Random Recollections

 

Column: The Tunnel of Time

(Anecdotes from the series-winning second Test between India and Australia from March 18-21, 1998, at the Eden Gardens, Kolkata).

By Shevlin Sebastian

Even on a day when ten wickets fell, cricket can still be somewhat dull. This is in mid-afternoon, when the unlikely pair of Gavin Robertson and Michael Kasprowicz defends dourly, pushes for singles, and hits the rare four.

The sun is shining brightly. The humidity is in the nineties. Naturally, people's attention wanders. They indulge in their favourite pastime of adda, talking about politics. Inevitably, mouths open wider and the yawns come out.

Up in the press box, scorer Rehman keeps everybody on their toes, with his sonorous voice and his up-to-date statistics. He gives details of a bowler's career figures, his bowling spells, the number of maidens, and the number of wickets. He gives the break-up of a batsman's innings: how many fours or sixes, how many singles, the extras and a host of other notable statistics. It is quite mind-boggling, his grasp of figures.

But when it comes to pronouncing Kasprowicz's name, Rehman encounters his first roadblock. He begins with KASH, then moves on to PRO and then there is a pause. Which way to go now? WITCH or WHICH or WISH.

Rehman finally opts for the first, to the amusement and the thumbs-up sign of the Aussie journalists who shout, “You've got it mate!”

Jokes at the stadium have a cricketing connection. When a journalist eats his lunch, much later than the rest, a fellow journalist remarks, “It looks like you are following-on.”

When scorer Rehman loudly asks, “Is there any problem?” an Australian pressman quickly replies, “We need more bowlers.”

Post-game press conferences are always a chaotic affair.

Firstly, high-handed cops prevent you from going in front of the dressing room in the name of security. When finally the defence is breached, and manager Anshuman Gaekwad obligingly comes out to meet the press, people charge him.

There is pushing and jostling, dictaphones are thrust at his face. Most of the questions cannot be heard, the answers are lost in the din, while the women journalists hover at the edge of the crowd, unable to get close.

Why can't the Cricket Association of Bengal (CAB) organise it properly? All that is needed is a room with a mike on a table, and everybody can sit comfortably and listen and ask questions clearly. In every international tournament, this is the standard procedure.

When the Indian players leave the dressing room, a couple of journalists who are on first-name terms with the cricketers stop and speak to them. The cops say, “No talking”. A scribe remarks bitterly but correctly, “If it was a white journalist doing the talking, they would have kept their mouths shut.”

Behind every great success are hours of practice. At the end of the first day's play, there is the sight of Shane Warne practising his bowling against Mark Waugh at the nets. After a few dozen hits, Waugh packs up, but Warne is not yet finished.

He goes over to the other side of the ground, where another net session is in progress. Enthusiastic kids pitch balls up to Ricky Ponting.

Warne patiently waits his turn to bowl. Practice makes perfect. If you want to be good at anything in life, the key is to keep working at it. That is something lesser mortals like us forget very easily.

At close quarters, Warne looks mentally and physically drained. His bowling lacks sting even at the nets. It comes as no surprise when the next day, he is given the pasting of his life by the Indian batsmen. His aura of invincibility lay shattered on the brown Indian pitches.

Here are some of the quotes displayed on the electronic scoreboard: ‘Gangooly: Aussie’s envy, India’s pride.’ ‘We love kangaroos but not for breakfast, because we love cricket.’

THE SECOND DAY

While Sachin Tendulkar is going berserk during his 79 in the first innings, on the sidelines, it is pressman Paul Gough of 'The Australian' who is going crazy.

He goes down to the communications centre with his laptop, to send his copy. (These Aussies hold their laptops with the delicacy and care of mothers holding their new-born children). But there is no plug for his machine.

He bends and searches under the table for some sort of a socket to put the plug in. The women helpers are hovering about him, quite helpless. The socket continues to be elusive. He lifts up the telephone receiver. There is no dial tone. Desperately, he presses his forefinger down hard several times, in the hope of getting the dial tone.

Nothing happens. He starts to scream and yell. His face has become tomato red. (It is deadline time for him. Australia is 4 1/2 hours ahead of us).

When finally, he sends his article across, he comes tumbling into the press box and complains to another Aussie, “This place is the pits of the world. They are twenty years behind. The operators can't even speak English. The phones don't work. The fax is not working. Crazy, crazy, crazy.”

At the end of the second day, the Indians are out on the field, doing limbering-up exercises and going for laps around the lush, green field, led by trainer Andrew Kokinos.

