suppose it would be a fair way to describe it). The level of understanding of this instition that you possess defines just how much of a man you are. If you have little to no comprehension of it, you are roundly pilloried and mocked. If you call the institution stupid, you see the scrawniest of folk jump up in its defence with fire in their eyes, all set to defend their institution and its way of life. And honestly, this aforementioned institution is fairly simple to understand. Simple enough for a wee kid to understand.

It is for that reason that I don’t get why a guy who has been a virtual legend in his field would be stupid enough to cling to that particular institute and its supposed exclusivity... So much so that it would cost him his job. Give me a moment while I find a suitable way to dispell this "universal truth". How do I put this? Err... Let’s try this.

To put it very simply:
OFFSIDE IS A FOOLISHLY SIMPLE RULE!! There is no glory in claiming that you understand it and that imply that women don’t. Even LBW is a harder thing to understand than your fucking offside. Keep in mind that I’m not talking about refereeing or umpiring, where you need to watch carefully to see if it is in fact offside or LBW. I’m talking about knowing how it works. So to all of you who still think that offside is the holy grail of masculine understanding, I say this: If you really want to be smarter or show the world that you’re smart and they’re dumb, try and work out how Duckworth-Lewis is calculated.

Spare a thought though for poor Andy Gray. Take a bow, son. What a stupid way to get fired.

A surreal return to VfB for sure, but worry not, normal service will be resumed soon.

Growing pains

I haven’t written very much (hardly even a word) about the two most burning issues in India yet and it’s not been only due to laziness. I figured they’re getting enough attention from other sources, so why me bother? Right? Well, yes and no, it’s just that now the time seems right to offer comment. But first... the good news. No wait, the good news will have to wait a second. Let’s have the AWESOME news first.

Err... I’m actually lost for words. For the last few days I’ve used the most outlandish metaphors, similes and general statements to describe this news, and now I seem to have blown a literary fuse. I haven’t the words to embellish this outstandingly wonderful good news. I’m still reeling from it, y’see. Reeling from the fact that I haven’t been on a self-destructively fun holiday in a while, with the exception of monkeying around with LT, but that was more of a babysitting assignment (hyuk hyuk). So Bengaluru and New Delhi it is. January. To see The Prodigy. That is all...

Now onto the good news. The Commonwealth Games (to be referred to from this point as simply CWG) look like they’ll actually happen. Well, they bloody well should, given that today’s the opening ceremony. I know what you’re thinking. ’Twas only a matter of time till I too jumped on the CWG-bashing bandwagon? No. Be patient and read (and besides, I’m fighting a tight deadline, targetting wrapping this up before the ceremony starts, so I know how the CWG peeps feel).

The reality of the situation is that while the enduring image of these games, to me at least, should have been the awestruck faces of little kids watching a 100-metre race or some long (or high) jump action or the pole vault event or anything for that matter. My theory is that the more kids who find themselves more enamoured by a long-ass fibreglass pole than a wooden bat, the better our nation’s level of athletics will be. But I digress. If the kids don’t turn up, then I’d have hoped that the enduring image would have been the victory dance or celebrations of a new star. Someone who’d just broken a long-standing record. Someone who’d picked up a stack of medals.

All my scepticism and cynicism aside, I never thought it would be that image. You know the one I mean. Maybe I believed that somewhere, at some point, the authorities would actually get serious about more than lining their own pockets. It’s possible. You’d have thought that they would have considered the potential for embarrassment in front of the whole effin’ world. Maybe? The thought had crossed my mind. That’s when it hit me. Kalmadi’s corruption is not something I wish to discuss (although you have to wonder how Rs 70,000 crore or 700 billion could be so shamelessly pilfered) but it’s glaringly obvious why the CWG village was in such a squalid state.

The sports authorities in this country have always treated our athletes like shit. There’s no way of sugar coating it. Unless they’re cricketers or someone who’s (despite the shitty facilities and management) gone and won a medal somewhere — then there’ll be loads of fawning and photo opportunities. But for the majority of athletes, they’re horribly ill-treated and so, Kalmadi probably thought, “Hey, athletes are athletes. Who’s gonna notice if I pocket the money meant for them and let them slum it out. Besides it’s only 14 days. Fuck ’em.”

No Mr Kalmadi, fuck you. Corruption is one thing. Stupidity and arrogance is quite another. Claiming that these Games would be bigger and better than the Beijing Olympics is the single most moronic thing you could have ever thought of. Never mind the fact that you actually said it. And also, when you’re in the wrong, accept it. Don’t act so Goddamn brazen. Please.

Getting back to the international humiliation aspect, a lot of people are upset at the sort of outspoken criticism that India has been receiving from all quarters. Some are even questioning why the world hates India. The first thing to do is not cry and feel sorry for ourselves. Instead, use it as a reality check. Yes, the organising committee really screwed up. The government did drop the ball on this one. A lot of people made us, Indians look extremely stupid (Like the dumbass who said foreign standards and our standards of hygiene are different. WTF?). And finally, the brilliantly understanding cricket board decided to schedule an India-Australia series at the same bloody time.

But if we are to harbour dreams of rising out of this Third World Country status and being taken seriously as a world power, scrutiny and indeed, criticism is inevitable. It’s been around forever. Remember Prince Phillip in all his princely majesty looking at a fuse box that was faulty and proclaiming, “Oh I do say Lizzie, this fuse box looks like it was put together by an Indian. Narf narf narf.” To which, I’m told the Queen replied, “What have I told you, Phillip? You call me Queen.”

In fact, it’ll be worse than ever when the world sees we’re trying to assert ourselves. The criticism will go from “Oh, you’re so filthy” to “Your momma” type insults. Being so thin-skinned and crying about it isn’t the way to go. And sure, our momentum has been hit by this fiasco. But that’s alright. There’s still time. And usually, the really malicious insults have a way of coming back to bite people in the ass.

