Published in The Cricket Monthly, February 2015 issue
Dear Cricket Monthly,
Ticketbastard is what we called them. Vermin renowned for pilfering meaty percentages of the price of tickets they sold as “convenience charges”. But their thieving ways were a hazy afterthought as I sprinted up a bustling thoroughfare in downtown Toronto one morning in 1996 to get tickets to the first Sahara Friendship Cup. I had always stuck to a principled stand that Indo-Pakistani “friendship” beamed in from neutral venues was an abomination (possibly it was to do with the trauma inflicted by Javed Miandad in 1986) – principles you couldn’t sniff a trace of as I arrived breathless at the deserted ticket outlet. Convenience charge be damned, I could have kissed the Ticketbastard lady when she handed over a sheaf of tickets for the upcoming five matches. I stood in a daze staring at them. Could she ever comprehend what it meant?
Published in Cricinfo, February 12, 2014
The call always arrived after dinner. Located in the living room, the telephone offered little privacy. Pesky and nosy busybodies (siblings and parents) were always hovering and any spilling of the beans now that half the school day had been kissed goodbye would create mayhem. Poker face and minimalist was the way to go.
The voice never wasted time on pleasantries; straight to the point:
“Did you go?”
“Two flicks. One cover drive. A leg glance. Two back-foot cuts behind point. Later than God. Where were you rotting away?”
“Had a chemistry lab report to finish, dude. That son-of-Hitler professor would have killed me if I didn’t.”
“Sure. Rot in hell, will you?”
Published on ESPN-Cricinfo, March 7, 2012
That would be around the time the opposition shook themselves out of their discombobulated stupor and contemplated the reality of their situation. Or the hopelessness. You blazed up to and past that number nonchalantly oh so often. You were never one for the numbers, were you?
Sixty today. In the theatre of life. Sixty candles to blow out. Hope you remember to lose the gum you’ve been chewing before you do. The gum that accompanied the swagger. The swagger that spooked out teams; that prefaced the gaze you trained on the bowler at the top of his run-up. Looking into his eyes as you patted down random spots on the pitch, having just taken guard. Sending chills down the spines of all who were watching. Starting with that day in Bangalore.
Original draft of article published on ESPN-Cricinfo, November 27, 2011
He himself must resolve them as well as he knows,
Or else take them with him wherever he goes.
– J. A
The sun shone weakly. It was April and the milieu was cold and bleak in Tilbury. Dark smoke billowing out of her funnels, the Orontes drew away in sombre deliberation and sailed out towards the grey waters of the Atlantic. Out on its deck, there was one last wave before the diminutive and huddled up figure stepped back from the deck rails and turned away. His silhouette dissolved into the mist and fog. And then Harold Larwood was gone.
Publised in Cricinfo, August 10, 2011
The kid was about 10 years old. There he sat in his white three-lions shirt, with a look of intense concentration, all his attention on the shiny new Dukes ball in his little hand. The father gently positioned his son’s index and middle fingers across the seam, whispering into his ear. Whispering stories and anecdotes, I imagined, about the magic that the grip could impart to that red, shiny object, larger than life in the child’s imagination.
Publised in Cricinfo, April 2, 2011
It was like someone had pulled the plug on our sanity. The television screen suddenly blacked out and everything went nuts. It was instant pandemonium.
Parents yelling at kids, they in turn screaming back. The father bellowing incoherent instructions and curses:
“Try turning the bloody fridge off.”
“One of you stand there, touching the antenna connector”
“Goddamned government-controlled television! How can they be trusted with this?”
Published in Cricinfo on Feb 20, 2011
Russell Peters is a funny guy. So funny that these days his stand-up shtick sells out 15,000-seat arenas. In one of his classic rants, the Canadian jokester with Indian roots explains his beef against soccer: “I hate it because they have this thing called the World Cup. But the two countries I represent – Canada and India – are never in it.”
Russell, you had better be giddy right now. You are so covered in this one, brother!