Cricket by Chance

“Girls Cant Play Cricket” had retorted the boy from the opposite house with a ‘holier than thou’ look. It was the gully cricket played along the by lanes of my childhood house and I had just been bowled out. After some undeterred demands to be taught cricket, I was condescendingly let by the boys to play along with them. But my poor cricketing skills had let me down.

Call it ‘the grapes are sour’ attitude or the battered ego of a 10year old; I never bothered playing the game again. As I grew up, I realized that cricket or any sport for that matter was not my cup of tea. I was soon ensconced in my world of music and books. Cricket turned into a matter of sheer patriotism while the Indian team played. However, the same game morphed to become the root cause of TV remote wars with the male members of the family when the men in blue did not play.

Over the years my attitude towards the game remained unaltered .But my cricket free world was soon to be intruded upon. A few employees at work, including me had been asked to organize a CRICKET MATCH for all the members of my unit! To add salt to the injury, the management also wished to have each team with a female employee playing before the 3 down position (I googled for the meaning).Teams would be banned from playing if the rule was defied.

“Practice what you preach”, said the Bible and an organizer could not refrain from playing. Soon I found myself in a team of zealots who lived by the principle of “Eat Cricket, Sleep Cricket, Breathe Cricket”. Offside, Leg side, mid wicket, full toss and a bevy of technical terms whose names and count I have lost, were generously chanted everywhere. I watched wide eyed as my captain drew figures discussing ‘strategies’ and field positioning. “I can run fast”, I squealed to my captain who gave a mere courteous nod in response. I was seeing the bullying boy of my gully cricket days in almost everyone. Battered ego was again battling but was pacified by some 14 years of experience which I claim to be maturity. The thought of wearing a jersey of my team colour, celebrating a sixer or a wicket taken or shouting “ Come aan Come on Come aan” in a la Moin Khan style appealed to me .

The D day had arrived and my talent of yesteryears helped me coax some team mates to bowl while I bat. After all, I needed some practice. The boys were not as mean as I had thought them to be. A few encouraging words and some patient bowling brought my strike rate to a modest 20%.

It was the semifinals, the third match played by my undefeated team. Few balls were hit towards me while we fielded and those which were hit were misfielded . Thanks to the strong batting line of my team, I never had a chance to bat . While the child in me was eager to bat, my big fat ego wished that I did not bat . The ego was sensitive to dismissive jeers. Child won over the ego. The second batsman was dismissed when there was one more run to be scored with 12 balls remaining for us to win the match. I promptly walked to the striking end. The ball was bowled and surprisingly the bat managed to connect with the ball! The ball moved a decent distance on the field. “Run Run” screamed the child as I ran towards the non strikers end. The run was made, the match was won and most importantly, the battered ego was assuaged.

Dadhiyodhana

It was an ordinary lunch hour and I was at my regular lunch table in the office cafeteria with my even regular lunch . Out came one big box from my lunch bag. Its contents were dutifully emptied into the plate. Next came a comparatively smaller box, whose contents were poured onto the plate. Finally came the smallest box which was just kept open to be used at any necessary point during the lunch. I then noticed a guy at a nearby table looking at my plate and giving a silly grin . These silly grins during my daily lunch were not at all uncommon. I assumed that it was due to the size of my lunch bag which appeared quite big owing to the number of containers and their respective contents which demanded to be packed separately. These grins which came from different corners and different sources were quite annoying. I decided that I had to put an end to these amused looks and learn the reason for it. I gave a questioning look to the chap and confronted him.He chuckled and asked , “Do you always eat curd rice ?” . I never expected this to be the reason for the amusement of my grinning friends.

As I ate indignantly, my mind rolled into a flashback. Be it ridiculously short school lunch breaks or hectic study breaks between grueling exams or repulsive office cafeteria food or even a dinner which had to be eaten to pacify a provoked mother at home, it was always Curd Rice which had come to the rescue. This simple preparation which tasted heavenly with mango pickles had a permanent predominant presence throughout my life. Lunch or Dinner did not come to a logical end without having a good quantity of curd rice.

I soon started inquiring about the popularity of curd rice or rather the lack of it to get some amusing details. My guardian angel curd rice was unheard of in many parts of the country. A girl confided that she thought that I suffered from an illness and hence was subjected to a curd rice rich diet. Another chap attributed my curd rice lunch to the caste that I belonged to. A few even found the very name of it repulsive.

My enlightened soul was finally at peace. I knew the reason for the amused grins. At least I need not dab my mouth every now and then or chew in a painfully slow pace fearing that I was displaying uncouth table manners. However it saddened me a bit that not everyone agreed with my opinion about my guardian angel, curd rice. With these trail of thoughts as I ate my lunch, a newcomer at my table remarked, “Eating a lot of curd rice makes you TamBrahms very smart ”. Though I did not agree with the illogical conclusion, I was at least glad to know that the other side of coin did exist for the non curd rice eaters.