Slight detour: I was on a Prodigy bulletin board the other day, when I saw a thread about the upcoming India tour and in one of the entries, some user whose avatar picture depicted some sort of eagle in the foreground with the St. George’s Cross in the backdrop. He had written something along the lines of “Are the lads sure they want to go there? What if the stage collapses like? Heh heh”. Not very nice, but okay. On Saturday, a burst water pipe causes part of the ceiling of the visitors’ changing room at Sunderland’s Stadium of Light to come crashing down, leaving Manchester United homeless. Karma? Maybe. That’s why I’m not going to tempt a Karmic bite in the ass by saying something like “Stadium of Shite”.

Also, a shitty build-up doesn’t necessarily mean crappy Games, right? They could end up being quite good actually. India could get a massive haul of medals. Some new stars could be born. Who knows? And now that the CWG is hours from getting underway, I plan to put my support behind it. There’ll be enough digging around and heads rolling after they’re done, anyway. I just hope the right heads roll and not some scapegoats.

Speaking of scapegoats, God, who has often been blamed for so much bloodshed, animosity and bigotry in this country I call my home, probably breathed a sigh of relief this Thursday. Not for the sakes of our livers though (it was the first of three back-to-back dry days), but because the nation finally showed a bit of maturity. It hinted that maybe it’s citizens are growing up. Maybe there’s more than black and white (or in this case, saffron and green). Yes, the Ayodhya verdict where the land was split three-ways, was a little controversial, but it was brilliant to see most people saying, “Yeah alright then. It’s the fairest decision.”

Sure, the petitioners are going to appeal to the Supreme Court, but that’s what a democracy is about. Go for it. Appeal. HOWZZAT!!! (Poor taste, I know). But answer me this: how many people were killed in communal riots after the verdict? Zero. Despite the fact that the media in its overzealous reportage seemed like it was almost goading people to fight (and one newscaster actually looked dismayed at announcing that there was no violence), no one took to arms. I liked that. It filled me with hope. A feeling that despite the fact that there are still creases in our system, the ironing process has begun.

And after the CWG, we’ll suddenly wake up and realise something. Two things. Who the fuck cares about the Commonwealth anymore and why the crikey-fuck are we trying to preserve the history of colonialism?!?

The Human Salt

Usually, salt in one's wounds isn't the pleasantest of things. Salt, as you all well know, stings like a mad hornet in your ass if it enters a wound. Take for instance, the extremely common example of having a cut and finding sweat running into it. It stings. A lot (depending on the nature of the cut). Now in a far more painful and sadistic example, imagine a fistful of salt being rubbed into a gash in your flesh. That hurts like crazy, but fortunately, I've never had to experience it.

I can only imagine that it hurts like crazy.

Now, I haven't decided to hammer out this post to discuss the pain inflicted on your self by the salty injection into your blood. I'm looking at the obnoxiousness of it all. Salt in a wound is the equivalent of someone who barges into your home uninvited. Maybe you don't even know the person. But he/she storms in and proceeds to spend a few moments just barking at you about how screwed up your home and your life is. He/she will then spend the next few moments screaming at you about your faults and things that went wrong in your life. (Think about salt in your wound if you will. "Yes, I bloody know I've got a massive gash in my arm. I don't need to be reminded of it by you hurting me more, salt") The person will then swing into action with a tank of acid and throw it all over your home burning your possessions, your memories and your personal effects.

And for what? Just because he/she is salt.

And this salty individual won't tell you the obvious problems politely. Oh no, this person is hell-bent on screaming about everything. And it's not a pleasant scream either. He/she possesses the shrillest, most eardrum-ripping and piercing voice known. (That's why it stings so much more) Naturally, at the end of it all, you feel violated, angry and yearning to slap said person upside his/her head. Pushed enough as you would with salt, you usually end up wanting to introduce his/her lips to the barrel of a shotgun and tell him/her to pucker up.

This brings us very neatly to who I believe is The Human Salt... (I won't go as far as to say, Devil Incarnate). I have seen/met a number of people who irritate me. I'm sorry, but I'm a bit judgmental that way. A lot of people make me angry as hell, but very few people make me seethe as much as The Human Salt. A number of people have pointed out the obvious to me, made foolish arguments to me and expected me to buy them, given me idiotic rationale and excuses (like for instance claiming never to have heard of a CD that they were lent, when it went missing and suddenly appearing with it a few days later). Still, that doesn't so much as hold a candle to The Human Salt.

I remember being extremely irked by the loud, self-aggrandising pomp of this person during the lunch break of a Test match between India and Sri Lanka in the first half of the 2000s. My dad and I laughed about how irritating he was. Flash forward to today. He is the toast of a television channel, run by the most narcissistic man on television today. I'm not going to even discuss the horror and wholehearted practice of urinating on the face of journalism that this narcissist indulges in on a regular basis. I'd rather get onto blasting this specimen whose identity I'm sure you've guessed by now.

That's right, The Human Salt is none other than Boria Majumdar. Google him and see how many hate sites come up. The man is without the shadow of a doubt, the most irritating and obnoxious person on television today. (Just for the record, second place is in the safe hands of a rival news channel's number one reporter) Now I've heard tales of Majumdar's influence in sports circles and the wealth of knowledge that he is. So fuckin' what? I've met a lot of reporters who can squeeze a quote out of ANYONE related to their beat at any time of the day. I happen to work with a couple of such people, who also happen to be the humblest and least obnoxious people I know.

Wealth of knowledge? I'm a bloody wealth of knowledge... And there are numerous people I know who possess far more knowledge in their heads than I could ever imagine, who are gentle with its dissemination. Even when they know I'm wrong and they're right. I fail to see how yelling and screaming shrilly on television makes any point whatsoever. More so when you have someone on the next channel conveying the same point in a far more docile manner.

You have an exclusive, you say? You have an exclusive spot on my wall, is what I'd like to tell you. An exclusive shooting range devoted only to you. (I really hope you read this and scream on television about how you're getting death threats. I'd laugh my ass off, since this is anything but a death threat) It's a plea to you, Boria. Please stop hurting my ears with your high pitched high decibel tripe. And please stop burning my retinae with that smug "I smell my own farts and they smell like roses" look on your face.

Is that too much to ask? Stick to writing about the history of a bail or the first time in recorded history that someone ever threw a small spherical object at someone else. That way I don't have to feel like I'm going to need surgery everytime you feel the need to screech about something. I don't come and screech in your face, do I? I blog. You could try doing that. Maybe you have one. I wouldn't know since I want nothing to do with you.

