My translation of Kalki's Parthiban Kanavu is posted as a separate blog. Here are a few easy links for you to start with.
The translation has been done in a way that is loyal to the original. It is also meant to be accessible to people who do not understand Tamil. For example, I have avoided the use of Tamil exclamations, expressions and salutations for clarity and accessibility.
Thanks for your support.
Krishnan, 1980
If someone had predicted that
Vichu would change someone’s life through his cricket, I would have just laughed.
Vichu was my neighbour,
classmate, confidante, and cricket partner. We had been inseparable. We shared a
strong bond that comes from suffering from the same academic difficulties. The
original group had comprised three members. Vani, Vichu’s older sister had been
a part of the gang. We called ourselves the VKV gang – short for Vani, Krishnan
and Vichu. Vani had been a perfectly normal girl until something changed. She suddenly grew
taller, developed a maddening air of superiority, and started twisting my ear
when she was displeased with me. She dropped out of our gang voluntarily. I was
not entirely displeased, given her new attitude. That thickened my bond with
Vichu further.
I had an
additional reason to like Vichu. He was the only boy who was smaller than me in
our cricket team. Our team consisted mostly of boys from the higher secondary
classes. Vichu and I were magnanimously accepted into the team although we were
both in class eight. We mostly acted as practice bowlers and substitute
fielders. On the rare occasion one of us got to play in the eleven, we rarely
got to bat or bowl. That did not stop us from fantasizing as to what we would
do when we got an opportunity in an actual game.
We considered
ourselves lucky to be in the team. If
you have forgotten your own early teen years, you can’t appreciate what it was like to play with boys who had already traversed their growth spurt. If you
are the junior member, the bigger boys seem to be about twelve feet tall and as
muscular as Arnold Schwarznegger (as he was in the 80s, that is). When a team of such strong specimens accepts you as a member, you are grateful,
even if you know you are only there to make up the numbers.
The contest
between the IOB Colony and Rajaji Extension was what the team lived for. We
lived in IOB Colony. Rajaji extension was a set of adjacent streets. Someone
who had been to Delhi discovered that the South Extension was called SouthEx and
renamed their team ‘RajEx’. We considered the name yet another symptom of their
vanity, but reluctantly adapted the name. The rivalry was intense. To us, the
rivalry was akin to India vs. Pakistan, or Manchester United vs Arsenal. The
senior members of the team all knew each other’s game well and would
continuously plot against the other team. Vichu and I were too insignificant to
feature in those plans of course.
Our captain was
Alphonse. His deputy was Ponnan. They both were the most valuable players, our star
batsmen and lead bowlers. The string of events that I'm going to describe started on a warm evening in early May, on the eve of a challenge game against RajEx.
Ponnan had sent word, asking Vichu and me to meet him at the Pillaiyar
Temple near Kaveri, our usual spot for team discussions. We went as instructed.
We were told that we would both be in the playing eleven the next day. We were
both pleasantly surprised.
After the team
meeting, the two of us walked home, discussing our hopes, fantasies, and fears.
Most fears involved Suresh, the captain of the opposing team. Suresh was tall, strong,
and bowled fast. He had a fierce temper. He was notorious in our school. He was
rumored to have beaten up the physical education teacher when the latter had
said something insulting to him in public. He also used to make dark threats to
the juniors when they failed to comply with his instructions. The most common
threat was the ‘poison ivy treatment’. He never elaborated, but the boys used
to whisper that it involved applying poison ivy leaves to your unspeakable
parts, leaving you to choose between dying of itch or dying of embarrassment
when you seek treatment.
The big day
dawned. We used to play with the “cork” ball, which was as heavy as the real
cricket ball, but lasted longer. It hurt like hell if you get hit. We played
without pads or gloves. Helmets were unheard of. A critical requirement to be in the team was not to cry
if you got hit on your shin.
Alphonse won
the toss and decided to bat first. As usual, he and Ponnan scored most of the
runs. We suffered a middle order collapse, and before we knew, Vichu and I were
batting together as the last pair. We put up a stout defense, with no intention
of scoring. We frustrated the opposition for six long overs and were applauded
warmly when we returned. We were dismissed for 124.
At the “lunch”
break, when we usually ate peanut brittles and drank water, Vichu declared to
me that we had done our part in the game. Suresh was annoyed that his team
could not get us out, that usually meant he would be angry when he batted.
