Safar

The shrill blast of the whistle cut through the cold night as I ran along the platform, weaving my way between bumbling fruitsellers, screaming wives in search of their children, and flustered men yelling to each other as they clambered aboard the moving train as it made its way out of Dehra station. In a flurry of feet and bags, I leapt up onto the train along with two other vagrants and held on to the iron handles of the door as if nothing else mattered. At last, I was free from the place I had come to love. And I would not return, ever. I had seen enough and wanted something new, something better.

I squeezed through the packed compartment and found to my frustration an old man, adorned in a faded pathan suit, fast asleep in my seat. He had a curved jaw, and his cheeks were hollow with age. His hair was white, but his beard was stained crimson with neem. In his slumber he was oblivious to the hustle and noise of the world outside, the resounding cries of anger and frustration of all the other pathetic passengers as they fought to find themselves an inch of space that they could call their own. I thought not to wake him, but irritation seized my already confused mind and I shook his shoulder.

"Bhai sahib," I said loudly.

He grunted and came to life, a mess of anger and discontent, as if I was the one who had dared to occupy his space.

"This seat is mine," I continued, holding up my Second Class Reserved ticket. "I'm afraid you will have to move."

He looked at me with amusement, and then got up and made his way through the mass of bodies strewn through the compartment. I never saw him again.

That night I hardly slept. The person on the berth above me snored with all his might and the pitiful wails of a young child in the next compartment accosted my ears, making it unbearable. How the others in the bogey slept I know not. I felt like a smoke, and so made my way over sleeping bodies to the open door of the compartment. I stood there for what seemed like ages, the wind slapping me in the face as the train rushed past endless fields and villages. Somewhere in the distance a light flickered. I was unsure of what the future held, and this kept me awake until dawn crept up on me like an uninvited guest.

I got off the train at Lucknow to find myself a glass of hot tea. I picked up the local newspaper, with its bright pictures on the cover of parliamentary leaders handing out rations to flood victims in a nearby state. I felt sickened. The tea was pretty bad as well. I threw the clay pot on the tracks, bought a few soggy pakodas, and returned to my seat. The morning sun penetrated the bars of the compartment, casting awkward shadows over its inhabitants.



At the next stop a trio of blue-collar workers came aboard and took the berth opposite me. I doubted any of them had tickets. From his jhola, one of them removed a pack of cards and the three of them absorbed themselves absorbed themselves in a game of poker. They began to smoke, and the sharp tobacco smell accosted me in the humid sun. One of them offered me a bidi, but I declined the offer. In no time, a group of bored passengers had crowded around, and where three were meant to be seated, there were seven. I was jostled between a dark old lady and a coolie from whom the remains of a long night's drinking wreaked. How I wanted to leap off the train. Was there no way to bide the time?

The minutes passed like hours. The heat became intolerable. I felt the sweat seep into the back of the seat from my damp shirt. I began to itch all over. When would this journey end? Now I hated all the people on the train. As I looked around the dingy compartment and saw all those pathetic faces I felt anger creep over me. I gritted my teeth and stared out the window.

At long last the train lurched to a stop at my destination. Everyone around me, the trio of card-players, the old lady, the mother with her wailing children, all of them came alive with vigorous gusto and rushed for the nearest exit. I laughed to myself. How they ignored the importance of what life meant. All they cared about was themselves.

After the storm had calmed I picked up my bags and got off the train. This new station, this new city, it held something new for me. I made my way down the platform, as I had while boarding the train, and to the gate of the station where my future lay undiscovered. I paused a second to breathe in the air. I know it will be all right.

Wait

People come, people go.

I wait.

Faces in the crowd
Nothing else.
I stop to look, to catch a glimpse.
Will someone stop?
Will someone listen?
Will someone care?

Who am I looking for?
Do they have a name?

I do not know.

I simply wait.

Rain, thunder, birds, leaves,
These are my friends.
We share our pains.
The seasons change.
An old bench turns into hope.

I wait.

