Summer 1991
“BOWLED!”
“NOOOO!!!
My yell
resonated across the little hallway of our house where a cricket match was in
progress. The white plastic ball had pitched on my legs. But as I attempted to
swat it straight, it spun prodigiously to disturb the bucket behind me – which
worked as the stumps.
“You bowled
leg-spin. I don’t know how to play leg-spin. YOU ARE CHEATING!” I hollered,
feeling betrayed.
“That
doesn’t make any sense at all. Just give me the bat,” my elder brother said irritably
and snatched the bat away from my hands. Three other boys – our neighbours from
the floors above – shook their heads condescendingly. That irked me even more.
“MAAA!!!!
Bhaiya is cheating!” I howled.
Within seconds
my mother emerged out of the kitchen.
“What’s
wrong? Why are you bothering your little brother?” she enquired immediately
while placing a comforting hand on my shoulders.
Hurt and crestfallen,
my eyes flowed with tears by now. “He bowled leg-spin, Maa! He bowled
leg-spin,” I said in between sobs and drowned my face in her sari.
“Why do you
make your little brother suffer like this?” she demanded. “Why did you bowl
legpin?”
“Leg… Spin,”
I corrected her quietly while wiping my tears with her sari.
“Yes. That,”
she said.
“But…But…That
doesn’t make…” my brother sputtered.
“Hush!” she
raised her hand and snatched the bat from his hands. “Let him bat. He is just 6
years old. You should be ashamed.”
Cursing
under his breath and giving me murderous glances, my brother turned back to head
to the other end of the hall – the bowling crease. I could literally feel that
he was itching to get hold of the bat and pound me with it.
“Here,” my
mother handed me the bat. “Play for a few minutes and then let your brother
bat, okay?” she whispered in my years and patted my head.
I nodded and
held the bat firmly.
From the corner
of my eyes, I could see the three boys shaking their heads again. My brother
was getting ready to bowl. He had a permanent scowl on his face. I knew a fast
one was coming. I also knew that all of them hated me at that moment.
It was okay,
though. “It doesn’t matter if the entire world wasn’t with me,” I thought and
blocked a rather fast delivery on the middle stump.
“Good shot,
Chiku! Good shot,” she clapped excitedly from behind.
My Maa was.
And that’s all that matters.
***
October 21, 1996
“Steve Waugh has got the wicket that
really matters – Sachin Tendulkar,” Ian Chappell’s voice drilled a hole through my still heart.
A deathly
silence had descended all over our room. India was playing Australia in a
low-scoring day-night match at Bangalore in the Titan Cup. Chasing a target of 216,
India had been reduced to 164-8. The country’s biggest hope, star batsman
Sachin Tendulkar, was walking back to the pavilion after being dismissed for 88.
Tail-enders Javagal Srinath and Anil Kumble were at the crease now.
I stared at
the floor blankly, wishing the ground could swallow me.
A loud cheer
followed by the noise of drumbeats punctured the silence in the room. I was
taken aback for a second. But then remembered that today was Vijay Dashami,
Dusherra. The local pandal must have taken out the idol of Goddess Durga for
immersion. My soul crushed further.
I had set my
heart on enjoying the immersion festivities from my verandah with an Indian
win. That looked gone now.
“It’s all
over now! The match is gone. Switch off the TV,” my mother declared.
I didn’t
have the heart to argue with her and quietly dragged myself off the room. So
did a couple of others. I hated feeling like this.
For the next
fifteen-odd minutes I moped around in the verandah while quietly stealing
glances inside the room. The TV hadn’t been turned off. And I could make out
the match was still on. There was no loud noise. So nothing untoward had
happened, I presumed. Another few minutes went by. I could see my mother glued
to the television set from the window. She was smiling.
I was
restless and decided to give the match another chance. The moment I re-entered
the room, Javagal Srinath smacked Steve Waugh straight down the ground for a
scintillating six. The score was 188-8. The crowd had found its voice. And so
had my mother.
