THE CACOPHANY OF CRICKETERS TURNED COMMENTATORS

When Sanjay Manjrekar condescendingly called  Ravindra Jadeja a bits-and-pieces player, and not an all rounder, he not just crossed the line of decency but also opened up a can of worms. He is a serial offender who creates and thrives on controversy. This observation was made while on official commentary in a match where the player in question was not even playing. Michael Vaughn, the ex- England captain rebuffed him and Sanjay too hit back and followed it by blocking him in his twitter handle. Clearly there are two matches being played – one among the cricketers and the other among the commentators.

Over the past decade or so, the down slide in the quality of cricket commentary and even in the subsequent coverage in newspapers has been a matter of grave concern. Ever since broadcasters and cricket boards have started the trend of hiring ex-cricketers the thrill of listening to commentary or reading about it is diminishing by leaps and bounds. Their communication skills clearly fall short of the desired standards. Forget using apt phrases for graphically explaining the situation on ground they even fumble for basic words and spend a great deal of air time reminiscing about their glorious era interspersed with hollow laughter and giggles. There is a fine line between those who have played the game of cricket and those who explain the game of cricket with love and passion. Unfortunately most of the cricketer- turned-commentators fail miserably when it comes to generating love and interest for watching the game of cricket.

They are no doubt experts of the game but more often than not they see the game through a prism of their own biases and an outdated thought process. The viewer is constantly treated to their pearls of wisdom as to where the slip fielder ought to have been positioned, why the long leg fielder is not positioned finer as in the good old days, why should the long off fielder be brought up, who should be bowling next, how should the batting order be changed and so on. In case the ball goes through the gap which they had predicted or a particular bowler gets hit for runs about whom they had suggested should be dropped then all hell breaks loose.

These days even a false shot by the batsman is immediately met with scorn and contempt by the ex-cricketer turned commentator. In a sermonizing tone he is admonished not to play such a shot – with the foot away from the pitch of the ball and the head in the wrong position as well. In yesteryears and excited voice full of energy would have said, “ well bowled sir… the ball beat both the intent of the batsman and the bat itself.”

The more you listen to such cynical commentary the more you start missing those professional master craftsmen of words and wit like Nevil Cardus, (lovingly called the Shakespeare of cricket) Christopher Martin Jenkins, Frank Keating, John Arlott,  Bobby Talyarkhan, Suresh Saraiya, Pearson Surita, Anant Setalvad, to name just a few. They could come with descriptive lucid phrases that were born from an innate love for the game. Their knowledge of cricket was never used as a knife to shred reputations but to enrich the game itself and they had a sense of humour and wit that could light up even a dreary test match. Their greatest asset was that they retained an almost school boyish enthusiasm and love for cricket at par with an ordinary cricket fan. The crucial difference between these two generations is that while for the present lot winning is everything for the professional men of words of the past enjoying the game of cricket was everything. When a batsman of great class and repute would be out cheaply a Nevil Cardus would be quick to point out something profound like  – “There ought to be some other means of reckoning quality in this best and loveliest of games; the scoreboard is an ass for we remember not the scores and the results in after years; it is the men who remain in our minds, in our imagination.”

With their unique skill and style which was full of wit, wordplay and scintillating observations the viewer, the listener or the reader as the case may be always could transport himself mentally within a touching distance of his favourite cricketers. Above all one ended up loving the game of cricket and the cricketers irrespective of who won or who lost, who scored or who didn’t. Not once have we ever heard a Suresh Saraiya or an Anant Setalvad berating the batsman for a false shot. In fact it is their magical words that made a Gavaskar or a Vishwanath, a Salim Durrani or an Eknath Solkar a larger than life hero. Their failures were more often than not attributed to the fickleness of lady luck or just the unpredictable nature of the game of cricket itself.

I am firmly of the opinion that ex-cricketers should be restricted to summing up the match after the game or during the breaks. They can also contribute immensely during the pre-match show. But taking over running commentary and ruining it with poor wordplay and wrongly constructed sentences is actually diminishing our love for the game itself because invariably it is mixed up with a pinch of cynicism and an overdose of technicalities.

The mellifluous rendition of the commentators of yesteryears was as soothing as the crackle of the fireplace spreading warmth and comfort or a gentle breeze that soothed our minds and made us love our cricket and our cricketers even more. A far cry from what these cricketers turned commentators have transformed the game too – a strategy to win a war and an arena where reputations are made and tarnished with nationalism creeping in through the back door. 

And cricket will be poorer for that.

                                     

  

INDIAN CRICKET'S ACHHE DIN ARE HERE?