Years have passed, but still I sit.
Many more shall come, of that I am sure.
But what are years,
When waiting becomes triumph?
My day shall come.

I hear a voice, I hear them speak.
Then I blink, and they have gone.
I smile, I laugh, but all that others see is a fool and his grief.

And yes, today it is I who have lost again.

Yet I do not cry that it is passed, but smile that it has happened.

"I'll have a Sam Adams"

Beer. The most popular form of alcohol and the common drink at so many occasions. The one drink that'll always be in a guy's fridge or mini bar. The drink over which friends are made, games are watched and stories are told. How many countless tables at bars across the world have seen relationships forged and bets lost as a penalty kick is averted or a three-pointer nailed at the buzzer in overtime?

Beer has been around for years. About 6,000 years. A Texas University professor put together this timeline which highlights the interesting role role that beer has played in human history. Can you imagine Sumerian nomads kicking it down by the Tigris or Euphrates with a pouch of beer in their hands? Shepherds in Southern Mesopotamia talking sheep and flocks over a nice cold one? Classic thoughts there.

Just flipping through the television channels will showcase America's obsession with beer. Beer and television, they're just so perfectly tuned in. Bud, Heineken, Sam Adams, Miller, Coors, all these brands have some of pretty hot and funny commercials on air. Tell me you haven't seen the 'Wing man' ad and been like, ahh, yes, done that with a lager in my hand. How about those two Guiness idiots, with their "Brilliant!" line? You've imitated that a few times, haven't you? The Miller spot with Burt Reynolds and Co. sitting before beer bottles and solemnly debating "Man Laws"? And how about those Coors twins? Yes, most of these ads are infested with brainless dudes and buxom blondes, but then its beer we're talking about, not a life insurance policy. Sit back, open a bottle, and laugh.

Over the last few days, Sam Adams, Sam Adams summer ale, Brubaker, Molson, Coors, Heineken and Amstel have flowed. I've never really been a beer person - its a tough call between Jameson and Old Monk rum - but this trip here has been one of indulgence.



So anyways, yesterday a good time was had hanging at CitySide, my favorite spot in these parts. Shabad, who recently graduated from Wooster, downed a couple before heading to New York, and then Sid, Riddhi and Bindi stopped by. It was their first time at CitySide, and probably not their last.

Much beer was had, obviously.

* * * *

And for the interested, Newcastle Brown Ale is looking for someone to blog for them.

Damn Yankees and India's overseas woes

It's been a week since my last post on my time in Boston. Damn, I'm not too good at this stuff. Been a decent week, though. Working, hanging out with friends new and old, eating some good food, walking the streets (what a relief to just be able to WALK), and of course, watching the baseball and NBA playoffs at bars.

When I caught up with a few of the old friends from Sunlife - Mel, Megan, Derek - I filled them in on cricket and what I do, much to their surprise and amazement.Cricket is just too bizarre to be accepted in North America. Seriously, its as simple as that. For the American sports fan, the concept of a sporting encounter without a result is akin to a first date without a kiss.



Anyway, I decided to catch a baseball game live just to get another sense of the magic of a 'real' encounter and see what comparisons/contrasts I could draw. What luck, too: caught a Red Sox-Yankees game on Wednesday: awesome experience, even though the Yanks beat us 8-6. Being in a baseball stadium, and one as hallowed as Fenway Park, was just too cool for words. That it was a game of the magnitude of this, with the series poised 1-1, made it all the more special. Was with an old friend, Sid, and a new one, Monojit (it was his first baseball game) and it was cool to take in the atmosphere of the park and Boston's amazing fans.

Totally different vibe than a cricket match back home. Cricket fans are intense, don't get me wrong, but the sight and feel of a capacity 35,000 stadium, under lights, the players and players illuminated under a dark sky and against a sea of spectators cheering, was just something else. The fans really get behind their side, and these Boston fans are a brutal lot.