Gaekwad is in good fitness mode. He runs as fast as the youngsters. The most poignant sight is that of workmen, in blue uniforms, who are laying the covers on the pitch. When they see Indian captain Mohammed Azharuddin, they all run up in a group towards him and request him to pose with them for a photograph. Azhar dutifully obliges. Now these workmen have a photograph with the great Azhar. Their day is made.

It is a little puzzling and sad that after fifty years of Independence, CAB issues uniforms to Class Four staff with the legend ‘Scavengers’, printed boldly in black, and in front.

It is such a demeaning word.

The dictionary meaning of scavenger: a person who searches for anything usable from discarded material. Surely, there is a better word than that to describe those who are working at the Eden Gardens, one of the great cricket stadiums in the world. How about ‘helpers’? Sounds much better, doesn't it?

How dramatically life has changed for Saurav Ganguly. Two years ago, he was on the verge of quitting. Now, he cannot walk anywhere without being importuned for something. Either to sign a photograph of himself or give an autograph or have his photograph taken with somebody.

The problem with being famous in India is that people keep barging in, on your privacy all the time. There is not a moment's rest. You need to have a very calm temperament, so that you don't snap. The flip side is, the spectators don't mean any harm. They are sincere and genuine fans. But try telling that to Saurav after a hundred fans have dogged him for an autograph.

At 4 P.M., a father was overheard admonishing his son, “Why did you get up from your seat? Because of that, Tendulkar has got out!”

THE THIRD DAY

Bishen Singh Bedi comes into the press box. He is clad in a yellow T-shirt and a matching yellow patka. He has a direct matter-of-fact way of talking. His nut-brown eyes sparkle with good humour. The only time he is serious is when he talks of Raman Lamba's tragic, untimely death.

[Raman Lamba died on February 23, 1998, three days after being struck on the forehead while fielding without a helmet at forward short-leg during a club match in Dhaka. The blow caused a massive internal brain haemorrhage, causing him to collapse shortly after walking off the field. Despite brain surgery, he never regained consciousness.]

“The facilities were very poor in Dhaka,” Bedi says. “If Lamba had been removed immediately, either here in Calcutta or Delhi, his life would have been saved.”

Bedi is also impressed by Rehman's statistics. The latter informs him that he has been doing this job for the past thirty years.

Bedi promptly tells him, “It’s time that you got a benefit. Ask Lele (J.Y. Lele, Board secretary) about it.”

Rehman laughs, knowing fully well that it is a wishful fantasy. He reminds Bedi that once, in his illustrious career, he had bowled ten maidens in a row.

“Are you sure, it’s me,” Bedi asks doubtfully. “It must be Bapu Nadkarni.”

“No, no, it was you. It was in the series against England in 1974. I am hundred per cent certain.”

One elderly journalist walks up to Rehman and says, “Can you tell me your full name?” (In an aside to journalists, he says, “He has given me a good quote today.”)

“In Sharjah, there is Abdul Rehman Bukhatir,” the statistician declares loudly. “In Calcutta, there is Abdul Rehman Bhikhari (beggar). Sir, no money in pocket.”

[Industrialist Abdul Rehman Bukhatir was a renowned sports administrator who revolutionised cricket in West Asia during the late 1970s and 1980s.]

In the evening, after his stupendous century, Azhar is surrounded by pressmen standing outside the dressing room. He sits on the veranda with cap on head and looks exactly like the Pepsi ad on TV, in which he watches, with sunglasses, a group of men play a cricket board game, and says, “Khelo, khelo, I’m watching.”

The questions are raining down on him. He answers patiently each and every question. Suddenly one question irritates him: “Did [VVS] Laxman get into the Indian team because of his Hyderabad connection?”

Azhar asks, immediately, “Where did you come across such information? Has it been published?”

“No,” the journalist replies.

“Then how can you say such a thing?”

“People are talking about it.”

“So? People talk all the time. That does not mean that you believe each and everything you hear. Please don’t ask me questions like that. Unless something is a fact, just do not ask me these things.”

His eyes flash with anger. It is clear that the old wounds of being hounded by the media, especially during the break-up of his marriage to Naureen in 1996 and the collapse of his earlier captaincy in July 1996, have not healed. It is a sour note for him on an otherwise absolutely brilliant day.

[Azhar scored an unbeaten 163 runs in India's massive first-innings total of 633/5.]

While Azhar is sitting and talking, a young man walks silently behind him, in a white T-shirt and blue track pants, a wry smile on his face, and he quietly enters the dressing room.

That man is Sachin Tendulkar.

