A Song of Willow and Wicket

The date was 22nd October. It was a Sunday. For most of us in India, it was also a long weekend owing to the festival of Dussehra. Long weekends must be salvaged, so goes the maxim among young professionals. Some of them went to their hometowns to spend the holidays with their families. As for me, I was in Dehradun with my boyfriend, a small city in the foothills, spending the long weekend driving off in hill stations, sampling cupcakes in quaint little bakeries, and hopping from cafe to cafe consuming copious amounts of coffee. Everyone has their own ways of blowing off steam, and this is mine.

Elsewhere in the city, after 2 p.m., the mood visibly changed. People stopped dragging their feet. There was a cricket match that day that I had been watching the first half of.

My boyfriend took me out for dinner to a nice restaurant. I wanted to go, of course, but a part of me was stuck on the idea that I’ll miss the end of the match. I needn’t have worried. Only in India would a fine-dine restaurant, one of the most elegant in the city, have a live screening of the ongoing match on a projector, no less! When it comes to cricket, Indians mean business. Couples at every table had one eye on the screen. Some may call it not being present in the moment, but I don’t think anyone’s date minded. If anything, they were equally hooked.

India versus New Zealand. Both countries had won every single match they had played in the tournament so far. Both were tied for equal points. Both had exceptional players. The outcome of this match would decide which of the two would occupy the first rank. 

Virat Kohli, a former captain of the Indian team, was on strike. He had been a pleasure to watch in India’s last game against Bangladesh too, where he had avoided taking singles and remained on strike so that he could complete his century. The fans had not been disappointed. They wondered if they would witness a repeat occurrence of the same situation. India needed 5 runs; Kohli needed 5 runs. He needed to remain on strike to achieve both. Unless of course, he hit a six.

But unfortunately, this time, Kohli got caught out just short of a century, at 95 runs. The disappointment on his face was evident as he walked off to a standing ovation, and the new batsman came out onto the field. What an anti-climax!

The waiters, the maitre d’, and the diners all paused in mid-action. No one asked for water refills. No sounds of cutlery touching the plates, or clinking of wine glasses was heard. One or two of the diners who had paid the bill were standing near the doorway about to leave, but not before the match was finished. The air was heavy with anticipation, the restaurant resembling a sports bar for the next few minutes. 

The next two balls, and the game was over. One single, and then a four. India wins.

The atmosphere relaxed, and people went back to their meals. Their faces shone. Some of them looked around and beamed at complete strangers. They couldn’t resist. They didn’t care what the recipient would think. In fact no one thought of anything else. We understood. India had won. We had won. And everyone in the room was feeling the same. A beautiful moment of elation, shared with complete strangers. 

Leaving the restaurant, I leaned on my boyfriend’s arm. I thought I had never felt this happy before. Of course I had. But the moment was perfect. We got into a cab. The driver was playing the after-match commentary and highlights on a small tablet affixed next to the glove compartment. I wouldn’t know what the opiate of the masses in the West is, but in India, cricket is a big one. Needless to say, people in India take cricket seriously. Cab drivers, cafes, malls, even chai tapris (tea stalls). People go about their business, going about their jobs or chores of the day. But no one misses a moment if there’s a match on that day.

What’s more, this wasn’t even the World Cup final. Or even the semi-final. This was just a qualifier match. Having won 5 games in a row, India had as good as qualified already. But still. This is important to us. 

Most of us grew up playing gully cricket in lanes, using bricks as makeshift stumps. Beyond the game of bat and ball, the characters of young boys are forged through the lessons of passion, discipline and camaraderie. Chivalry may be an unpopular value today, but it’s still preserved in this gentleman’s game. On a lighter note, this is the land where people train elephants to hold cricket bats in their trunks.

Even in households too poor to afford televisions, cricket commentary is played over the radio. If there is a match on, whole families tune in. I remember glimpses from my own childhood. Whenever a match was on, my father would be glued to the television, and my mother would be yelling from the kitchen asking him what the score was after every few minutes. Indian families normally eat meals together, but if there is a match on, there’s no chance of anyone eating in their own rooms. Besides, there isn't much of an option since there’s usually a single television in the house. 

Most of the big corporations - Oreo, Lays, Nike, Pepsi, McDonalds - centre their advertisements to appeal to public sentiments over cricket during the World Cup. If you go online to reserve a table at a restaurant, most apps allow you to book at one that offers a live screening. 

Cricket is the best thing that the British empire left us. It’s ours now. And it’s not just a game. A sport that unites people from all cultural and economic backgrounds and walks of life, a symbol of hope in an era of divisiveness, and redemption from all sorts of trials and tribulations of life, cricket is no less than divinity in a country not short of gods.