Regardless, I guess what I'm trying to say is that the above is just an example of some of the range of painful emotions that i undergo when the thought of The Human Salt even enters my synapses. Seriously though, so the Indian team got knocked out on its collective ass in this T20 World Cup. They played like fools. Don't act like they owed you something, Boria. And get all shrill about it and rope in former players who will say whatever you want just to ensure that you shut the hell up.

I don't want to be mean to you, but I'm compelled to do so since you won't meet me halfway. You won't tone down your bullshit and so, neither will I. I'm sure you have your legion of "fans". Meet them, hang out with them. But for God's sake, get off the tube. By the way, BM, do you know your initials also stand for Bowel Movements. Intentional? Perhaps.

I'm done now. It's off my chest. I feel much happier. Especially since this was post number 100 on this here blog. Tooooot!

Tiptoeing on the in-between

How many of you remember Val Venis? Not the WWE-era Val Venis, but the WWF one. Not the member of Right To Censor but, this guy. The faux pornstar character, who was supposed to act all ladies’ man-like and was supposed to preen, posture and pose to put on the impression of being irresistible to women. In WWF-world, it was still humorous to see him put on a deep voice and try and seduce women with the narrowing of his eyes and a pelvic thrust here and there. Over the years, that tired routine made me cringe. A lot.

Of course, pro-wrestling or sports entertainment is devised to tell its stories through exaggeration. And so a character like that would be perfectly acceptable. However, I cannot for the life of me, work out why a character like that would be acceptable as a cricket presenter. Sporting some ridiculous tight and gaudy-looking shirt with the top four buttons undone to show off his heavage (a word I learnt recently. Apparently, it means man-cleavage), some ghetto-as-hell gelled-up hairdo, slouched in his arm chair and making eyes at the camera like he were Don Juan de la fuckin’ Nooch.

But then, maybe I’m being too harsh. Sameer Kochhar does have a few good qualities... a philanthropic side, for one. He is the only man to make Arun Lal, Shonali Nagrani and Archana Vijaya (Revisit this if you need a brush-up) seem like good presenters, who know what they’re talking about. Kudos for your selflessness. Sacrificing your own dignity, so others look good. Anyway, long story short. IPL-3 drew to a close a few days ago.

There’s a number of good things about that fact. Not least of which is that we don’t have to see Kochhar trying to be Val Venis (unless he moves to a different channel) for at least another year. With Modi or without Modi, that remains to be seen, but it’s not for another year. No Citi Moments of Success for another year. No more people with poor eye-hand coordination trying to take catches and dropping them spectacularly in a bid to win themselves a cheap phone. No effin’ DLF Maximums for a year!

The other upside is that we can finally get back to some real cricket. It’s a shame that it’s again of the T20 variety, but that’s fine. The Lord of Pestilence reminisced recently about the magic of the 5-day version of the game. It’d be nice to have some more of that but for now, T20 will have to suffice. That it is international T20 obviously makes it better. The players aren’t playing for some cement manufacturer, hirsute newspaper owner or stylishly gaudy liquor baron. They’re playing for national pride.

We stand right now on the thin line between a big-money, glitzy and yet ultimately meaningless tournament and a far less money-addled, less glitzy but slightly more meaningful tournament. (T20 champions of the world doesn’t mean shit. ODI and Test championships matter, to me at least) It’s an exciting place to be standing — this thin border between the past and the future. Let me tell you why.

Looking back at the IPL, I can do so with perspective. Sure, for a large part, it was entertaining enough. Some shades of brilliance did shine through in the batting, bowling and (to a much much much lesser extent) fielding departments. A few outrageous shots and insane catches were all good to watch. However, a lot of this for me at least, was tainted after the whole Income-Tax department swooped down on IPL Inc. It got to a point where matches were being watched closely with viewers conducting detailed analyses of the tournament among themselves... Not about the state of the match, but about which matches had been fixed, how much did one think they’d been fixed for and so on. It was like 2000 all over again, as The Lord of Pestilence also points out.

At the same time, looking forward, optimism overpowers all else. Watching Afghanistan playing for the first time in a major international tournament is something I really really want to see. Will they be able to pull off any major upsets? If so, I tip India as being the team that will be turned over by the Afghans. Will they qualify for the next round? Could they, just maybe do a Kenya and get to the semis? Given the unpredictable nature of T20 and the power of momentum, could they, just maybe have a hope in hell of becoming finalists? Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself but that’s a team I plan to follow as long as it’s in the tournament.

Another clash I’m looking forward to is how people who played in the IPL fare against those who (for one reason or another) didn’t. Should they meet, I believe this time around’s India-Pakistan match, more than some in the reason past, will be the ultimate grudge match. Of course, like I said, optimism overpowers all rational thought.
Rational thought suggests that there’ll be a ton of one-sided contests.
Rational thought suggests that there’ll be at least one utter mauling of a minnow.
Rational thought suggests South Africa will ballz it up again.
And so on and such like.

And then, you feel a sense of happy anticipation when rational thought and optimism come together and you realise there’ll be no MRF blimp, no DLF Maximums and no exaggerator-in-chief Danny Morrison (God-willing). You realise there will be the commentary brilliance of David Lloyd, who won’t feel compelled to call every shot “amazing” or “fantastic”. You realise there will be some very good performances and really tight matches. And best of all, you realise there’ll be the distinct lack of that stupid Spanish horn and... Sameer Kochhar.

Cowardice in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

I’m pretty pleased with myself.
2008 was one of the slowest years for The View.
Only 16 posts and most of them sucked.
That’s not why I’m pleased.
I thought the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque series would be a two-parter.
A trilogy at the very most.
Now, we’re already staring down the barrel of part five.
BANG!

It was at the end of another woefully mismatched contest in the IPL between the Mumbai Indians and Deccan Chargers that the broadcasting channel decided to show some “exclusive” footage of that night’s post-match party. There’s this new concept they have of a party (in the city in which the match was played) every night at the end of the match with random celebrities preening and posing for cameras and hob-knobbing with cricketers, team owners and socialites. I hear they also have ramps and fashion shows by designers who couldn’t quite make it to a normal fashion show. Presumably, the cricketers model their wares. Or something. I don’t know.