As India snuffed out the South African challenge in Pune to seal the fate of the series the focus shifted to the  modern day democratic version of the ‘night of long knives’ at the BCCI where a dramatic late night twist paved the way for Sourav Ganguly to become the President of India’s most powerful and arguably richest sporting body. A cricketing legend on the field and a Dalmia protégée off it, Sourav has all the credentials to turn around the image of BCCI which had taken a battering both under Srinivasan and the court monitored COA. Sourav, more than anybody else, would be perfectly aware that he wears a crown of thorns and carries a huge burden of expectations. The wolves never give up and at every opportunity they would try to get back at him.

While ‘Prince’ Sourav is all set for an eventful ten month reign in the Board room, ‘King’ Kohli  is busy ticking all the boxes and stamping his authority with an aggressive brand of cricket. These developments obviously augur well for Indian cricket.

The man of the match at Pune for me was Pandurang Salgaonkar the pitch curator. At the age of 70 this man’s tryst with cricketing destiny has had a long, controversial and chequered history. Arguably India’s fastest bowler in the seventies he was crucially ignored during his peak and a subsequent tweak in his bowling action paved the way for his eventual decline. He was not included in the Indian team that toured England in 1974 . India lost all three Tests by large margins. Relying almost entirely on spin, the Indian attack was ineffective on pitches favouring pace and seam. Wisden commented: "Probably the Indians would have benefited from including Salgaonkar, of Maharashtra, easily the quickest bowler in the country.”

 His stint as Pune’s pitch curator too had a fair share of controversy. From being ‘involved’ in tampering of the pitch and suspended for six months to the pitch being rated ‘poor’ by ICC in 2017, he has clearly been through hell and back. Last week’s pitch however was a beauty. It had pace, it had bounce even in the fourth day and the odd ball turned. This was a text book sporting wicket where the batsmen, the fast bowlers and the spinners all had a fair chance to excel provided they had the necessary skills. This is precisely what is needed for Test cricket to survive and indeed flourish.

The other great ex-cricketer turned pitch curator is of course Daljit Singh. He worked as the chairman of the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) grounds and pitches committee but was sacked in December 2009 after an ODI at Delhi was called off with the match referee declaring the pitch "dangerous" and unsuitable for play. His CV has an interesting detail. He worked for one year at 10 Janpath, where he prepared a cricket pitch inside the residence of the Indian Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri for Shastri's son who was interested in cricket!! He is best remembered for the pitch at Mohali that has traditionally given bowlers the extra bounce and the batsmen the liberty to play on the up.

The reason why I mention Salgaonkar and Daljit is because they not only prepared great pitches but also, more importantly, created tracks that were not conventional dust bowls for India spinners to run riot with the opposition and wrap up the match in three days. Their pitches have ensured a battle between bowlers and batsmen and more importantly both spinners and fast bowlers had a chance to showcase their skills. This will go a long way in encouraging fast bowlers in India as well as challenging spinners to bring in more variety and deception.

The second aspect that cricket lovers in India must take note of is the attitude of Kohli. It gladdens the heart of the connoisseurs of cricket when they see captain Kohli touching the feet of Daljit Singh in full public view. It is no secret that India has been traditional lions at home decimating opposition with consummate ease. But right through the ages the pitch curators were mere puppets at the hands of administrators and the Indian captains. They had every right to throw tantrums at them in full public glare if they noticed a tinge of grass here and there. In fact they were not referred to as pitch curators but contemptuously dismissed as ‘maalis.’ This is what led to the creation of ‘dust bowls’ where the ball spun from the word go. While Indian tracks are still spin friendly it is no longer the case of the spinners just ‘putting it there’ and allow the pitch to do the rest. They are now forced to work harder on their skills.

Such has been the change in the attitude of Kohli that he has embraced the challenge of the changing nature of Indian pitches and encouraged his fast bowlers to put to good use their art of reverse swing. Our quick bowlers too are now excelling in these conditions and bagging wickets in both innings. There has been a crucial change in the mind-set of the Indian bowling unit under Kohli. They look to attack, they look to take wickets and more importantly they refuse to take the easy route of criticizing the pitch. It is this change in approach that will help India win matches even when the chips are down.

ICC would do well to take a look at the quality of cricket balls. For far too long now we have been discussing Kookabura vs SG and Duke balls. While complete standardization might not necessarily be the solution there has to be a set of norms on the quality of seam and the hardness of the ball especially after forty to fifty overs. If ICC can evaluate a pitch as ‘poor’ and deduct points then surely they can do something similar about different cricket balls also. Test cricket could do with more challenging conditions if it intends to survive and flourish.

SHANKAR BHATT ? WELL ALMOST

It happened at dawn in Berhampur around 56  years ago – a couple of months before I was born.