“Chiku,
look! Kumble’s family is in the crowd,” she pointed animatedly at the screen. Two
middle-aged, benign-looking women were smiling and clapping with the crowd - Kumble’s
mother and grandmother. My mother was fascinated with them. “Look how happy
they are,” she said gleefully.
“Um. Yeah,”
I mumbled, feigning interest. My mind was trying to calculate where the
remaining 28 runs would come from. But they did. In the course of the next 20
minutes, Kumble and Srinath smartly accumulated the runs. My mother, meanwhile,
kept talking about the two women.
“Such simple
ladies! Sitting with the crowd,” she kept interjecting happily in between
balls.
At 208-8 in
the 48th over, Srinath flicked a ball from Glen McGrath for four.
And the crowd at the M Chinnaswamy Stadium went delirious with joy. So did I. I
jumped and yelled and screamed and pumped my fists. For once, my mother didn’t
mind it at all.
She was
clapping heartily as Kumble and Srinath ran the last two runs to complete an
amazing Indian victory.
A series of
loud crackers were now being burst outside. Apparently, the ‘Visarjan’
procession of a few Pujas had got wind of India’s thrilling win. And now,
Goddess Durga was being bid adieu with added fervor. The entire stretch of the main road outside
our house was now chock-a-block with people dancing and celebrating with mad frenzy.
Our entire
family stood on the verandah, witnessing this rather incredible spectacle. My
mother folded her arms as the grand idol of Goddess Durga came into view.
My heart
surged. And I felt I could fly all the way over to the moon. I couldn’t
remember the last time I had been this happy. “We did it, Maa!” I declared
happily and hugged my mother. “We did it!”
She patted
my head. Her eyes, though, were set on Maa Durga.
***
July 1999
“The perfect
yorker! I bowled the perfect yorker, Maa!” I squealed in delight.
I was reliving
my magical moment from a school cricket match a few hours back. It was evening
now and I sat in the kitchen with my mother. She was busy preparing dinner and
was trying her best to listen to my thrilling account.
“The ball
curled in the air, hit the base of the middle-stump and uprooted it out of the
pitch,” I said excitedly. ”You should have seen Himanshu’s face, Maa. Oh, he
was almost in tears.” I was in a frenzy.
“The perfect
yorker!”
My mother
smiled while stirring the daal with
the ladle in her hand. “What’s a yorker, again?” she asked.
“MAAAA!!!
How can you forget?” I felt offended. “I have been talking about it for the
last month.”
“Oh, stop
being so dramatic and pass me the box of salt.”
“You don’t
listen to me at all,” I muttered irritably.
She giggled
while sprinkling salt on the daal
that was brewing on the stove. “Of course I do. It’s just that it must have
slipped my mind in all the activities from this week.”
I frowned.
But she continued her stirring.
“Okay. Was
it the one you were practicing with the ball all week in the hallway? With the
brick and everything?” she said.
I nodded.
“Ah, I see.
So you executed it well? Tell me all about it.”
This was the
cue I had been desperately waiting for the moment I had entered home from
school in the evening. And this was all the dinner I needed.
***
January 2002
“That’s a play and a miss by
Ganguly!” Ravi
Shastri’s booming voice echoed across our room.
I let out a groan.
That was too close to cut.
India was facing
off England at the Eden Gardens in a day-night ODI encounter. India was batting
first and the opening pair, Sachin Tendulkar and captain Sourav Ganguly, was at
the crease.
“Tsk, tsk
tsk!” my mother exclaimed. “He looks so nervous.”
It was a
cold January afternoon. And about half a dozen of us lay sprawled across our
room, watching the game. Including my mother. Today being a Saturday meant she
had some time on her hands to spare. Which was good for her. But nor for me,
unfortunately.
My mother
had a habit of making some loud pointed observations during live cricket matches.
Almost always, they didn’t sit well with me. I am one of those who like to
watch a game quietly. My mother is the opposite.
“Oh look how
badly he’s playing! He just can’t get bat to ball,” she remarked again, rather
loudly.