I've heard much of the criticism of both games from either side of the debate: cricket is slow, you play for five days and there's no result, you break for tea and snacks, you wear white, pitching in baseball is only about speed, the fielders wear gloves, a baseball is softer than a cricket ball, the skill level involved in cricket is higher, any moron who can hit the ball hard can do well in it, etc. But frankly, they're two different games, played by different types of athletes, and in front of a different type of audience. Just keep it at that; a comparison is futile.

It is known that the relation between cricket and baseball goes back to the 17th century, when the migrant English brought along a game called 'rounders’, the earliest form of cricket. Right here in Boston (as well as neighboring New York), cricket grew into a favorable contest and was played in various capacities. In baseball's foundation years, cricket looked very much like its cousin. Then as time ticked on, the aptitude for a long game lessened and a shorter version was favored, and the rest as they, is history.

One interesting piece of trivia, though. An uncle of mine, a passionate baseball fan who used to also bowl nasty outswingers and bouncers to my father when they were growing up in India, once told me that in the first dated picture of the the first baseball diamond in Cooperstown, New York, if you look closely you can see a long strip that very well looks like a cricket pitch smack in the middle of the ground.

I honestly believe cricket and baseball are the two greatest sports to watch. There, I've said it. Hah. Cricket, especially Test cricket, is an exhilirating 'test' of an athlete's physical and mental prowess, and the skills that demand batting for sessions and bowling 30 overs in a day, and to field for a day and a half straight, are simply unique. You travel the world, play in different, testing conditions, with fans of differing cultures, and its just all to amazing. And Baseball, for me, is the richest example of America's glorious sporting culture.



Both sports play an important part in the culture of the societies in which they are popular. In India, its a religion. The subcontinent, and to a large extent Australia, is a glowing example of how popular the game is.

Ed Smith, the former Kent and current Middlesex batsman (who played three home Test matches against South Africa in 2003), wrote a book called Playing Hard Ball which describes his experience in and around the Major and Minor leagues in the States, in an attempt to explore baseball and compare it to cricket. Haven't read it, but have been trying to get my hands on a copy. Should make an interesting read.

So, in between watching the Red Sox drop two games to the Yankees, I had to sit and watch India lose two in a row to a resurgent West Indies. The hosts have played an amazing round of cricket in the series, and have pushed India, pre-series favorites, to the limit. Hats off to Brian Lara, Ramnaresh Sarwan, and Ian Bradshaw and the rest for drilling India and making this a fantastic, nail-biting contest. India's overseas record has once again reared its ugly head, and this does not bode well for the Test series.

* * * * *

In related news, I read Sambit Bal's piece about the ICC's fruitless expansion dream in North America on the site, and agree with most of what he's said. The ICC has its political and financial considerations, yes, but to try and promote cricket even in these expatriot-invested shores is all too optimistic. Won't get into a discussion on this right now.

"How did you get hooked onto cricket?"

One of my American friends asked me recently when and how I got hooked onto cricket, and the answer to that question kind of hit me.

I realized: my love affair with cricket began about 15 years too late.

I was born and raised in India, a country where the game – dare I call it that? – has turned millions into believers, hopeless romantics, and namesake scholars, and even more into passionate, sentimental and brainwashed procrastinators. To have spent the first 15 years of your life not even acknowledging the game, let alone watching a complete six-ball over and choosing not to follow the exploitations of one of the most dynamic teams in the sport, could be called heresy on all counts.

I was raised under the roof of a father who could possibly be the most honorable and dedicated symbol of what Indian cricket stands for, and yet through endless Sundays spent watching his team jaunt lazy singles and drop catches and listening to heated debates over selections and who was in the runs, never for a second did I choose to grasp what was unfolding before me. Perhaps that is why I never embraced the sport, for it was just all too prevalent in my life as an unwanted and overbearing houseguest.