Around 5.30 AM at Dwarka Niwas in Giri Road, my mom entered the kitchen to make the morning tea. As she approached the platform there was a sudden loud hisss. Just a couple of feet away in full fury was a cobra. My mom shreiked loudly and fell backwards. Luckily the snake did not move. It only hissed and stood its ground swaying angrily as my mom crawled back to safety.

Dwarka Niwas in the sixties had a huge compound. We had our cricket pitch and badminton court surrounded by coconut, jamun, badam, mango, chikoo, guva, and champa trees. There was space for huge kitchen gardens too which was also the payground for the birds and the bees - not to speak of the snakes and scorpions. To our right was the sprawling Janana Hospital, to our front was Geeta Bhawan and all this on the Giri Road – Berhampur’s Champs Elyees which ran between Palace de la Giri residence to Arc de Tata Square!

The three houses where the Bhatts (Hindi lecturer in Khalikote college), the Krishnans (English lecturer at Khalikote college) and the Vardarajans (the house owners) stayed were built in a cluster, adjacent to each other without any gap. In the relaxed easy paced Malgudi days type ambience of the fifties and sixties it was almost like a huge joint family. Krishnans had five children, the Vardarajans had six off-springs  plus a sprinkling of cousins too. Buli, the self- invited and self-appointed brown stray dog, was our mascot and guard. Later we would have our own cat, dog and tortoise to add to the variety.

There was also a small, just a small, under-current of a South-North cultural adjustment issue that was getting slowly sorted out. We were referred to as people who eat roti and ‘capsule dal’ (rajma). There was also surprise expressed when parents would walk alongside for an evening stroll in Giri Road. In the mid-fifites of Berhampur such public exhibition of marital bliss was probably perceived as too modern a style statement! Parents were clearly on a learning curve.

My mom’s shriek in June 1960 was enough for the neighbours to descend in droves. There were concerned shouts of enna aachi, enna aachi (what happened, what happened). When they saw the spectacle there was a collective gasp. My dad had meanwhile got a stick to kill the posionous serpent. To his surprise he was not only stopped but also chided “ Shiva-Shiva-Shivaaa what stupidity”, they said slapping their foreheads with their palms.

God has come to your house and you want to kill it? Don’t worry, they said, it will go away. And yes, when the son will be born to you, name him Shankar. Mom was expecting and yours truly was curled up nice and comfortable in her womb when all this pandemonium was happening!

My dad had no option but to wait. The only North Indian family, in this far away land, the onus was on us to fine-tune our sensibilities.My dad pulled a chair near the kitchen door and sat there on a vigil waiting for God to go. Attempts to expedite his departure by prodding him with the stick proved futile. The cobra would hiss, display his hood and sway angrily before coiling back and dozing off.

In the midst of a continuous supply of filter coffee and idly-vada-sambhar from our friendly neighbourhood (our kitchen was out of bounds) it was also education time for my parents. You see, they were told, when a pregnant lady’s shadow falls on a cobra then it becomes blind. My mom was aghast. As it is she was in a state of shock. She had escaped near death. She was even worried about the likely effects her fall would have on her unborn child and now she was being held responsible for the serpents’ blindness and consequent immobility!

When by lunch time God had not moved and the crowd began thining, our six footer short-tempered neighbour from the adjacent compound made his quiet entry. He took the stick from my dad and assured him that he will shoo it away. Then without much fuss he proceeded to kill it.

Again my hapless father was subjected to tirade- this time on rationality. You are an educated young man in the noble profession of teaching, he reminded my dad. You have a small three year old kid and a pregnant wife to look after, how could you accept this kind of blind faith? With that he marched out in a huff.

My mom still remembers the grand funeral that was arranged for the snake God. Tulsi and sandal wood, milk, vermillon, kum-kum, incense sticks were arranged and amidst chants of shankara- shankara, ringing of bells and blowing of the Konch the funeral pyre was lit and the snake was reverentially burnt. Burning it was a must as my mothers’ photo was there in the snake’s eyes and if some other snake would see it there could be revenge! Some comfort.

Few months later I was born very early in the morning. My dad got to cuddle me in his arms by the time the orange sun was peeping over Berhampur’s eastern horizon. So he named me Arun- the rising sun. It also rhymed well with Anil -my brother.

Years later, when this story was told to me, I asked mom why I was’nt named Shankar? Oh, she said, you see Mrs.Krishnan was also expecting her baby. When they were blessed with a son they decided to call him Shankar. It would be so confusing to have two Shankars in the same compound.

MY TWO CENTS ON JNU AND AZADI

At the age of 31 I had already worked in SAIL for 8 years, earned two promotions and was working hard for the third one.

At 31 my dream of joining the elite civil services had died five years back and I had even recovered from self-inflicted inferiority complex.