I bit my
lips. Swallowing the urge to snap at her.
The next
ball saw a leading edge from Ganguly’s bat. Fortunately, the ball fell inches
short of the fielder’s hands.
“Tsk tsk tsk!
He got lucky. Such a bad shot,” she said nonchalantly. “Give me the bat. I will
go and hit a few fours.”
I dug my
nails in my palms. This had happened countless times before. I couldn’t allow
myself to slip once again. If only all of them could leave the room and let me
watch the game in peace.
“Rapped on the pads!!! Loud appeal
for LBW. But the umpire says no.”
Ganguly had just
survived a loud call for LBW off Darren Gough. It was really close.
“Oh, he
should just go back. I can’t watch this anymore. It hurts,” my mother said
dramatically.
“OHH, FOR
THE LOVE OF GOD, MAA!!!”
I finally
exploded.
“Can you
just watch the match quietly?”
“Hush!” she
dismissed my plea. “Why are you getting irked at me because your batsmen can’t
bat?”
“NO. You
just have to keep making comments,” I bellowed.
“Ooo…Somebody
bring me an iron. I need to flatten the creases on my son’s face,” she mocked.
I kept mum.
Forcing the bubbling rage inside to not completely overwhelm me.
“In the air…And just short of the
fielder at third-man. Sachin was fortunate there,” the commentator on air said.
Sachin’s cut
didn’t go where he had intended and landed just a few feet short of the
fielder. The two batsmen were clearly having a tough time in the middle.
“Look, look!
Now Sachin too can’t play. Oh, this is so shameful,” my mother commented.
“MAAAA…!” I
banged my fists on the floor. “I swear if you don’t keep quiet I will go and
jump off the verandah.”
“Oh, why
don’t you go? Please go. Now…,” she said coolly. “I will myself push you off
the ledge.”
I felt like
tearing my hair apart.
“Will you
guys keep quiet and let us watch the match?” said my brother, who was stretched
out on the floor, and increased the volume of the TV.
I turned my
face completely away from my mother so that I couldn’t see her at all. I knew
if I see her making her observations, it would annoy me further.
Three dot
balls were played in silence. The next ball, Sachin stroked one towards
mid-wicket. But the ball was cut short off the boundary ropes by the fielder before
the batsmen could even think of two runs.
“Tsk tsk tsk!
They can’t even run properly. Looks like they haven’t eaten anything today.”
“MAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”
***
October 31, 2005
I knew
something was wrong. She was unusually quiet.
From the
last hour, my mother had been lying quietly on the bed. She had said she needed
some rest. But her face looked rather pale. The last few weeks hadn’t been too
kind to her. The cancer relapsing, this time on her liver, had broken her
spirit. And it was now affecting her body too. More than she was letting us
know anyway.
I sat beside
her. A cricket match was on, but I kept stealing furtive glances at her every
minute. She had her eyes closed and it looked like she was grimacing.
“Maa,” I
finally said. “It’s time for lunch.”
She got up
suddenly, clutching the side of her stomach.
“What…?”
Before I
could even complete my sentence, she let out a cry of pain. “Oh…Oh…It’s really
hurting bad.” Her eyes were closed. She seemed to be in agony.
I felt numb.
I had never seen my mother like this. She never expressed her discomfort
openly. I didn’t know what to do.
She clutched
her sides tighter. “Oh… Oh…God! I think… I am dying.” She yelled out loud.
Red hot fear
iced through my veins. I had never experienced an emotion like this before. Raw
fear. It was as if every cell in my body was on fire.
“Maa,” I
whimpered.
My brain had
stopped functioning. Only one sentence kept repeating itself: “Please don’t take my Maa away from me. Please
don’t take my Maa away from me.”
All I could
do was hug her. She was shaking uncontrollably. And crying. In pain. I began
crying too.
My brother
had come in by then. And a few others too. He was shouting something. I
couldn’t register a single word. I just kept holding her tightly. I wanted her
to stop hurting. Please, somebody, take
her pain away.