I had been to the Wankhede Stadium with my father and Fred Wray, a rare American who came to love cricket, for a day’s play between the West Indies and India back in the mid-eighties. I could not even tell you who was batting or what the score was. I remember ambling through our south Bombay flat wishing this blasted game between India and Pakistan would finish so I could watch an episode of ‘The Wonder Years’, not grasping that this was that same match in which Javed Miandad impersonated Kiran More by doing his now infamous ‘kangaroo’ leap.

All this changed when I went back to Woodstock School in 1995 and slammed head-first into the 1996 World Cup. Here I was exposed to cricket in a manner that had so far eluded me during years of studying at American schools full of rich, spoiled brats weaned on baseball and basketball. Suddenly the game was alive, with every one of my friends playing in the corridors and on the basketball courts and discussing whether Sachin or Mark Waugh would take their team to the finals of the competition. I did not know Mark Waugh from Micheal J. Fox, but had sat and had tea with Sachin and Sunil Gavaskar only two years before. Was this the same Sachin that Duncan Bailey and I had caught hanging outside our school building shyly waiting for his girlfriend? (Our school at the time was the bottom floor of the Mehta mansion, the same Mehtas whose daughter would later become Mrs. Anjali Tendulkar).The same kid that my father had dragged me to watch at some ground along Marine Drive when I was hardly seven or eight, telling me that one day he would be the face of Indian cricket? I knew that name, Sachin, but now I was hearing it being taken alongside the outcome of a game, and next to an unbeaten “century”, and I realized what this man was doing to a nation of fanatics.

I remember waking up early on a warm January morning when I was home for the winter vacations to watch the start of a one-dayer between Australia and Pakistan from the Carlton & United Series of 1997.

The raw, thirsty desire, whetted with intrigue and the feeling that I was treading where I had never gone before, to wake up and watch, from pitch report to post-match ceremony, a complete 50-over match was all to overwhelming. Sitting there on my bed, door sealed tightly so that no one could intrude on this first awakening of sorts, I remember being in awe of what my tiny B & W television set was relaying to me from Australia. I can tell you that I predicted Anthony Stuart’s hat-trick – Ijaz Ahmed c Healy b Stuart, Mohammad Wasim c Healy b Stuart, Moin Khan c Taylor b Stuart – right before it unfolded, but then there was no one there with me on that magical morning to affirm my claim. This was the same match in which I first saw Shahid Afridi; no, he did not bludgeon Warne for successive sixes into the Ponsford Stand at the MCG – in fact, his contribution with the bat was sedate and almost mature: twenty-something in almost twice the amount of deliveries – but the sight of him running in to deliver one of his nippy leg breaks captivated me. I wanted to be like Afridi. Hell, I had the same hairstyle, why couldn’t I bowl a batsman through the gate and act cocky doing it? The stats box at the bottom of the screen showed his age – sixteen! – but even as Richie Benaud and Bill Lawry commentated on how young this kid was, something told me what the rest of the cricket world already knew: he was not sixteen. Yet the sight of Afridi running into bowl at Warne, locks flapping in the cool Melbourne breeze, was enough to allow my mind to dream about doing the same. And Afridi even got Warne leg-before for 2.

I returned after that vacation raring to go, to try my hand at spin and slogging, and this new interest in cricket amused many. The spin did not go quite as I had envisioned it would, primarily because I did not the concept of what leg spin was. A few experiments with medium pace in-swing followed, but with little success, and so I settled for off spin, which surprisingly came easy to me.

I cannot say the word ‘cricket’ without paying tribute to the smallest and shoddiest of tennis courts in the world, a ground so scarred by years of tumultuous monsoon downpours and the burdened soles of missionary keds engaged in epic tennis matches. The Oakville tennis court. Some day these same words will be remembered by a select few as the ground where they became men and where innocence made way for an unbridled acceptance of what they could do as cricketers.