And so, on this so-called exclusive footage was a television presenter with horrible facial foliage, who is described by a colleague of mine as a choosa hua aam (sucked-out mango). So this mango man walks up with his cameraman and microphone to IPL Commissioner (that name still makes me laugh; makes it seem like he’s on Raw or Smackdown) Lalit Modi and Sushmita Sen, who acts in films and adopts little girls. So, mango master asks some inane questions that are fresh out of the training manual for banal TV presenter-style chit-chat.

After gushing about Sachin was her favourite cricketer, Sen proceeded to answer mango mania’s next query about which team she supported. Some nit-witted giggly joke about being a neutral supporter was followed by—... You know what? This doesn’t really capture the essence of it at all. Let’s try again.


Mango Masala: So Sush... *cracks one of those ‘Eyyyy’ smiles* Are you enjoying the cricket?
Sen: Oh my, yes... of course *trying hardest, it would seem to convince herself* It’s... great.
Mango Masti: Yeah? *absolutely shocked by that response* Wow, that’s great. Do you have a favourite cricketers?
Sen: Well, let’s see... *rumbled, she realises she needs to come up with some names*. I have a lot of favourite players *phew, she sighs, that was a close one, but it’s best not to take chances, so who’s that guy everyone knows... errr... he’s on hoardings, tv and errr...* But my all-time favourite is Sachin Tendulkar. He’s just... great *phew, home and dry*

Mango Mahal: Yeah? That’s... great *if it’s not a Citi Moment of Success, or a Karbonn Kamal Catch or a DLF Maximum... it must be great* Which team are you supporting in the IPL?
Sen: *bloody hell, what is this, a trial? what where those teams called again, she wonders briefly, grins and notices that creepy Modi leching at her from off camera* Well, you know I... just like your commissioner Mr Modi, I too am a neutral supporter
Modi: *ain’t got nothing to do or say... wait, camera’s turning towards him and so he grins*
Sen: I usually select the team I’m going to support after the match has started *need to know who’s winning to then support them... wait, that came out wrong... backtrack* and I always back the underdog.

At this point, Modi clears his throat and gets ready to open his mouth. The guy was adept enough at inducing thousands to cringe in the first couple of IPLs, but he has been nothing short of an utter embarrassment in this particular edition. First off, he has the most moronic speech-writers. Either that or he writes them himself and they’re very very poor. Secondly, at every match, he runs around the stadium in a bit to sit next to every vaguely famous person at the ground and ensures that he is shown doing so onscreen. And some member of the commentary team, usually Ravi Shastri (you too have become such an embarrassment) will announce in a regal manner, as his heart beats proudly in his chest, “The commissioner, ladies and gentlemen... Lalit Modi” or some shite like that and Modi’ll smile and wave at the camera. It sickens me.

Honestly, watching the IPL is an emotionally traumatic process. Ads. Interruptions. That stupid Spanish horn. Modi. Shilpa Shetty. Some would call it Emotional Atyachar. (Bud-dum thish!) A television show called Emotional Atyachar, which is basically a copy of the American show Cheaters as I’ve been reliably informed, recently received a strongly-worded call from the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena. It’d take too damn long to go into just how dodgy the concept of the show is so I’ll make it ultra ultra brief (Go me!). Boy/girl suspects partner is cheating, gets TV channel to plant spycams, microphones and decoys to administer “loyalty test” and show all footage to boy/girl who suspects partner, followed by a final showdown.

No, it isn’t the dubious moral leanings of the show that invited the MNS’ wrath and threats of violence. One of the girls who suspected her boy friend of being a dirty no-good rat, said “Bombay” instead of “Mumbai” on the show. This led to the threat, which was followed by extra care by the Emotional... people to never let anyone say “Bombay” again and a ticker across the screen apologising for the mistake. Ok. The Shiv Sena a few days earlier attacked the nearly 130-year-old Bombay Natural History Society for not changing its name to “Mumbai Natural History Society”. BNHS didn’t apologise or anything though. Good on them.

Which brings us back very neatly to mango mambo, Sen and Modi. To recap, Sen had just said that she supported the underdog and...

Sen: *underdog eh? so, by that logic...* And so today, I was a Deccan Chargers supporter
Modi: *jumps in over-enthusiastically* Nonsense, she supports Bombay!

Did you hear that, MNS and Sena? Lalit Modi said Bombay on TV. I don’t see your goons trying to break down his door, smear ink or paint on his face and tear his clothes up. What happened? Got scared that he might have security guards, who might have an automatic weapon that might be unloaded in the heads of your foolish followers? What’s the matter, o protectors of Mumbai and its culture? Doused your drawers at the thought of taking on Modi Inc? Happy taking on the little guy, but revealing what cowards you are when it’s time to carry your agenda to the big dog. It’s really sad.

Keep it up and carry on beating up North Indians and then see how quickly this city goes to hell. Honestly, starting fights when people say “Bombay”? Grow up. I bet Modi just said it to show how you can’t touch him. So this then, is for you, Shiv Sena and MNS. Read as carefully as you can.

Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay effin’ Bombay. Jo ukhaadna hai, ukhaad le abhi.

A Scowl in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

Grotesque is easy to find, anywhere you look. A large man’s sweaty hairy ass-crack hanging out. Overflowing garbage dumps near restaurants. Being 60 and dressing like you were an 18 lady of the night. Makeup on nine-year-olds. iPopularity. And such like. But, we’re talking sports and entertainment. Arguably, the most grotesque of the lot (televised and shown in over 10 countries) is pro-wrestling.

Here’s merely one reason why — Katie Vick. On a show watched by kids all over the world. Yep. But then, WWF/E have always had to resort to gimmickry. I’m by no means suggesting that shit like that Katie Vick thing can be justified. Don’t get me wrong. But gimmicks, yes. All the fireworks, the entrance theme music, the massive screen and the video segments on it. Long and sometimes painfully long storylines. Cars being run over by other cars. People being run over by cars. Affairs of a sexual nature and so on and so forth.