At 31 my marriage was 4 years old.

At 31 I had already been blessed with two children.

At 31 on a rainy night, in Bhilai, my wife had to get down from my modest second hand fiat car (bought on loan offered by SAIL) and push it so that it could splutter and start and overcome the weak battery that I could not afford to replace.

At 31, that night, I had promised my wife and kids that one day I will earn enough to buy a new Maruti 800 and give them azadi from the rickety car.

At 31 I had even taken a loan out of my Provident Fund account and ensured my parents first flight on Indian Airlines (Raipur- Bhubaneswar) and also pitched in with a decent amount to help them to build their modest home in Dehradun.

And yes. At 31 I had left JNU 8 years back.

I too fought for Azadi.
An azadi with responsibility.
An azadi where I could stand with my middle class parents.
An azadi where the responsibility of wife and children were taken on with fun and frolic.
An  azadi  sans slogans.
An azadi that was not subsidized by the tax payers money.
However,it came at a cost. I do not have the bragging rights of being a revolutionary.
And I could never do a PhD. 

But thanks JNU, you taught me how to live and fight in the real world.

When Child gives birth to a mother: the wonders of the canine world

In Odisha the common man, by and large, shows a lot of tolerance ( I had to use this word!!) for the street dogs. In fact you can broaden the ambit a bit and include crows, pigeons, cats, cows and bulls too. Almost everyone has a soft corner for one or two of them. They keep feeding and pampering them almost as a daily chore.The crows incidentally are thought to be harbinger of rains, symbolize the coming of guests and are also believed to be embodying the souls of the deceased relatives!! Almost everyone has a soft corner for one or two of them.

I remember our Odiya neighbour once saying that he does not shoo away an animal because ‘you never know God has come in witch avatar to test you.’ I did not believe it then but today realize that it’s a nice philosophy to have. Fortune Tower, where our office is located, is full of such good Samaritans too.

This season, two mama dogs gave birth to a dozen puppies and unfortunately one of them died soon thereafter. The other mama quietly adopted the naughty dozen. But it was taking a toll on her health. Very soon the guards realized that not only was the mama getting weak but few of the pups too had died, possibly of malnutrition. The word got around and very soon volunteers began bringing in milk and biscuits while the guards kept an eye on them round the clock. It’s quite a sight watching them all bond together and fight for survival. While we all are doing our bit its hats off to the brave ‘mummy’ of 12 (now 9) kids.

Many of us look down upon these 'street dogs'. But honestly, hand on heart, could anyone from the human species discover this motherhood so naturally and feed them all even at the risk of her life? A point to ponder.

Then one day she was no more there. Where is she, I enquired from the guards. "The municipal van came and took her away" was his matter of fact reply.

No wonder the Fortune Tower is considered Misfortune Towers by many. And it's not a corporate thing.

An Evening in Puri

There are times when you can sit at one place and watch life slide by. That’s exactly what I did one evening next to the sea in Puri. It began with a stray dog being bullied away by a couple of bigger canines. A few kind words and gestures later we became fellow companions. I had no biscuits or bones to offer yet we bonded and sat silently close-by, watching the sun set behind the bank of thick clouds.

From the corner of my eyes I watched couple of young guys parking themselves close to a sun bathing blonde. Creeps I thought. Half an hour later I regretted my fist impression. They were sand artists leaving their own impressions in the sands of time. No wonder the blonde found them interesting!

Then this guy came along selling conches. “Teach us how to use it” was my pre-condition to buying the stuff he was trying to sell. Not only he taught us how to blow the conch but in the process also taught some of the greatest face expressions ever possible!! I managed to catch one.

The guy selling beads, “genuine pearls” and “precious” stones came by. Having failed to impress the blonde he now was trying his luck with the desi babus and memsahibs. We did not disappoint him either. How could you? After hearing all his ‘genuine’ stories how he personally found them in the sea bed miles away from the shore!

The ‘professional’ photographer was having no luck. He was convincing me and every other guy on the beach about the useless cell phone cameras. A forlorn figure in a crowd of selfie maniacs, I realized that no one can ever convince him and his tribe that “ache din” will come again.

The blondes’ discovery of India process was still on. This time she had 

discovered the jhal-muri. She was enjoying the attention she was getting as everyone around tried explaining the ingredients.

As the sun began sliding down quickly, I remembered the 50% rebate offer at my hotel bar during sun set. Oh yes! Sun downer concept is here in Odisha too!!

The dog followed and just as I was entering the hotel premises she stopped. She gave me one last goodbye look and without fuss melted into the evening sunset.....

She too knew that in this day and age loyalty takes you thus far and no further.

My take on Tendulkar