There were
tears. There was a lot of screaming. There was utter chaos.
And then
there was Dhoni.
Right at
that moment, India was playing Sri Lanka in an ODI at Jaipur. After batting
first, Sri Lanka had amassed a healthy 298-4 in their 50 overs.
In their
chase, India had lost opener Sachin Tendulkar early with only 7 runs on the
board. Captain Rahul Dravid decided to send wicket-keeper batsman Mahendra
Singh Dhoni at the No.3 position that day. Known for his aggressive hitting, the
24-year-old Dhoni was playing only his 22nd ODI. He had already shown his mettle with his
dashing hundred against Pakistan at Vishakapatnam earlier this year. Today, he
had a huge responsibility on his young and robust shoulders.
We could
hear the commentary from outside. My mother and I had parked ourselves on the
verandah on two chairs for the last couple of hours. Her pain had subsided a
bit. But she still had her eyes closed. The whole ordeal had drained her out
badly.
I kept
caressing her sides in the hope that it might be providing her some relief.
There was a
loud noise from the television somewhere inside the house. Apparently, Dhoni
was on fire.
“Is Dhoni
batting?” my mother suddenly asked. The noise must have woken her up. Her voice
was weak. Her face looked like she hadn’t slept for a month.
I nodded.
“Let’s go in
and watch the game,” she said.
“But, Maa!”
I protested. I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. She needed rest.
“No. I am
tired of sitting here. Let’s go in. I want to see Dhoni bat.”
There was
nothing I could say. She had taken a great liking to Dhoni ever since he made
his debut last year and never missed an opportunity to see him bat. Uncertainly,
I held her hand and took her inside.
It turned
out to be a good decision, after all. Dhoni’s batting took my mother’s mind off
her distress. Dhoni was in his elements today; cutting, pulling and scything
the ball with disdain to every corner of the ground. In the next hour and a half,
we watched the match quietly. My mother clapped slowly when Dhoni got to his
hundred – only his second one in international cricket – and opened his helmet
to acknowledge the crowd.
“Look at his
hair,” she chuckled. “It looks so ridiculous.” Dhoni’s long mane had amused her
greatly. She was now watching the match with her usual child-like glee.
I was so
relieved to see her smiling that my eyes welled up.
Dhoni,
meanwhile, continued his hitting. It was a savage and blistering onslaught and
made a complete mockery of the 299-run target. With a brutal six over
mid-wicket, Dhoni finished the chase and ended up on an unbeaten 183 – the
highest score by a wicket-keeper in a one-day international.
Dhoni walked
back to the pavilion; exhausted but beaming widely.
My mother was
smiling too. “This Dhoni. There’s something about him,” she said. Her face had
just managed to regain a little bit of its glow. “He will go places. You will
see.”
***
January 29, 2006
“Chiku, not
a Test match right in the morning. Please, no!”
“Ufff….It’s
India v Pakistan, Maa! Can you please keep quiet?”
I increased
the volume of the TV. Irfan Pathan had bowled three beautiful deliveries to opener
Salman Butt in the first over of the 3rd Test between India and
Pakistan at Karachi.
My mother was
busy with her yoga routine. The chemotherapy had taken its toll. She had lost
her beautiful hair and wore a scarf to cover her scalp now. But her spirits
were still alive. Every morning, she would get up at 5, follow the yoga
instructions on television by a certain Yog guru Baba Ramdev, and do it dedicatedly all
through the day in little sets. She strongly believed that it would get her
back on track more than the medicines.
Usually, she
liked watching a few songs while doing her yoga. Today, however, it was time
for India-Pakistan.
“Edged and accepted by the fielder,”
Rameez Raaza on-air shouted.
India’s new swing
sensation had delivered a lovely out-swinger that had taken the edge off Butt’s
bat and had been gobbled up at slip.
“Good boy,” my
mother said while finishing her breathing exercise.
