The 1970s was a defining decade in the history of Indian sports. With a a spate of defeats, none more embarrassing than the 7th position in Montreal Olympics, craze for hockey yielded place to cricket. It also coincided with the meteoric rise of a fellow called Sunil Gavaskar who had debuted with 774 runs against Gary Sobers' West Indies in 1971. He was my Hero No.1, and had been immortalised in Relator's Calypso:
It was Gavaskar
De Real Master
Just like a wall
We couldn't out Gavaskar at all, not at all,
You know the West Indies couldn't out Gavaskar at all
The exploits of Gavaskar, and later on Kapil Dev, and the Indian team made cricket a national religion. And from that moment , the standard Indian prop of superstition came to attend it. I, too, succumbed. And why not? Even the players, including the Little Master, were superstitious.
Did they not have their fixed seats in the Dressing Rooms? Did not Dilip Vengsarkar remain unshaved during Test matches? Had not a handkerchief, red in colour, been made famous by Mohinder Amarnath much before Sreesanth did it, and without raising any eyebrow or inviting an investigation? Had not the Indian manager Man Singh tormented his team members to stay rooted to their seats when Kapil Dev was playing his knock of 175 against Zimbabwe in 1983 , unsympathetically unmindful of the consequences of mugs of beer on a cold afternoon on the bladders of tropical Indians ? Did not the Little Master always walk to the left with his opening partner when they entered the ground to open?
Gavaskar played many long knocks and hit an obscene number of centuries. But for many people , his success was both due to one of the most complete batting techniques ever witnessed in the history of the game and also because of the vigil the faithful mounted when he batted.
When India won the World T 20 in 2007, I knew it was because my cousin and I had watched the match together in 'spirited' conviviality. If this cosmic confluence had not taken place, could Sreesanth have taken a catch off Joginder's last ball to dismiss Misbah? The two of us had also watched the World ODI Final together. So this time when we reached the finals of World T 20, I rang up my old lucky half of India's fortune and asked him if we could watch the match together at his house.
" Come over ," he said.
So I went . I sat to his left, we drank to the best of our not insubstantial capacity and remained glued to the TV like school children. But the iconic Yuvraj played one of the most pythonic knocks in a World Cup final and completely swallowed India's chance of a win. I was bruised, humiliated but more than that, puzzled. After all, our Jodi No. 1 had given us two World Cups. What went wrong this time?
" Bhaiya, why did we lose?" I asked, remorsefully nibbling at a chicken leg.
" The team did have a few chinks in its armour, but it had an astrologically tested jodi in us to ensure a win. I even sat to your left and as per our Standard Operating Procedure, I poured your drinks and you mine. We also crossed and tightened our thighs and put our bladders to pain, but did not go to the loo," I argued with a conviction that one normally associates with the growl of the anchor of Newshour.
He had finished dinner by this time, and was gingerly dipping his fingers in the finger bowl , all the while playing with the lemon wedge floating in it. He finished washing, wiped his hands and said, " Vivek, you were always a duffer in maths. So many times I have told you that astrology involves a lot of calculations, and you messed up on the basic one."
He had finished dinner by this time, and was gingerly dipping his fingers in the finger bowl , all the while playing with the lemon wedge floating in it. He finished washing, wiped his hands and said, " Vivek, you were always a duffer in maths. So many times I have told you that astrology involves a lot of calculations, and you messed up on the basic one."
" Where did I go wrong?" I protested, my mind, fingers and teeth no more on the chicken.
" You were wrong on two counts," he said in a voice that only ears trained to hear people who have just shoved a paan inside the mouth could make out.
" You miscalculated the place where we sat to watch the match. You forgot that we had watched T20 Finals at Dushyant's house and the ODI Final at your House. Both were South facing and we won. But my house is East facing- I was sure we would lose. Had we not lost the WC Finals in 2003 when I watched it here, in this house? I was sure we would lose this time also," he said nonchalantly, in an absolutely unconcerned guttural which is produced when you chew on a paan.
" And you drank wine , that sissy drink, instead of whisky,"he twisted the sword of accusation further.
I was livid, as much as at my own inattention to finer details as to his confident premonition about and the heartless lack of concern at the loss.
" Bhaiya, then you should have told told me before. We could have sat in my house. I could have had whisky. Why did you do this? Why?" I said with as much harshness one can muster during a bout of impotent rage.
He lit a cigarette. A glint from his bulbous eyes showed in the the phosphoric flare as he struck a matchstick and cupped his hands. He blew out the flame and carelessly flicked the match stick on the red cement floor. Then he craned his neck backwards to avoid the swirling smoke from getting inside his nostrils, and inhaling deeply like professional poker players , blew out a perfect ring and then another which he expertly threw through the first one.
'Why?" I repeated.
" Because I had placed my money on Sri Lanka," he announced triumphantly.
