Other than bat and ball, charcoal stumps drawn on compound walls werethe only accessories we needed
V Ramnaryan21-Dec-2001Cricket is perhaps the most visible relic of the British empire in theIndian subcontinent. Little could the white sahibs of the East IndiaCompany have imagined that the game they introduced to their subjects,probably to amuse themselves during weekends and holidays, would oneday become a passion of epic proportions with the native population.Cricket madness spares nobody, it seems, cutting across social andcultural barriers.
Other than bat and ball, charcoal stumps drawn on compound wallswere the only accessories we needed. Across the street, we had a hugeplayground to ourselves for years before Madras became the vastconcrete jungle that it is today.The wicket on our ground was abeauty, levelled by innumerable humans and cattle using it as a shortcut between two streets.
As a former cricketer with a keen interest in what makes the otherthree-quarters of the world tick, I sometimes interact with achieversin other walks of life, including the performing arts. Even as I amconstantly looking for greater insights into the psyche and workhabits, not to mention the home and social backgrounds, of mysubjects, they invariably divert the conversation to cricket. Thanksto the likes of the Channel Nine team, Geoffrey Boycott, SunilGavaskar, Harsha Bhogle, Ravi Shastri and Navjot Sidhu, theirknowledge of the game is quite prodigious. I may be seekingillumination on matters relating to the nuances of classical music,but all I will get to discuss is the aerodynamics of reverse swing orthe relative merits of Steve Waugh, Brian Lara and Sachin Tendulkar,Shane Warne and Subhash Gupte, Gundappa Viswanath and Sunil Gavaskar.Recent writings on Indian cricket, especially by western, mainlyBritish, writers, focus on the frenetic ardour with which our cricketcrazy millions follow the fortunes of our Test and one-day stars. Thisis thanks largely to the huge role played by television and the colagiants in propagating the game as it is played today – high fives,electronic gadgetry, action replays, coloured clothing and all. Whatthese post-modern analysts may not know is that the Indian love ofcricket was not always confined to merely hero-worshipping superstars.The cricket fever was of a different intensity when I was growing upin the sleepy Madras of the 1950s. No doubt a Madras Test was anexciting adventure, demanding much advance planning, right from thebuying of season tickets to queuing up bedroll in hand the nightbefore the match outside Corporation Stadium or Chepauk. But cricketwas not all about Test matches. In our suburban neighbourhood, forinstance, life revolved around cricket, just as I am sure it did forcountless other children in other parts of the city. In a family ofcricketers, as mine was, all adult discussions seemed to centre aroundcricket, as indeed all our juvenile duels and pitched battles.Other than bat and ball, charcoal stumps drawn on compound walls werethe only accessories we needed. Across the street, we had a hugeplayground to ourselves for years before Madras became the vastconcrete jungle that it is today.The wicket on our ground was abeauty, levelled by innumerable humans and cattle using it as a shortcut between two streets. The lush outfield was manicured by grazingbuffaloes. When it rained, the hoofmarks of the buffaloes on wet soilhardened into dangerous ridges from which the ball reared up steeply,challenging the technique and courage of barefoot batsmen, andtransforming our military medium-pacers into demon fast bowlers.Batting then became largely a matter of survival of the luckiest. Onthis ground, we played the first matches of our lives.Everywhere else in Madras there were countless such private grounds,which the cricketers simply entered one day and occupied, so to speak.Until the Rip Van Winkle who owned the plot woke up suddenly to buildhis dream house, shattering the dreams of many prospective Prasannasand Venkataraghavans, Pataudis and Bordes. But the dreams were resumedin glorious technicolour as soon as the intrepid young cricketwarriors conquered their next new territory. Informal or ‘sign’matches were played almost throughout the year. A ‘sign’ match was oneat the end of which the losing captain affixed his signature to awritten statement on the outcome of the match, attested by the twoumpires and the rival captain. It was the ultimate humiliation.Those who did not have easy access to open grounds made do with quietstreets and alcoves or residential compounds, or even the corridorsand halls of their homes, much to the chagrin of their elders. Cricketdid not stop even in the classroom, where boys played book cricket byopening pages at random and affixing runs or dismissals to the twoimaginary batsmen; they could be Mankad and Roy in one generation andGavaskar and Viswanath the next. If, for example, you opened page 54,the second digit was the reference point for keeping score, and thebatsman got four runs (or two, under a different set of rules). If thepage number ended in a zero, the batsman was declared out and so on.In my extended family, we invented our own brand of home cricket, aningenious adaptation of the bagatelle board in which we gave cricketvalues to the various points on the board. 150 was six runs, 125 wasfour, LTP was bowled, 75 was two runs, 90 three. We had differentpositions for different kinds of dismissals – caught, lbw, stumped,run out, even hit wicket. A skilful player, experienced in steeringthe little steel ball bearings we used for marbles, could score300-400 runs, if he held his nerve. It gave you perverse pleasure tomake Laker and Lock or Desai and Surendranath score centuries afterthe top order had failed.A Test match in which maybe four participants took turns to play thetwo innings of the match could easily take all day. During summervacations, nothing, not even Monopoly could be a better way ofspending your days. This is the kind of cricket madness most of usgrowing up in the Madras of the 50s and 60s carried with us when westepped into adulthood to play or devotedly watch league cricket.I listened to John Arlott and Johnny Moyes, Pearson Surita and BerrySarbadhikari; I read Fingleton and Gurunathan; I took rickshaw ridesall the way to Corporation Stadium to watch Test cricket; I started myown cricket career as a member of the school junior team. Like manyother boys of my generation, I knew no life outside cricket as Iapproached my teen years. It was the perfect life.