The very
next ball, Pathan bowled a sensational in-swinger and trapped Pakistan’s best
batsman, Younis Khan, plumb in front.
“OH,
YESS!!!!” I yelled in delight and got up. My mother began clapping too and was just
about to get up from the bed.
“Maa…What
are you doing?” I cried out. “Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. You will
jinx it.”
She rolled
her eyes. “God! Your superstitions again. Please! I have to go to the
bathroom.”
“Uff…Please
don’t irritate me, Maa. He’s on a hat-trick. Just sit quietly.”
I had not
seen an Indian bowler take a hat-trick live. This looked rather difficult today
as well because the next batsman was Mohammad Yusuf, one of the best in the
world. But what if he actually does it? I
thought. Against Pakistan. In Pakistan. That
would be insane.
I kept my
fingers crossed and waited as Pathan set his field; his eyes having a kind of
fire I had not seen before.
The third
ball was another terrific in-swinger that came in sharp and went through the
gate of the batsman, clattering his stumps.
“Oh bowled him! He’s got a hat-trick!”
the commentator said on air. “Second
Indian to take it. What a delivery!”
My mother
and I both got up at the same time, clapping and hooting in delight. “HE DID
IT! HE DID IT!”
Pathan was
mobbed by his teammates and lifted off the ground. It was an incredible moment.
I ran
towards my mother and gave her a high-five. We often did that during cricket
matches. And today was as deserving a moment as any.
She was
still applauding the effort and beaming widely. “He’s such a good-looking boy,”
she noted. Apparently, she had completely forgotten that she had to visit the bathroom.
It was okay,
though. Pathan deserved that attention. And she deserved that smile.
************************************************************************************************************************************
Those who
know me, or have followed my writings, would know that I have often written
about my mother. Sometimes in the form of short stories and sometimes through
little anecdotes, I have tried to keep her memories alive.
Lately, however,
I had felt that I had overdone it with my nostalgia trips with Maa. And had
hence pushed these memories away.
This one,
though, had been nagging at me for a while.
It will be
hard to explain what I have written above and why. As the title suggests, it’s a
collage of some of my memories with my mother, particularly related to cricket
– the game I love so dearly. It has no structure or pattern. These are just
random moments I collected from different phases of my life.
Perhaps they
look odd, one after the other. But I had been wanting to write this for a
while. For myself, mostly. The thought of recollecting a particular memory in
detail, however, was rather unpleasant and I was hence pushing this back. Despite
that, I enjoyed writing most of it. It made me reminisce some fond memories;
few that I had even forgotten.
Unfortunately,
my last good cricket memory with Maa was the one with Irfan Pathan’s hat-trick.
A few months later, she passed away.
My
interactions with my mother during cricket matches, though, continue. You see, by
a strange coincidence, a giant photo frame of my mother has been placed
directly above the television set in our new home. So during tense matches, I
keep exchanging glances with her photograph and communicating with it. If, for
instance, India is struggling, I end up saying things like: “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” And
when India wins a close contest, I always gesture a high-five towards her.
Of course, I
have missed her terribly all these years. I missed her when India lifted the
two World Cups. I missed her when we won the Champions Trophy. I missed her
during Sachin’s retirement. And most of all, I missed interacting with her
during all those cricket matches that we couldn’t watch together these past few
years. She would have especially loved to see how Dhoni blossomed into a leader
and a mature batsman. Also, I am curious to know what her views on Virat Kohli
would have been.
Yes, all of
this is sad. And it will always pinch. But I have found my way around it. Well,
mostly.
Besides,
they say there are alternative universes out there with our alternate versions.
Who knows, maybe in one of those alternate universes, my alternate version has
been luckier than I have been and is high-fiving my mother at this very moment
after India has won a thrilling match. Or maybe they are celebrating India’s
World Cup win after Dhoni has smashed a six.
If I listen
closely, I feel I might hear them celebrating wildly. Perhaps, if I am lucky, I
would also hear the reverberating voices call out: “We did it, Maa! We did it!”
