For me cricket was all the matches that were played between 1996 to early two thousands. Not just because the timeline boasted of names like Warne, Waugh Brothers, Donald, Pollock, Kirsten, Cullinan, Waqar, Wasim, Saqlain, Mushtaq, the young Dravid and Ganguly along with Azhar and the little master, but also because I saw most of the matches with my friend Abhishek and on most occasion I would actually ask baba to take me to Kashmere Gate. Make no mistakes the room where Babu Kaka and Bablu Kaka would watch cricket was not the most airy room, neither it had wall-mounted TV, or the most comfortable seating. But still I would drop everything, that time, everything would imply my studies, and dash to their room sit on now that I recall a khat held together by wooden planks, in a dark dingy corner with Babu Kaka and Bablu Kaka. Soon we would be joined by Bubla Dada and we would all fit snugly inside the room. Baba, Kakaji, and Papa would soon leave for the Bengali Club. To join us later on by the time they too have celebrated the victory in Bengali Club. I remembered this particular series between Pakistan and South Africa in Pakistan. It was my summer holidays, I would watch the match with Babu Kaka and rejoice the fall of any Pakistani wicket as I would be an ardent South African fan , but the next day as the Protease locked horns with Australia, I would abandon my love for the springboks in favour of the men in green and gold. We were all armchair experts all of us. From how to play the doosra to spotting the wrong’un. From forecasting the result to foreseeing a six, we knew it all. And on somedays it would be like God too favoured us as in the lunch break on the field would match with Mamun and Choto ma’s lunch break. So as the players had their break, I would finish my grub, climb down the stairs almost racing the setting sun to watch the second half of the match, regaining my seat on the plank. No one knew that Babu Kaka and I secretly wished for a channel that would show cricket 24 into 7. Now that the wish is fulfilled, the seat next to me is empty. Today as I was watching India take on Zimbabwe, I could not help being distracted, and I asked myself why. And then the answer came to me, I had not watched a single cricket match with the same passion from the time we started watching cricket alone. In plush rooms with best surround sound but alas sans soul and company. I quickly shut my tv and opened my computer where I had downloaded test series reviews from all the best matches played between 1997/2000. And as I saw a buffed up Waqar Younis bustling in to bowl at Mark Taylor in Rawalpindi, I closed my eyes wished I was in the same room in Kashmere Gate with Babu Kaka chewing his nails, Bubla Dada in his office clothes and Baba removing the curtain of the room to say goodbye as he headed to club with Papa. And as Mark Waugh will loft a Saqlain delivery to the point boundary the sky would turn molten red, the air would reek of samosas. I would try to shift a little uncomfortably on the wooden plank as the match would become tense. And with the gradual passage of time, the melodious strains of Sarod would reverberate in the air as the night would fold in and I would fear that moment when Mamun would call my name from above and say, “Bishu, Baba eshay gaychay, time to go home.
Posted on: Sun, 28 Jul 2013 11:51:42 +0000
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