Ponnan was sure to capitalize on that anger and get him out cheaply. The
seniors usually hid us in remote corners where our lack of speed and poor catching were not exposed. So, it did seem plausible that our role would be
insignificant from then on.
Vichu and I
could both bowl, in the technical sense of the word. We both had legitimate
bowling actions. I was a self-styled “fast” bowler in my age group, but called
myself a leg spinner in the senior team, as “fast” meant something else in that group.
Vichu was an off spinner. Neither of us had bowled in a real game.
RajEx started
their innings steadily. Suresh was accumulating runs, but wickets kept falling
on the other side. There was a mishap in about five overs. Ponnan hurt his hand
trying to stop a ball. He did not make a big deal of it, but in a few minutes,
we knew from the swelling that it might be serious. He was ferried away on a
bicycle for some parental scolding and x-rays.
That left
Alphonse in a tight spot. He had exactly four bowlers, not counting us juniors. He told both of us to be ready to bowl. I had butterflies in my stomach. I
felt my action was a lot cleaner and less embarrassing, so I was bound to get
to bowl ahead of Vichu.
Alphonse
shuffled the four bowlers skillfully to get more wickets, but Suresh was still
batting. He was smirking, reminding us of the over limits for the senior
bowlers. He told his partner in a needlessly loud voice that he was waiting for
‘fresh meat’.
Alphonse used
his ingenuity to pick up two more wickets, leaving Suresh with the last
batsman. Suresh was skillfully farming the strike, protecting his partner. They
still had twenty-six runs to get. Meanwhile, I could see that Alphonse was looking
worried. Two bowlers had run out of their quotas and he and Murali had only two
overs each. He had to bring one of us juniors on.
I took deep
breaths and was prepared to be called to bowl. To my surprise, he gestured
Vichu to warm up to bowl from the Raja Garden end.
Call me
a snob if you wish, but I was surprised that Vichu was picked to bowl ahead of me. I loved Vichu like a brother, but his
action was ... strange, to put it mildly. His bowling routine went something like
this. He would mark his run up, as though his steps were predictable. He would
start running in unevenly, slow down, look towards the sky and raise both hands
as if pleading for divine assistance. His left arm would remain relatively still,
while he would rotate the right hand and bend his neck at a strange angle. He
would be looking at the ground at the time of release. The plan was to bowl off-breaks, but it was usually hard to tell
what might transpire. Years later, when I saw a bowler called Paul Adams bowl
for South Africa, I was reminded of Vichu. But Adams was stylish in
comparison.
Coming back to
the game, we all realized that Suresh just needed a few boundary hits, and the
game would be as good as over. Suresh
was smacking his lips, mouthing the words ‘fresh meat’ at Vichu. Alphonse tried
to look confident but failed miserably. He moved me to fine third man to stop
any wides.
Vichu duly
started his gyrations as he ran towards the bowling crease. When the ball was released,
it seemed to come straight to me. The slip fielder stopped the ball, and the
umpire giggled as he signaled a wide. I could hear the batting team laugh
heartily from the makeshift stands behind me. Alphonse moved fielders around,
as if that might make the bowling more accurate.
Vichu, looking
defeated, walked back to his bowling mark, ran in again, and released the ball
after the usual sequence. It looked somewhat wide of the off stump as well.
Suresh looked contemptuous as he shaped to cut. The ball turned sharply after
pitching well outside off. Suresh persisted with his shot, but to his surprise,
the ball hit the bat close to the handle. It ballooned towards Murali at point
who calmly caught it.
It was hard to
describe the pandemonium that followed. We all ran to Vichu, who did not seem
to have understood what had happened. We hugged, shook hands, and screamed our
collective lungs out. Alphonse was bragging aloud as to how his surprise move accounted for Suresh. When I turned to look at Suresh, I expected
him to be trundling back with a bowed head, dragging his bat. On the contrary,
he was standing with a raised bat, eyeing Vichu with unmistakable rage.
I could not speak to Vichu on the way home, as the team insisted on walking with him. As we bicycled to the school the next day, I was rehearsing my lines to warn Vichu of Suresh’s reaction. He surprised me by asking, “What do you think Suresh will do?”
“What Suresh
will do?”
“You know, he
looked pretty angry yesterday”.
“It was a game,
and he got out. He can’t be mad at you. Don’t worry!”. That sounded hollow even as I spoke. We were talking about he-who-must-not-be-named!