But, I realise they have to resort to the gimmickry. Can you imagine how boring it would be for people to watch two hours of oiled men in spandex just grappling each other. Match after match? Why do you think normal wrestling sucks so much? Pro-wrestling tries to distract viewers from the actual wrestling aspect of it and throws all sorts of other things to keep them interested. Why do you think the “Divas” league in pro-wrestling was set up at all? Because they can really wrestle? Sure. Whatever you say. I’m not talking about actual women wrestlers here, like the ones who go to the Olympics.

Cricket on the other hand, in India at least (so basically 50 per cent of the world’s viewing population), is interesting enough to engage viewers for hours and hours. And this has been the case since long before the cheerleaders, the fireworks, Twenty20 or any of that other stuff entered the fray. Cricket doesn’t need things to be thrown in just to distract spectators. It’s not wrestling. Twenty20 was created as a format to hook newbies and bring them into cricket and not make them dislike the sport more.

Last night, I got a glimpse of just how bad things have become today and got a glimpse into Commissioner Modi’s nefarious scheme to kill cricket altogether. Random music playing at arbitrary intervals including two shocking theme songs (will elaborate at the very end) and a creepy — yes, that’s the best word — version of 7 Nation Army. Explosions going off, cheerleaders and an ass of an announcer yelling at the crowd to make some noise and demanding Mexican Waves every two minutes.

So much hard work just to distract people from the actual cricket on display. Bowlers having to wait till a song was over or till the announcer was done bellowing. The match seemed to revolve around the bullshit that was going on around the stadium. I’ve never ever thought very highly of television advertisements in the middle of cricket matches, but after last night, I will gladly put up with them, because at least I can change the channel. I’d happily eschew the charm and atmosphere of a stadium and watch the match on TV knowing that the dumb ass announcer can’t hurt my eardrums.

I’d miss out on impossibly long lines for refreshments with people shoving each other hard because obviously them getting their food and drinks first and getting in their seats first is the most important thing. I’d miss out on elbows in my face in my attempt to buy an overpriced cup of warm, syrupy and flat Pepsi. I think I’ll manage without that. I’d miss out on all the characters. I’d miss out on seeing people like this group of business yuppies, whose behaviour would probably make Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx’ drunken antics seem polite. Chirmi was right. “The one thing business schools or B-schools don’t teach and bloody well should, is manners”.

Just in front of those fuckwits was an absolute legend. A skinny bespectacled guy wearing a Kolkata cap and jersey, who was a friend of the B-school boneheads (I think). His jersey bore the number 13 and his name (presumably, unless he stole the jersey)... Anuprit. This guy would get up and start gyrating as fast as he could, limbs akimbo, singing along to Kolkata’s ridiculous theme music — while actually knowing only one line. Good for him, the handicap of not actually knowing 90 per cent of the song didn’t stop him one bit. When his team hit its first six, he began shaking violently as he spasmed in his seat like some sort of localised tornado. I instinctively reached for my phone to call for an ambulance. I’m nice like that. His palms turn into fists with unfurled middle fingers and within the space of 4.3 seconds, he’s flipped off everyone at the stadium. The Man with the Fastest Fingers in the East — Anuprit 13. What a legend.

And then there was the cricket. Sure, it was good in parts. A Krappy Kolkata Kombination snuck past the Decidedly Complacent Deccan Chargers. Good match. I like watching a team snatch a loss from the jaws of victory as much as watching a team snatching victory from the jaws of a loss. This match had both elements. But it kept getting interrupted by the crowning jewels of grotesque that night.

“Too hot too cool, All the king’s men We rule!!! We too hot We too cool, Aamhi Kolkata We rule!!!” Anuprit 13 nearly burst a blood vessel every time excerpts from this Kolkata theme music played, which it did regularly. As for the Chargers’ they had Shaan singing some song that went along the lines of “Tum paan khaaoge, Hum chaar khaayenge.... Tum paad maaroge, Hum do maarenge”. Which roughly translates of course to: You eat one betel leaf, we’ll eat four and you fart once, we’ll do it twice. And these songs kept playing after every wicket, boundary, six, no ball, wide, every time the umpire coughed etc. etc. etc.

Relevance to cricket? None
Distraction from cricket? Total
Grotesque nature of the theme songs? Extreme
How did it make me feel? Scowl-y

A Smile in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

There was a television show once — one I greatly enjoyed through its three seasons — called Bo Selecta. It was a sketch show that took its antics to ludicrous levels of stupidity and sometimes, that’s fun. The ‘celebrity masks’ used on the show were pretty damn grotesque and one of the most grotesque ones was the Kelly Osbourne mask (and character too in fact). There was one particular sketch where the Kelly Osbourne character was trying to pimp some show and suddenly takes on this bizarre cockney voice and says something like, “Look kiddies, we got aww yow five’ritz (all your favourites... duh)!!”

I laughed then...

I sure as hell wasn’t laughing last night when IPL “commissioner” Lalit Modi seemed to be saying that at the IPL opening ceremony, considering the “entertainment” in store for ticket-holding suckers. Some sources told me that the Deccan Chargers management organised the opening ceremony. Unconfirmed rumours of course, but regardless, an opening ceremony there most certainly was. And amid the ceremony were “aww yow five’ritz” comprising Lionel Richie, UB40, some stupid parody act called Bjorn Again and the truly Godawful (there really is no other word) Deepika Padukone. *shudder*

Who, it must be asked, would organise a the inauguration of a tournament of Twenty20 — a game that’s meant to be 21st Century fast, loud, brash — and invite the first three clowns to perform? And then think it’s a good idea? What percentage of the audience actually wanted to see Lionel Richie, UB40 and a joke act from Australia pretending to be Swedish? Padukone on the other hand, was just a joke. Spinning around sluggishly to some frankly foolish Bollywood songs and some Black Eyed Peas stuff. And calling Navi Mumbai “Mumbai”. Good one.