Many an epic tennis ball cricket match has been staged at this little court nestled between pine trees in the Himalayas, where countless balls have been lost to the rolling hillside and those jealous weeds that waited with cupped hands for that fly ball of mistimed pull, only to be seen again the following year when the gardener hacked and sawed away at the shrubs and vines and unearthed a collection of faded green tennis balls. The same Wilson of the tennis ball fraternity could not have envisioned that his finely crafted creation for an elite pursuit would so mercilessly fall prey to a combination of lofted cover drives through the pines and negligence to maintain a small plot of land.

I can name you so many games, so many shots, so many catches, and so many stumpings from eight and ten-over encounters, but you had to be there to witness each for what it was. When I would bat, I was Sachin and Steve Waugh and Aravinda de Silva.

This game, this sport, this love affair has taken me to different grounds and allowed me to make some true friends. From Hansen Field at Woodstock to a strip of dirt valley nestled in a valley in the middle of nowhere, to a small wicket tucked away in a lush green forest in Surrey to the grounds of a liberal Presbyterian university in the sprawling Midwest of the United States. Each ground has unfolded a different result and a different story, some unexpectedly positive and some crushingly difficult. But each was embraced with the same passion, and though the score lines may not have been on my side, the feeling of bowling to a different batsman and seeing different faces was always special to me.

I have played with players of differing skills and differing intents, some distinct batsmen with a range of strokes and some who were there to simply hit the ball. There have been personality clashes and there have been arguments, some ugly, some childish. I’ve been hit out of the ground and into a dorm window, and I’ve clean bowled others. I’ve dropped sitters and been run out far too many times, but I’ve also captained teams to joyful victories. I’ve stayed up all night printing team logos and player names on white jerseys purchased in bulk from Wal-Mart, and I’ve stood in the morning mist and chill and seen the pitch in its naked reality. I’ve seen the welcome sun spread its rays over damp strips of clay and I’ve rolled others until my shoulders have ached. I’ve driven back from ‘away’ games listening to Springsteen and Junoon and shared laughs about catches dropped and wickets taken. I’ve cheered on teammates as both captain and twelfth man.

That's how I got hooked onto cricket, I told my friend.

That man Dhoni

It was the day before Diwali, but the firecrackers exploding at the Sawai Mansingh Stadium were unmatched by any that would succeed November 1.
Bazaars were jam-packed with last minute shoppers; cookware stores spilled their goods onto the streets; coolies strained under loads of TVs, DVD players and washing machines, and sweet sellers were doing a roaring trade.

Amidst this ruckus, Mahendra Singh Dhoni was stamping himself into the history books with an effort unparalleled by any Indian effort for a long, long time. His 10 sixes in the match – the most by an Indian – carried him to a record 183 not-out against a hapless Sri Lanka. Dhoni was adjudged Man-of-the-Series in India’s 6-1 rout of the tourists, but the resounding effect of his performance had echoed louder than many could have envisioned.

From being run out for a first-ball duck on his debut against Bangladesh to recently being crowned the No.1 one-day batsman in the world, Dhoni has surpassed any other Indian batsman in their introduction to one-day cricket. He has had a phenomenal start to his one-day career since making his debut in December 2004, and based on the sheer effect he has on the game - get the adrenaline running in the cricket viewer and have the potential to bring so much to the game, not to mention carry it away in a matter of an over or two – Dhoni is a superstar.

To whom do we credit this meteoric rise? Surely sheer talent cannot be the reason he has scaled such heights? The Rahul Dravid-Greg Chappell pair has undoubtedly worked well in terms of promoting young talent – a foundation laid down by their predecessors, Messrs. Ganguly and Wright? The burgeoning role that television played in bringing the game to remote corners of India?

The fact is that Dhoni is the product of a system that encourages youth and which has given cricketers from the smallest corners of India a chance. Once neglected in favour of players from big cities, today’s India has youth from villages, towns and districts that would have been overlooked a decade ago. And, crucially, Dhoni epitomises a new breed of youth whose hunger is unbridled, and whose confidence stems from competition.