As we talked
more, the threat seemed more and more real. It was only a matter of time before
Suresh would find Vichu, but we decided to evade him long as we could. During the
lunch break, and phys-ed period, we decided to not go to the playground, but
hide out in an empty classroom at the east end of the school. In the evening we
left the school as late as possible, and rode our bicycles along the riverside, avoiding the
road.
In the next few
days, our fear had abated somewhat. Three days later, we were camping at the
east end at the lunch break. We had spread comic books on the table, trying
to arrange them in a sequence. The door burst open. It was Suresh. He was
holding a brown paper bag that my mind quickly associated with poison-ivy.
Vichu and I
stood frozen, unable to speak. He walked slowly towards us, like a tiger stalking
its prey. He looked calm as he addressed me, “So you have been helping him
hide!”
I did not know
what to say.
He resumed
thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself, “I’m trying to figure out whom I
should take care of first!”.
I finally found
my tongue, “Suresh, I can explain everything!”
“I’m sure you
can. But I don’t need any explanations”. He paused for a bit and resumed.
“Here is what I have decided. I will deal with you one at a time. I want you to
meet me here at lunch tomorrow. And Vichu should meet me here at the end of the
day tomorrow”.
I agreed, not
knowing exactly whether it was good news. Vichu, the perpetrator, stood silent through all
this.
Vichu had heard
somewhere that sesame oil minimizes the sting of poison ivy. The next morning,
we both applied generous amounts of oil, just in case. I coasted through the
morning classes with no idea what was being taught. The lunch hour came before
I was ready. I did not feel like eating. I left my lunch box at my desk, and
headed to the east end, quivering from head to toe.
Suresh was
already seated when I reached the rendezvous. He had another envelope in his
hand, but it did not seem like it might contain poison ivy. I couldn’t be sure
of course.
He looked calm.
Not at all like I pictured. He came straight to business. “You are friends with
Vani, right?”
“Yes, of course
Suresh”, I said quickly, in a timorous voice.
“I want you to
give her this.”, he said, handing me the envelope.
“What is this?”
“I find her good looking… Actually, you don’t need to know. Just give her this. Make sure there
is no one else around.”
“What – Vani,
good looking?”, I asked, distracted from my fears.
“You are in
enough trouble already. Don’t make it worse by being nosy! Just be sure to give
it to her. And not a word to anyone else!”. He looked menacing again.
I hastily
withdrew. I did not mention the envelope to Vichu. I didn’t ask him what his
punishment was. I might have had to break my oath of secrecy if I raised the topic.
I did not have
a chance to see Vani alone for the next day or two. One evening, I saw her ascend the stairs
to go to the terrace. I took the envelope, dashed to her house, and followed
her to the terrace. This task did not seem daunting now. It was just Vani. And
I used to be in their house all the time, so nothing odd about me going to the terrace.
When she saw
me, she just raised a silent eyebrow, resembling a French queen asking a peasant if he was going to harp on bread again. She had a book in her hand.
“I was asked to
give you this”, I said, trying to give her the envelope.
“By whom?”, she
asked with a stony face.
“Hm, can’t you
just read it? It’s all in there”.
“Actually, I
want you to open it and read it. I may take it, depending on the contents”
I got
uncomfortable. “Vani, I’m not supposed to..”.
“I will tell
you what you're not supposed to do. You're not supposed to carry messages to
young girls from strangers. If you don’t want to be in further trouble, open it and
read it!”
I lost my
nerve. That sounded like blackmail. I thought it was unjust, coming from a
childhood friend, but I figured I had no option but to comply. I opened the
letter, handed her the envelope, and unfolded the single sheet inside. It was
one of those colourful sheets, with flowers and quills as the background.
“Dear Vani,
this is Suresh, your admirer”, I started reading.
I heard
footsteps from the staircase. I felt a surge of panic. I did not want to be caught with that
letter. I tried to push the sheet to Vani, who backed away, with her hands
behind her. I remembered something I had seen in a spy movie just in the nick
of time. I crumpled the sheet up, put it in my mouth and started chewing.
Vani’s mom
emerged from the stairs. I vaguely realized that she smiled, and asked me what I was eating, but I fled without replying. My heart was hammering fast.
Suresh found me
the next day. I told him I had handed Vani the envelope and did not wait for a
response. That seemed to satisfy him. I seemed to be off the hook.
