Year 1996.
I am a fan of suspense, I play Karvanti Daba-Aispais (something I have never understood the etymology of) and Chor-Police among other games. The latter being my favourite. I love suspense stories, I am fascinated by ghosts and all things supernatural. I rejoice listening to sci-fi stories and controversies such as the Bermuda Triangle and the Philadelphia Experiment from my father. I am a subscriber of Champak, a huge fan of the Mahabharata. I love my G.I. Joes and build houses with Lego, and when I don't want to conquer another planet or eat Pomfret Fry with an alien, I want to be the new-age Arjun and roam around Mumbai discussing my ideas with Krishna in a chariot.
21st February.
An Optonica TV is an attention-grabber of the time, and a cable connection is an elite serving on that unusual afternoon. A man, whose name I was told was Ravi Shastri, is shouting with an uncanny aggression. Lara is the word he utters the most. There's Harsha, a young, suave speaker who commands the English language with fascinating authority. And Sunil Gavaskar, who cannot stop talking about India and their chances of winning the cup. There are people at my place. We and some guests. Maybe some passersby too.
India were playing their first big game in the world cup they were hosting. "We are bowling first," said my father to me. The idea was to get Brian Lara, who had created a world record a couple of years ago, early. And somehow, someone, as Lara nicked one to Nayan Mongia, did the job. Lara was out for 2. And I screamed like a maniac, the eight year old kid that I was. West Indies were bowled out for a meager 173. And India were set to win the match. During the break, people discussed how the match was still not over. How a certain Courtney Walsh and the gigantic, accurate and fearsome Ambrose could clean us up. Then came out two men. Both short. Both looking simple in light blue. But that's it. That was the only similarity between them. From that moment for the next hour or so, both in the commentary box and in my house, and of course in the growling crowds in the stadium, what was audible was "Sachin". To me, all this was still unfathomable, however exciting.
He did not have a surname beyond the commentary box. He was just Sachin, or even Tendlya to some around me. And he was flicking length balls, well-pitched, on the off-stump or maybe just wandering about middle and leg by two fearsome fast bowlers with an ease that I would walk back from school with. He played a cover-drive off the back foot that was at worst spectacular and at best divine. That was followed by a glorious shot towards mid-wicket where he simply rolled his wrists over the ball. His bat lacked a sponsor sticker, it was an unblocked view of timber that created shapes I was to take many years to learn about. Whenever his bat ordered the ball to kiss the fence, the world looked to be on steroids. Tony Greg was openly jubilant in the commentary box, the street outside my house featured some boisterous Marathi. And "Masta! Shot!" my father would remark when Sachin attacked the ball. Although Sachin was run out for 70, India won that match rather comfortably. And I had seen magic - at least a few tricks - at an early age.
27th February
A similar afternoon. The buzz is bigger. The task is tougher. And the match is a monster. India are playing Australia about 25 kilometers away from my house. Australia have batted first. And with the sublime form that Mark Waugh has been in, he has smacked a fantastic 126 to set India a devilish target of 259. 259 of that time is about 330 of today. People are disenchanted. And their only hope is padding up in the Garware pavilion.
Over the last week, I have learnt as much as I could about the game and the man called Sachin Tendulkar, or rather Sachin. I am a fan in the making. And with all the excitement that an eight year old is gifted with, I am hooked to the TV that's crowded with remarks from both the inside and the outside of it. I watch on.
India are off to a horrible start. Jadeja gets out cheaply, Kambli goes for a duck. McGrath has bowled three maiden overs, Damien Fleming has claimed the wickets. India are 17 for 2 after 8 overs. Sachin has been calm so far. Azhar is calmer at the other end. Then suddenly, something happens. Something absolutely amazing. The ninth over - McGrath's fifth - changes it all. First ball. Sachin rocks back, takes the aerial route, and slaps one towards the mid-wicket boundary. Third ball. Sachin pulls, this time along the ground, the ball hurries into the square leg boundary. Sixth ball is over-pitched, outside off, there is no chance Sachin would miss that. The ball travels through the covers like a bullet. But bullets kill, this brought hopes alive.