His need for speed and love for fresh milk every morning are well documented, but tell a story of a small-town boy thirsting for the elements. There is a blasé, raw manner to his batting, be it the way he dispatches the ball over square leg with a flick of the wrists from offstump, or when he drives it through mid-on. Coaching manuals may as well have been written in the third century BC for Dhoni – he defies rule of thumb in his approach to hitting the ball.

The game of cricket has always needed big hitters. India’s Polly Umrigar has been quoted by many as being the hardest hitter of the ball that they have seen. Sandeep Patil, he of the six fours off one Bob Willis over, brought a sense of urgency to an Indian lineup filled with classical strokemakers. Sanath Jayasuriya changed the way we now view the first fifteen overs of a one-day game with his audacious stroke play and horizontal flat-bat shots over the infield. Before him, Krishnamachari Srikanth was known for his bizarre tactics against the quick bowlers. Viv Richards’s power was awesome, and his shots off both front foot and back still reverberate in the stands of Jamaica and Trinidad.

It is from such men that Dhoni borrows his effectiveness, but the little time he has needed to scale the top is jaw-dropping.

There are three basic aspects to Dhoni’s game – speed, confidence and unflappability. For someone with an unorthodox technique, the bat speed he generates is remarkable, his running between wickets is one of the quickest India have seen, and his timing is pretty damn sweet. And then there is the it factor. His seemingly nonchalant disregard for the opposition – notice the way he stepped into the cauldron of India-Pakistan combat and nervelessly plundered runs – and an unfazed exterior/interior is what stands him apart from others in his side.

Asian batsmen are known to be wristy craftsmen and Dhoni is the Andy Warhol of this artistry – bold, aggressive, and constantly redefining. Look at the way he drives, crudely reaching out to the ball by extending his wrists, or the manner in which he rocks back and works a ball on offstump to fine leg.

Dhoni can admit that Adam Gilchrist was his idol, but he has taken himself higher – with the bat - in a much more limited timeframe. Both took five matches to make an impact, but is must be noted that Dhoni has achieved, in 42 matches, what Gilchrist and Virender Sehwag, whom some have suggested inspired Dhoni, did not. In the same 42-game timeframe, Dhoni has scored more runs (1372) at a higher average than Gilchrist (1300, 36.11) and Sehwag (1227, 34.08) and has contributed to more wins than the two had when they began. And that he broke the highest score by a wicketkeeper in ODIs – Gilchrist, of all people – in that Jaipur blitzkrieg proves that Dhoni is a man who does not want to bat in anyone’s shadows.

Any analysis of Dhoni must include his contributions to India’s 4-1 ODI win in Pakistan earlier this year. On difficult tracks and against a fiery Pakistani pace attack, Dhoni consistently chipped in with scores that sealed the deal – and the way he stepped into the cauldron of such a storied rivalry and nervelessly plundered runs was awesome. Dhoni has been a major factor in India’s recent ODI success. He averages an overwhelming 101 in Indian victories and just 22.62 when they lose. In short, Dhoni scores, India win.

The henna-stained locks that drew the praise of Pervez Musharraf, Pakistan’s president, may not remain a constant, but the thrill and the adrenalin look here to stay.

Back in Boston

So I'm back in Boston, just loving the sights and sounds...its such a refreshing change from Bombay. It rained the first four days and the sun didnt appear until this morning, but damn was the wait worth it.
Great to meet up with the Imrie suite gang...shwin the raj (aka John, Jonty, El Raj,etc), Christian and Eric...and get down to sitting on the old porch with a couple brewskis...ahh yesh...catch the NBA playoffs, Dunkin coffee, Taco Hell, and what not....good times...
forgot how much I missed Boston....
last two days were crazy, cuz of the problems my colleague Sid V was having down in Montego Bay, in Jamaica...there was no net connection at the ground that was hosting the Indians v Jamaica one-day match, so poor Sid was calling me up and giving me the score, how they were out, and a whole lot of good stuff that I had to get up on the site....anyways, alls well that ends well, I say, and today Im all set to get outdoors and soak in the awesome Boston culture....
so thats my post for the day, will be back later....
adios