(Call that nitpicking if you will, but to me that’s like some punk act I once saw claiming that Leeds was their favourite place in London, England)

The theme of the whole event however, was what baffled me the most. I had heard somewhere that the IPL (or maybe one of the franchises were supporting the UNAIDS programme). The curtains (?) around the stage that were inflated at the start and floated skyward and hung there and acted as a projector screen (I’m not kidding) seemed to resemble a condom cut in half. Then, each of the eight franchises were represented by what looked like large inflatable penises with their logo on them. Finally, the stage was surrounded by these people in what to the best of my understanding resembled chef outfits with a white triangular hat (that looked like a piece of cheese).

Actually a better comparison would be Ku Klux Klan outfits, with that piece of cheese on them. Now one can only assume that these people — going with the analogy — were supposed to represent sperm cells. So you got the penises, the condom and the sperm cells running around everywhere randomly lighting up in all sorts of different colours (with some LED set up). I don’t know what that’s supposed to represent. Maybe a message of how every sperm is special and so you shouldn’t masturbate? Mr Modi, care to clarify?

But as with everything in life, there’s always something positive to every negative and believe me, you’d be real hard-pressed to find anything positive in thousands of grown up men and women pretending to be sperm cells. But, here goes. One particular segment of the silhouette of a drummer on a curtain (that condom from earlier) as he drummed away was rather good. Laser Man was the BOMB!! I love lasers and that performance was some unequivocally mad shit. It’s dawned on me now that it’s pretty rude to call those Nu Klansmen “sperm cells”. I think I’ll call them “little chefs” henceforth.

Lionel Richie came on at the end and performed one song called Lord-knows-what... oh yeah, Dancing on the Ceiling. That’s the one. Now these little chefs were positioned in straight lines from the stage over to the boundary. So if the ground was a cycle tyre, these little chefs formed the spokes. Got it? And they had to do some obscure dance where they were swaying from side-to-side while doing jumping jacks. This, to me, was more than just ill-conceived choreography. I’m doing my best not to underplay the profundity of this.

The cycle spoke thing for me, was a metaphor for life. In life, as those little chefs demonstrated, you are expected (seldom for some, regularly for others) to fall in line and dance to the beat of someone else’s drum. Painful job or relationship perhaps. And sometimes, you’re even expected to do so while dressed foolishly. Painful job that requires you to wear a chicken suit (or a normal suit and tie for that matter). Savvy?

Every now and then somebody comes along, who falls in line, dresses foolishly as told and dances to someone else’s beat... but does it with such a massive grin on his/her face that it really makes you stop complaining about trivialities. Most of the little chefs were just going through the motions, while wondering how many bedsheets they could make from their costumes. A couple of them, whom I dubbed “happy little chefs” were really getting into it, jumping around all over the place. If behaviour or body language was in fact a window to a person’s feelings, their vigorous, energetic and really really happy movements told me that person’s face must be home to a humongous smile.

And suddenly it didn’t seem to matter that they may have been playing sperm cells in a macabre skit also involving a giant condom and eight penises. The little chefs lighting up randomly now seemed quite cool. They had a job to do and were doing it, some with a hell of lot more enthusiasm than others. They were on the world’s stage after all. Their happy jumping jacks took away all the incredulity, irritation and disgust I’d been harbouring until then. Sachin, Warnie, Ganguly, Dhoni, Padukone and Richie all got pretty robust rounds of applause and cheers from the crowd. I saved my loudest applause for the happy little chefs.

Bring on the cricket!

Twas only a matter of time

Jasper (the old guy with the long beard) from The Simpsons had made quite a poignant remark once while trying (the operative word is trying) to watch television. He’d said, “Two hundred channels; Nothing but cats.” That was me a few days ago. Road to Perdition on one channel, some dumb ass show called TMZ on another channel. News channels all airing the same boring story. Some crap on the sports channels and CSI on another.

Two hundred channels; Nothing but crap, I heard myself say.

Of course, to be fair, there was Bad Santa on some channel, but that wouldn’t be on until hours later. My unfathomable love for that film will be discussed at another time, in another post. Not now. Idly flipping through channels reminded me of a time nearly two decades ago, when all we had was two channels — Doordarshan and DD-Metro. Today, I cannot make any sense of how only two channels were enough back then, but they were. Strangely enough.

Cartoons, news, TV shows, music shows, sports (involving India) etc. Most of the programming was quite high-quality stuff. Television shows like Buniyaad, Malgudi Days, Oshin, Humlog, Nukkad and so on are the stuff of legend. I saw the entire coverage of the first Gulf War on Doordarshan news in tiny bit-size packages. No CNN for us back then.

Then again, I probably didn’t watch too much television back then. Read a fair bit. Used my imagination a fair bit. A shit load more than some of these loser kids of today. (Again, a topic for a different time). For instance, I played cricket — albeit with a plastic bat and ball — long before I’d ever seen a match on television. 1992’s probably when I watched my first cricket match on television. I’d never seen this sport being actually played. And they wore some pretty spiffy pyjama-style outfits, I remember thinking. Note: Doordarshan only used to telecast matches featuring India and so, the first match I saw was India v/s England.

WACA, Perth
Benson and Hedges World Cup
February 22, 1992

Set as it was in Australia, matches started long before I woke up for school and would be done before we were done with school. Plus, there was a small highlights package which was on long after I was asleep. The day India played England (in day/night match), I managed to catch most of the match. I don’t know how. Probably skipped school or something. Can’t remember.

With the fall of Mohammad Azharuddin’s wicket, in walked a diminutive (the word’s a dead give away) man, who seemed to be wearing a helmet a couple of sizes too big. Massive mop of curly hair and he looked no more than a couple of years older than me, I thought. I was 7. Every shot he unfurled in that knock against England looked amazing. I love that guy, I thought to myself. Saw him get out cheaply in the next match against the West Indies. It doesn’t matter, I thought.

Over the next few years, I got more and more involved in playing the game. Signed up with a few coaching classes. Realised I enjoyed bowling a hell of a lot more than batting, but I’d kill to be able to bat like that. That of course was that little kid on TV, who was slowly but surely making a huge name for himself in a game of men. And he bowled too! To think he started off as a quick bowler, which was what I was trying to do. Brilliant. And he was singlehandedly bowling India to wins. Once in a while.

