So much for a game of Cricket

Quickly skimming through a stinker of a mail, I pressed the reply-to-all button (oblivious of that). Looking at my watch I panicked, inside I wrote a short slang message, in cricketing parlance a sledge. Send, click. Done. I tried to locate my boss, who decided to do the vanishing act at the most inappropriate time. ‘Running out of patience on a day when the whole nation is grinding to a halt isn’t that bad after all’, I thought to myself.

India was taking on Pakistan in the final of the Twenty-20 Cricket World Cup, TT as the commentators referred to it. A first in the history of Cricket. The arch-rivals had faced-off on many occasions but this was special. Both teams having played spectacularly through out the tournament had scripted their route to the World Cup final. It was an aficionado’s watch-or-regret-forever match.

On a well-meaning colleague’s advice I left office early to reach home in time for the match. Little did I know what lay in store for me. I scampered to the office parking to catch a passenger Volvo, only to find a few hundred co-workers waiting impatiently. It seemed everyone wanted to see the match, women too. And I thought I was a big fan. Or, maybe it was just another day for them. Not for me.

With no Volvo in sight I started walking briskly toward the outer road to find another bus. My walk probably would have suggested a desperation befitting only someone called hard by nature.

I found a Volvo in no time. ‘Luck, perhaps, is on my side today’, I smiled reassuringly, having placed myself comfortably in one corner. The lady conductor approached, a shrewd-looking lady, she found my oozing enthusiasm rather annoying. And to make that known, she screamed the bus route at me.

I would have to struggle more. This wasn’t talking me too far.

Half panic-stricken I got off the bus thinking by the time I reach home the pre-match analysis would be over. I had still not given up on the pitch report and the toss. Harsha Bhogle, Ravi Shastri, Rameez Raja et al were now thudding my ears. I cursed everyone on road, the perpetual traffic and the blinded traffic policemen to whom it didn’t matter that India was playing Pakistan in the final of a world cup tournament. They walked casually chewing on gutka paans. How much more indifference can one expect?

‘Somebody needs to understand the gravity of the situation’ I grimaced. As my day was gradually unfolding into a rather unpleasing one I realized that auto-wallas were, probably, not that bad after all as they were made to seem.

Not many were available to start with, and the first one blew the lid off me, asking for an amount that was not only exorbitant but unreal. These guys know the pulse of people, when to shamelessly overcharge and when to rightfully overcharge, they seem to know it all. I walked some distance before my cricketing history helped me.

In my cricket playing days (as a school-going boy, if I may add) carrying the kit to the bus-stand was no easy job. The easy thing to do was seek a lift from motorists, who helped almost without fail. Perhaps, it was because a budding cricketer in India was the apple of everyone’s eyes, in those days. And of course people love to be associated with cricketers; any association with one of them makes for good stories in trains, parties, even offices.

In no time my left thumb was wagging. It did my old record no harm that a motorcyclist stopped at once. He probably saw the desperation on my face and empathized. I was now comfortably placed expecting no more twists in the tale. The toss now looked a reality. I thought about all the previous India-Pakistan encounters and their results. The toss was going to be crucial.

In a humdinger of a journey a final twist was waiting in the wings, so Cricket like. The bike broke down! I couldn’t believe my luck had turned on its heel in exactly one hour. I was still some distance away from home. The only way to reach home was the by using the services of the wonderful machine called Auto-rickshaw and their ‘benevolent’ drivers.

With a raw smile pasted on my face, I waved to passing auto-wallas. The wait was not too long but long enough to put me into a tizzy, I was probably going to miss a few balls if not overs. How unfortunate that would be? I felt hadn’t done justice to my self as a former cricket-aspirant and now a true-blue fan.

The auto guy finally stopped in front of my flat. I was home. Mixed emotions galore. Reached home, almost on time but missed out on quite a bit too. And then when I turned on the box, Mohd. Asif was at the end of his run-up ready to bowl the first ball. I was ecstatic. I hadn’t missed a ball, at least.

An Indian fan will always be that, he would want the maximum out of Cricket and his team. I am no different. ‘They better win today, for all the efforts I put in’, I thought aloud. I of course didn’t press myself too much on who forced me to do so, it was an obvious duty.

In the end India did win, Dhoni lifted the cup.

I was a satisfied man left with a visual treat and the prospects of a major showdown with the boss because of the mail fait-accompli. But that’s another matter.

So much for a game of Cricket!!