Till very recently, he had been besieged like this for quotes. But the good thing is that Sachin, only 24 now, will surely get another long, extended run as captain.

A man, with an overhanging paunch, along with his son approaches Javagal Srinath as he returns from the field. “Excuse me Srinath, I don't think you remember me but we met....”

He describes the encounter with the ace bowler. Srinath just stares at him with no sign of recognition in his eyes. Then he says, “Oh yes, oh yes, I remember. See you later.”

And he trots off to the dressing room.

THE FOURTH DAY

There is such an air of expectation. People sense that India will surely go in for the kill today. It does not take long for the first wicket to fall. What is interesting to watch is the reaction of the spectators.

Firstly, there is a wild yell of joy, which is inevitably followed by a laugh or a smile. It is quite stunning to note that almost every single spectator, out of the 80,000, behaves in exactly the same manner.

Former Test cricketer-cum-commentator Arun Lal sits and talks in the stands with former cricket manager, Amit Mathur. He is dressed in a long-sleeved blue shirt tucked into blue jeans. There is an intensity and passion in his talk. The subject: how to get a cricket event sponsored and the logistics behind a possible telecast of it.

When Mathur complains about the heat, Lal points to the back of the stadium, where a banner is fluttering strongly in the wind.
“A good breeze always blows in from the river,” he says. (The river Hooghly is a mere 400m away).

Lal has played so many times at the Eden Gardens, less Tests and more national-level matches, that he knows the stadium like the back of his hand.

He also seems to have a higher profile than most ex-cricketers because youngsters approach him for autographs. Perhaps, it is due to his Hindi cricket commentary on ESPN and the occasional column that he writes for the local newspapers.

When the match finishes, India wins by an innings and 219 runs, there is a mad rush for the entrance to the field. But the doors are locked. The policeman says no one will be allowed in. Not the press, not the BCCI officials, nor the CAB office-bearers. People shout in anger and desperation. But things remain at an impasse.

ICC President Jagmohan Dalmiya, nattily dressed in a blue suit, arrives to go to the field for the prize distribution ceremony, but a senior policeman refuses entry.

This is amazing!

Mr Dalmiya raises his voice. The policeman rushes off to consult his superior. For at least a couple of minutes, the ICC President waits, unable to move in his own domain. This is police bossiness at its peak. Finally, the door is unlocked and he is allowed to go through with the other Board officials.

Here's the ironic part. The Aussie press contingent just walks up to the door and the same policeman opens the door silently. They are not asked to produce the special press pass that is needed to enter. It is also quite apparent that they do not have it. It seems that sucking up to white people is an ingrained trait in us.

Australian captain Mark Taylor, at the press conference, looks shattered. He has slight stubble on his face but his eyes radiate sincerity, honesty and pain.

He gives the impression of being a genuine human being. So one feels sorry that he is a captain of a team that has been so humiliatingly defeated.

Azhar's second wife Sangeeta Bijlani gets off the elevator on the ground floor of the B.C. Roy Club House. She is dressed in black trousers and a black blouse. Immediately, she is surrounded by people who proffer paper and pen for her to sign.

For what reason are they taking her autograph? Is it just because she is a cricketer's wife? This is taking celebrity fawning to a foolish level. She signs quickly and attentively. When a person extends a piece of paper, she says, “I have no pen.” Then she scoots out of the entrance and into a waiting car. Her husband, a mere 20 metres away, is fielding questions from the media.

A few members of the Indian team depart: Anil Kumble, Srinath, Ganguly and Navjot Singh Sidhu.

The first three whiz through the narrow gap created by the security personnel, their faces a mask, ignoring proffered hands, papers, and congratulations.

Sidhu, on the other hand, stops and smiles, and shakes hands and gives the occasional autograph. Following them are the helpers carrying these large boxes, in blue, green, red and yellow colours, containing the equipment of the players.

It looks heavy, and I wonder to myself, did these players, before they became famous international-grade players, carry these boxes themselves?

Outside, near the car park, four plain-clothes policemen surround a man wearing faded jeans. “Whack,” a cop hits his backside with a stick. The man rubs his bum. “Whack,” another swing of the stick.

Apparently, he was harassing a tourist.

The foreigner, standing some distance away, in a white T-shirt and khaki shorts with a hat on his head, shakes his head, disagreeing with the policemen's accusations.

The guardians of the law continue to hurl abuse on the hapless victim. In a supreme bit of irony, right next to them is a lamp post on which is pasted the slogan of the Calcutta Police: ‘We care for you.’

(Published in Sportsworld magazine, April, 1998)