Skipping forward, 1996 was the year the World Cup came to India and I did not miss a single bit of the action. Didn’t actually make it into any stadia, but watched all the matches on television. That was the era of cricket viewing for me, when I’d be depressed beyond belief at an Indian loss. So obviously, the semi final balls-up left me quite depressed for a while. But this little kid had the highest runs aggregate in any World Cup played till then (obviously he broke the record again years later).

The Sandstorm Match (from the legendary Sharjah encounters) happened a few years later. In addition to being a match that any Indian worth his/her salt ought to remember, this little man (as part of a montage of his shots) actually made Tubthumping sound like an amazing song. Such was the effect of the cool he oozed that I still think it’s a decent song. I love that guy. Meanwhile, loud renditions of “Sa-chin... SACHIN *clap clap clap*” had been doing the rounds in stadia all across the world and the mere notion of Mr Tendulkar stepping out to bat gave the best of the best of bowlers from across the globe, mad heebie-jeebies.

Meanwhile, just as that was happening with Sachin, batsmen from all over shuddered whenever the acronym “KP” (not that South African-English fake KP) was mentioned, followed by the phrase “... is the next bowler”. The fact that these batsmen who did shudder, could barely hold a bat and that all over, is probably more accurately described as all over Delhi’s Gulmohar Park area.

The fact is I was a deadly accurate and lightning fast bowler.

Ok... I was quite accurate and quick in the air.

FINE!! I was about as accurate as Shah Rukh Khan is Venezuelan and would seem like a fast bowler only if the sole basis of comparison was Carl Hooper. Happy?

Bloody digression. Anyway, next began the era when television sets across India and the world would be swiftly switched off when Sachin was dismissed. A family friend of ours and I almost left Lords when the little man was dismissed with a long long way to go in that NatWest Trophy. Saner minds prevailed then and we stayed on.

Saner minds, did I say? For the decades of runs and entertainment that this man gave the world, the least he could’ve asked for in return, was saner minds. Towards the second decade of his career, every time he was injured, dismissed cheaply or caught saying something that people misconstrued, there was a hue and cry and calls for his head. It’s been the case for the longest time.

From being called “overrated”, “tired”, “selfish” to being accused of “only being interested in records and never playing for the team or winning the team any matches”, he’s had to hear the most moronic remarks and indictments from people who really ought to know better. Former players, random armchair pundits, politicians (well, one politician) etc. It got to an era where it became “cool” to knock Sachin for every little thing.

Why did India lose in the Caribbean? Sachin’s fault
Why does the batting keep crumbling? Sachin’s fault
Why does global warming happen? Sachin’s fault
Why are India and Pakistan constantly at each other’s throats? Sachin’s fault
Why do I feel the need to blog today? Sachin’s fault

And how has he responded? Blasting bowlers from Australia, England, Pakistan, West Indies, South Africa, Namibia, Zimbabwe, Bermuda, Turkmenistan, Antarctica, Mars, Alpha Centauri and even bloody Rigel-7 into oblivion. I physically cannot create a compendium of his greatest knocks, because frankly it’d take too long. Enough of the introduction and the tying in “where my life was when he did what” thing.

There was obviously going to be someone who’d hit 200 one day in One Day International cricket. Sachin had gotten bloody close on a number of occasions. He had no other highest score or fastest score records to his name (most runs doesn’t count). Fact of the matter is even a kid from Mumbai broke the record he set with Vinod Kambli for the highest partnership eons ago. It was only a matter of time till he broke this one.

The Don knew it, Shane Warne knew it, Sunil Gavaskar knew it, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson probably knew it, you knew it, I knew it and now, the record books know it...

Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar, the world’s first ODI double-centurion...
What’s left to say except, I love that guy.

Mockery, insult and humiliation

A while back, not too long ago, on a dusty, hot and grimy day, I recall seeing a Mercedes S-Class at the intersection of two major roads, stuck just like everyone else, in traffic. At the time, I remember thinking to myself what a great leveller traffic was. Motorists from all walks of life — from all demographics, psychographics and econographics — have to spend a few hours a day stuck in grid-lock traffic. Just like everyone else.

It was then that I peered into the lightly tinted windows of the Merc and saw two kids in the backseat with some adult, whom I could only presume was their mother. Outside the tinted window was a little street urchin-beggar type who was probably no older than the two kids in the vehicle. His palm outstretched, he stood at the window asking for alms. The window, to my surprise, rolled down and a hand no bigger than that of the beggar’s appeared, clutching a chocolate bar.

Soon another hand appeared and unwrapped the bar and the kid inside sat there eating the chocolate bar in front of the beggar. The window, it turns out was rolled down merely to tell the beggar to shoo off away from their vehicle.

Why is this random tale of urban decay relevant, you ask? Well, because it’s a metaphor for some of the ugliness that transpired yesterday at the auction before the Indian Premier League’s third season.

Before delving into it. Let’s get a few points out of the way:
1) With the present tension in Indo-Pak ties, especially after the 26/11 attacks and the governments of both nations not seeing eye-to-eye on investigations, perhaps it may be prudent that sporting ties are suspended between both nations.
2) With the IPL, perhaps certain quarters feel that the Indian board paying Pakistanis after their countrymen wreaked havoc in India, verges on the ridiculous and is certainly out of order. Perhaps.
3) Maybe, it’s uncertain how long the Laskhar-e-Tayyaba or any of those other terror groups can wait before they start attacking the holy beejezus out of India again and so, team owners don’t want to risk buying a Pakistani player, who may not be able to get a visa after further attacks.
4) Finally, maybe they just feel that the political climate is unsafe for Pakistanis to play in India, as it may be risky for them. (Yeah right)
None of these points for my argument. I’ve just put these on the table as givens. I will not be debating these.

The first name on the auction block was Pakistani Shahid Afridi, who if we’re being honest, is a bit of a irresponsible cricketer, but is enjoying some of the best form of his life. Major cricket pundits had tipped Afridi as one of the most sought after players in this auction. Not a single bid. “Shahid Afridi is unsold,” announced the auctioneer. Slowly, other Pakistani names came on the auction block and it became clear.

