Not that I hold anything in particular against one of the most celebrated cultural legacies that we have bequeathed from the British imperials – Cricket; however, I fail to fathom the feverish popularity of this colonial game.
The game assumes epidemic proportions during the World Cups, Indian Premium League (IPL) series and, these days, any match that India is playing in.
Deserted streets, cold food waiting at the dining table, selective hearing disorder in especially the men folk, joyous applaud interspersed with sighs of disappointment, the rambunctious bursting of crackers, irrespective of the hour of night or day, at a win, and the fanatic violence at a loss – ohh how I hate it all, this obsession with a game of bat and ball. (Wow, that rhymes; I always knew the first step towards poetry is misery.)
Ok, let’s talk about the latest manifestation of this malady – IPL. ‘Cricket for cricket’s sake’, they say – balderdash! The who’s who of the bollywood fraternity, the liquor baron, the Ambani’s, the ‘whoever’ with that extra buck, bid for players as if they were horses or something.
The millions pumped in by the otherwise broke sponsors (and no, I don’t specifically mean Citi), the deluge of ads, the not-so-bad cheerleaders (alas, South Africa seems to be outside the ruthless control of the Ram Sena) who seem to cheer the crowds and not the players, the pathetic expression of SRK after every match, the irritating interviews of Priety Zinta where she shows her support for the “boys”, the Shetty sisters giggling in corner, the Kingfisher with the mermaid (Katrina), the boy-cut Mandira Bedi, the MTV VJ compering for Set Max – tell me what is not unbearable about this game.
Everywhere – at home, office, the local grocery store – people are speculating, betting, hoping, praying – Chennai Super Kings, Kolkata Knight Riders, Delhi Darevils, Royal Challengers Banagalore, Rajasthan Royals, Punjab Kings, Mumbai Indian, Deccan Challengers – how does it matter who wins? They do not really represent the state they are playing for. They are a part of the team cos they were bought for so many millions and they are raking even more because everybody is so emotionally involved in this game of moolah.
The politics of the country – the impending General Elections - have all been pushed to the periphery of our consciousness – relegated to the space of the media. We are not sure, and frankly, care a damn as to who the next prime minister will be. Mention IPL, and our brows knit together in deep concern - we sincerely deliberate – Chennai doesn’t seem to have a chance, close call between Deccan and Delhi, Punjab’s not far behind, Mumbai can still bounce back, is Kolkata still in the series?
Nothing unites us or divides us like Cricket does. And it is precisely this despotism that the sport enjoys that exasperates me thoroughly. Relish the game as you please, don’t revere it.
The game assumes epidemic proportions during the World Cups, Indian Premium League (IPL) series and, these days, any match that India is playing in.
Deserted streets, cold food waiting at the dining table, selective hearing disorder in especially the men folk, joyous applaud interspersed with sighs of disappointment, the rambunctious bursting of crackers, irrespective of the hour of night or day, at a win, and the fanatic violence at a loss – ohh how I hate it all, this obsession with a game of bat and ball. (Wow, that rhymes; I always knew the first step towards poetry is misery.)
Ok, let’s talk about the latest manifestation of this malady – IPL. ‘Cricket for cricket’s sake’, they say – balderdash! The who’s who of the bollywood fraternity, the liquor baron, the Ambani’s, the ‘whoever’ with that extra buck, bid for players as if they were horses or something.
The millions pumped in by the otherwise broke sponsors (and no, I don’t specifically mean Citi), the deluge of ads, the not-so-bad cheerleaders (alas, South Africa seems to be outside the ruthless control of the Ram Sena) who seem to cheer the crowds and not the players, the pathetic expression of SRK after every match, the irritating interviews of Priety Zinta where she shows her support for the “boys”, the Shetty sisters giggling in corner, the Kingfisher with the mermaid (Katrina), the boy-cut Mandira Bedi, the MTV VJ compering for Set Max – tell me what is not unbearable about this game.
Everywhere – at home, office, the local grocery store – people are speculating, betting, hoping, praying – Chennai Super Kings, Kolkata Knight Riders, Delhi Darevils, Royal Challengers Banagalore, Rajasthan Royals, Punjab Kings, Mumbai Indian, Deccan Challengers – how does it matter who wins? They do not really represent the state they are playing for. They are a part of the team cos they were bought for so many millions and they are raking even more because everybody is so emotionally involved in this game of moolah.
The politics of the country – the impending General Elections - have all been pushed to the periphery of our consciousness – relegated to the space of the media. We are not sure, and frankly, care a damn as to who the next prime minister will be. Mention IPL, and our brows knit together in deep concern - we sincerely deliberate – Chennai doesn’t seem to have a chance, close call between Deccan and Delhi, Punjab’s not far behind, Mumbai can still bounce back, is Kolkata still in the series?
Nothing unites us or divides us like Cricket does. And it is precisely this despotism that the sport enjoys that exasperates me thoroughly. Relish the game as you please, don’t revere it.
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