Mumbai shone. I was jumping on and around my bed. "Sachin, Sachin," I howled. Then came Shane Warne, another of the most talked-about young cricketers of the time, I had heard, and zoom! Up went Sachin, straight over the bowler's head. This was four. Sachin Tendulkar was on a rampage. The 22-year old was an exhibition of unearthly talent. A kind Jahangir Art Gallery was jealous of. A kind Prithvi Theatre had never staged. Wankhede was leaking art. There was reckless aggression in Sachin's batting, an ability to take on any challenge the game might bring him. At the same time, his technique, timing, balance, poise were such that they might have got an Englishman of the 1930's writing him a eulogy.
To me, he looked like a man who represented the ability of my country that rested on the world map like an insecurity. Indians either looked up to the first world, were obsequious with them, or totally dismissed them as part of some inexplicable xenophobia. But here was a man taking on the people such as Glen McGrath, Shane Warne - the best in the world - seeing them eye to eye. Establishing his, his country's superiority over them in a fair battle. My city, my country, my family, the watchman of my school, our milkman, our fruit-seller, my teacher, everyone was backing him. And how he deserved every bit of it!
It was an electrifying night. Wankhede was lit in floodlights for the first time, and the man Mumbai loved the most was glittering like a neutron star. Everything Sachin did was an event. Even the odd bad shot - one that almost got him - was followed by a "Ganbati Bappa Morya" by the crowds. People were literally praying for him. Maybe I did too. My father, who wouldn't easily be in awe of people, too, was watching this man with phenomenal joy. My mother, who has never been much of a Cricket fan, occasionally came into the room, looked at the TV, smiled and went away. My grandparents had an idea that something absolutely thrilling was happening in the other room.
Sachin continued. He had scored virtually all the runs that India had scored, and it was evident in the 2-3 hours that I had watched of him that without him, Indian batting was like Butter Chicken without the chicken. He went on to score a 90 in that game before dancing carelessly down to a wide ball from Mark Waugh only to get stumped by the astute Ian Healy. When he got out, I was in the greatest extent of depression an eight year old boy could be in. The whole stadium went silent. My father uttered a dejected "Aai ga!" and shortly lit a cigarette. Me and my father did not talk to each other for the next ten minutes at least.
India went on to lose the match. I was disheartened, the could-have-beens started crowding my young mind, little did I know about the ifs of life then! I followed India and Sachin right through the tournament and for years there after, but that day, an eight year old had found his hero - a fascination that would last as long as he does.
(To be continued...)
I am a fan of suspense, I play Karvanti Daba-Aispais (something I have never understood the etymology of) and Chor-Police among other games. The latter being my favourite. I love suspense stories, I am fascinated by ghosts and all things supernatural. I rejoice listening to sci-fi stories and controversies such as the Bermuda Triangle and the Philadelphia Experiment from my father. I am a subscriber of Champak, a huge fan of the Mahabharata. I love my G.I. Joes and build houses with Lego, and when I don't want to conquer another planet or eat Pomfret Fry with an alien, I want to be the new-age Arjun and roam around Mumbai discussing my ideas with Krishna in a chariot.
21st February.
An Optonica TV is an attention-grabber of the time, and a cable connection is an elite serving on that unusual afternoon. A man, whose name I was told was Ravi Shastri, is shouting with an uncanny aggression. Lara is the word he utters the most. There's Harsha, a young, suave speaker who commands the English language with fascinating authority. And Sunil Gavaskar, who cannot stop talking about India and their chances of winning the cup. There are people at my place. We and some guests. Maybe some passersby too.
India were playing their first big game in the world cup they were hosting. "We are bowling first," said my father to me. The idea was to get Brian Lara, who had created a world record a couple of years ago, early. And somehow, someone, as Lara nicked one to Nayan Mongia, did the job. Lara was out for 2. And I screamed like a maniac, the eight year old kid that I was. West Indies were bowled out for a meager 173. And India were set to win the match. During the break, people discussed how the match was still not over. How a certain Courtney Walsh and the gigantic, accurate and fearsome Ambrose could clean us up. Then came out two men. Both short. Both looking simple in light blue. But that's it. That was the only similarity between them. From that moment for the next hour or so, both in the commentary box and in my house, and of course in the growling crowds in the stadium, what was audible was "Sachin". To me, all this was still unfathomable, however exciting.