Poker-faced team owners sat and waited for the auctioneer to call time and it became abundantly clear that none of the franchises were going to buy a Pakistani player. By the auction’s end, the question on most people’s lips was, “If you weren’t going to sell them in the first place, why did you include Pakistanis in the list of auctionees?”

Fair question. Owners of all teams tried to deflect the query, stating “availability” or “we didn’t need a bowler” or some other bull-honkey. When cornered, each and every one of them came up with the lame “well, it’s ultimately the captain’s decision and not ours”. Convenient. Meanwhile, and quite understandably, cricketers from Pakistan were fuming at the snub. Can you blame them?

Amid some of the over-the-top hysterics like “the tournament won’t be as good because of the lack of Pakistanis” and “Indian fans will demand their money back because they won’t get to watch quality players”, one point stuck out like a sore thumb. The most obvious one. Why keep them in the list, purely to humiliate them with no bids? If you, Lalit Modi, had the slightest inkling that something like this could happen, shouldn’t you have held a meeting with owners beforehand to spare the Pakistanis this insult?

That’s a foolish query because as is common knowledge, Modi’s only in it to fatten his own wallet — a point I’ve discussed at length in an earlier post. So far, while politics and relations between India and Pakistan were strained, the sight of the two teams on a cricket field often brought a tiny bit of joy to the harrowed citizens of both nations. A good friend of mine was telling me yesterday that sport holds the answer to most world problems. If that is the case, what now? What if they’re scared to send a team to the Commonwealth Games, thinking, “You never know with these Indians, they might stick our team in Delhi’s slums, while the others stay at the official Games Village”?

Will the Pakistani players and sport administration ever trust us again?

What happened to the likely lads?

This one’s a little technical, I must warn you in advance.
This is an issue that’s been sitting latently in the back of my head for a while now. I never realised it had taken a comfortable seat in that last row in my head, until last night when I was watching some cricket show on TV called err… I can’t remember but it showcased old matches interspersed with historians and former players waxing eloquent about some particularly profound moments in the match.

Fairly pedestrian stuff, if I’m to be absolutely honest. Hearing some old bat (no pun intended and none needed) warbling on about how 1996 was a defining year for Indo-Pak cricket (when India was in no way even connected to the match) is not my idea of analysis. And neither is a former cricketer whose one claim to fame is as old as time itself, telling me exactly what I just saw. No kidding. He described the ball bowled and the stroke played. “And it went all the way to the boundary!” That’s great, halfwit… But so what?

The match on show last night was a 1996 Wills World Cup - Group B match between New Zealand and Pakistan. The refreshing lack of reverse pulls, power plays, free hits, “Dilscoops” or whatever the fuck they’re called and reams of advertising running across the screen, gladdened my heart. Also, the game seemed to be played at a less frantic pace, but seemed to be just as intense. As Denzel once said, “The shit’s chess… It ain’t checkers”, cricket is best played as a slow-burning mind game. This new brand of “boom boom” cricket just turns this delightful sport from chess to checkers.

Sure, the game back then had its own problems, with dodgy rain laws, no mechanism as such to replace spoiled white balls and… well, I can’t think of any more. That’s probably why the televised game had me captivated far more back in 1996 than it does today. Nevertheless, we’re not going to discuss which era of cricket was better or whether Twenty20 is the death of real cricket. Instead, we’re going to look at a character that for some reason or the other, has been sidelined from world cricket and for which, the sport is poorer.

We’re talking bowling here. And you have your express pace bowlers, you’ve got your fast medium or medium fast guys, who can once in a while get the ball right up your nose. Then you’ve got the medium pacers, who can’t really be called “fast” at all, but the wicketkeeper still shows them a bit of respect by standing back. Leggies, offies, Chinamen, left arm orthodox etc. etc. make up the spinners.

I was watching Pakistani Salim Malik and Kiwis Gavin Larsen, Roger Twose and Chris Harris display their skills with the ball, when it suddenly hit me. What the hell has happened to the slow medium, dibbly-dobbly (as some commentator used to call them) liquorice allsorts bowlers? Apart from the four I mentioned already, there was Ajay Jadeja for India, Arjuna Ranutanga for Sri Lanka, Akram Khan from Bangladesh and a ton more that aren’t really coming to me right now. These guys could be gamebreakers on their day.
You would think that a bowler capable of using the shine of the ball to extract lateral movement in the air, who can use the seam and bowl with the guile and flight of a spinner would be a lethal commodity in world cricket. You would think that a bowler like this would be a real force in the death overs. You would think that someone who could bowl like that could really make use of flatter tracks where pace, bounce and spin aren’t on your side… only your brains are.

You would think so. I would think so. Sadly, the people running the game these days don’t think so. This Twenty20 mentality actually makes people shake in their little boots when they imagine playing such a bowler in their team, worried that he could be smashed all over the park because he isn’t quick and he doesn’t spin the ball much. What’s wrong with plain simple smarts? Don’t those count for something?

What Messers Harris and Larsen had by the bucketload was smarts. They knew they weren’t quick or particularly big spinners of the ball, but that’s where subtle variations of the same ball earned them scalps. Today it’s hard to imagine anyone other than a frontline quick or frontline spinner bowling the final over of a match, whether to contain the opposition or dismiss them. Back in the early 90s, a couple of matches were won for India by a similar dibbly dobbly bowler who took the ball from his captain and bowled the final over. (NOTE: There will be claims that he is a leg-break bowler and not technically a slow medium bowler, but in 1993, Sachin was a slow medium who could bowl balls that spun square)

In today’s batsman-friendly setup, where bowlers are largely accepted as being mere props, fast bowlers get their pace used against them and spinners who lack pace see mishits go for six. In this system, could you imagine a short stout(ish) slow medium bowler bowling the final over of a game to protect something like 3 runs? ‘Fraid not! Throw it to Sreesanth instead. Oh crap! Four off the first ball. Well played, lads.

It is my honest belief that the re-emergence of the dibbly dobbly bowler will bring bowlers back in a huge way into a game that is slowly turning so batsman-centric, that you may as well set up a bowling machine and play 11 batsmen on your team. That’s it. I’m done. Toldja it was a little technical. Nooch!