He did not have a surname beyond the commentary box. He was just Sachin, or even Tendlya to some around me. And he was flicking length balls, well-pitched, on the off-stump or maybe just wandering about middle and leg by two fearsome fast bowlers with an ease that I would walk back from school with. He played a cover-drive off the back foot that was at worst spectacular and at best divine. That was followed by a glorious shot towards mid-wicket where he simply rolled his wrists over the ball. His bat lacked a sponsor sticker, it was an unblocked view of timber that created shapes I was to take many years to learn about. Whenever his bat ordered the ball to kiss the fence, the world looked to be on steroids. Tony Greg was openly jubilant in the commentary box, the street outside my house featured some boisterous Marathi. And "Masta! Shot!" my father would remark when Sachin attacked the ball. Although Sachin was run out for 70, India won that match rather comfortably. And I had seen magic - at least a few tricks - at an early age.
27th February
A similar afternoon. The buzz is bigger. The task is tougher. And the match is a monster. India are playing Australia about 25 kilometers away from my house. Australia have batted first. And with the sublime form that Mark Waugh has been in, he has smacked a fantastic 126 to set India a devilish target of 259. 259 of that time is about 330 of today. People are disenchanted. And their only hope is padding up in the Garware pavilion.
Over the last week, I have learnt as much as I could about the game and the man called Sachin Tendulkar, or rather Sachin. I am a fan in the making. And with all the excitement that an eight year old is gifted with, I am hooked to the TV that's crowded with remarks from both the inside and the outside of it. I watch on.
India are off to a horrible start. Jadeja gets out cheaply, Kambli goes for a duck. McGrath has bowled three maiden overs, Damien Fleming has claimed the wickets. India are 17 for 2 after 8 overs. Sachin has been calm so far. Azhar is calmer at the other end. Then suddenly, something happens. Something absolutely amazing. The ninth over - McGrath's fifth - changes it all. First ball. Sachin rocks back, takes the aerial route, and slaps one towards the mid-wicket boundary. Third ball. Sachin pulls, this time along the ground, the ball hurries into the square leg boundary. Sixth ball is over-pitched, outside off, there is no chance Sachin would miss that. The ball travels through the covers like a bullet. But bullets kill, this brought hopes alive.
Mumbai shone. I was jumping on and around my bed. "Sachin, Sachin," I howled. Then came Shane Warne, another of the most talked-about young cricketers of the time, I had heard, and zoom! Up went Sachin, straight over the bowler's head. This was four. Sachin Tendulkar was on a rampage. The 22-year old was an exhibition of unearthly talent. A kind Jahangir Art Gallery was jealous of. A kind Prithvi Theatre had never staged. Wankhede was leaking art. There was reckless aggression in Sachin's batting, an ability to take on any challenge the game might bring him. At the same time, his technique, timing, balance, poise were such that they might have got an Englishman of the 1930's writing him a eulogy.
To me, he looked like a man who represented the ability of my country that rested on the world map like an insecurity. Indians either looked up to the first world, were obsequious with them, or totally dismissed them as part of some inexplicable xenophobia. But here was a man taking on the people such as Glen McGrath, Shane Warne - the best in the world - seeing them eye to eye. Establishing his, his country's superiority over them in a fair battle. My city, my country, my family, the watchman of my school, our milkman, our fruit-seller, my teacher, everyone was backing him. And how he deserved every bit of it!
It was an electrifying night. Wankhede was lit in floodlights for the first time, and the man Mumbai loved the most was glittering like a neutron star. Everything Sachin did was an event. Even the odd bad shot - one that almost got him - was followed by a "Ganbati Bappa Morya" by the crowds. People were literally praying for him. Maybe I did too. My father, who wouldn't easily be in awe of people, too, was watching this man with phenomenal joy. My mother, who has never been much of a Cricket fan, occasionally came into the room, looked at the TV, smiled and went away. My grandparents had an idea that something absolutely thrilling was happening in the other room.
Sachin continued. He had scored virtually all the runs that India had scored, and it was evident in the 2-3 hours that I had watched of him that without him, Indian batting was like Butter Chicken without the chicken. He went on to score a 90 in that game before dancing carelessly down to a wide ball from Mark Waugh only to get stumped by the astute Ian Healy. When he got out, I was in the greatest extent of depression an eight year old boy could be in. The whole stadium went silent. My father uttered a dejected "Aai ga!" and shortly lit a cigarette. Me and my father did not talk to each other for the next ten minutes at least.
India went on to lose the match. I was disheartened, the could-have-beens started crowding my young mind, little did I know about the ifs of life then! I followed India and Sachin right through the tournament and for years there after, but that day, an eight year old had found his hero - a fascination that would last as long as he does.
(To be continued...)
No comments:
Post a Comment