The next month
went uneventfully. Vichu seemed to be back to his cheerful self.
At the end of
the summer, my father said he was being transferred to the head office, and
moved all of us to Madras at a short notice. I lost touch with everyone. This
was way before social media came into existence, and I was not resourceful enough to find a way to get back in touch with my friends. I heard that Vichu went
to study in Coimbatore, but nothing more.
Krishnan, 1999
So, almost two
decades later, I met the scourge from my past. I was speaking at a software
conference in Hyderabad. Most people in the audience were students. At the end
of the speech, some of them came up to ask questions and shake hands.
When I say I
spoke, I don’t want you to think I had great pieces of wisdom to dispense. I
was a speaker because my company was a co-sponsor. It was my job to go to such
conferences and give people the impression that we had an interest in the wider
technology community, while subtly positioning our brand.
After the young
students finished embarrassing me, I found someone waiting outside the cluster. It took me a
few seconds to recognize the man. It was Suresh!
My initial
reaction was an irrational fear. Then I remembered that I was no longer 13. It also helped
that he was beaming from ear to ear. He was still muscular,
“Krishna, what
a surprise! You were wonderful up there”, he said, indicating the podium.
“Thanks Suresh.
It has been ages! Great to see you. What are you doing here?”
“I teach at the
University. I came here, chaperoning some students. Not willingly, mind you!
But I am so glad I came. I got to meet you. Where do you live?”
“I live in
Delhi. You live here at Hyderabad, I see. How are you? Married? Kids?”
“Yes, I will
tell you everything. I have to go now though. Can you come home for dinner?”
“I have to
attend a speaker’s dinner tonight”.
“Skip it”.
“I can’t skip
it altogether. But I can attend the early part, and excuse myself. I can confirm later. Give me your
address”.
He scribbled
his address behind his business card. I was debating whether I wanted to go. I
had no great affection towards him. But he might be able to tell me all about
our old friends. That will beat listening to the snobs at the conference all
evening.
Finally, I
decided to go, and left the dinner early. I took a taxi to the address.
Suresh opened
the door, grinning ear-to-ear. The smile did not seem forced. I gave him the box of chocolates that I had brought. He led
me to a comfortable living room. His wife ran into the room screaming and
hugged me.
It was Vani!
Over dinner, there were a few jokes at my expense - such as paper roast being appropriate on the menu. Vani also twisted my ear, 'for old times' sake'. For once, I didn't mind being bullied.
Continued in Episode 2
There were several things to be
thrilled about. We were able to get there early and were able to watch the
teams practice from close quarters. It was well before the horrors
of 9/11. There was no fence around the playing area. We ran into
Azhar Mehmood and Saqlain Mushtaq on our way in. We recognized them as
Pakistani cricketers through their gear but did not know who they were. Saqlain
was still new (to us), and Mehmood was about to make his debut. When we took
the shuttle from the parking lot, we also sat next to Colin Croft, the West
Indian fast bowler who was there as a commentator.
In the stands, the Indian and
Pakistani pockets were easily identifiable by their chants, hats and flags.
Fans were allowed to bring their drums and megaphones. The pockets were
cheering their respective teams and targeting the players of the ‘other’ team
with some good-natured banter. To be precise, the banter was good natured to
start with.
On the first day, some Pakistani men
in front of us were talking to the players who were at the boundary. I recall
them asking Abhay Kuruvilla how tall he was and encouraging Azharuddin to ‘grab
the captaincy back’. (Sachin Tendulkar had recently taken over from Azharuddin
as the captain of India).
The Indian fans started by
reminding the Pakistanis of some recent previous encounters in Toronto and
Bangalore, where India had prevailed. Again, nothing more than cheerful back-and-forth.
As the day progressed, the banter
intensified, and at some point, changed into verbal duels. And later, it
transformed into outright nastiness. The Pakistani fans from our gallery were
shouting insults at the Indian fielders at the boundary. Not to be outdone, the
Indian fans targeted the Pakistani players.
An Indian fan seated near us - let’s
call him Desi Dada for convenience – was far above anyone else in his
nastiness. I put most of the blame for vitiating the environment in our
neighbourhood on him. He picked Rameez Raja for special treatment. Rameez, to our
surprise, reacted with a surprisingly crude gesture that was inconsistent with the suave personality he was known to assume in front of the cameras. Desi Dada apparently decided
that addressing the players did not give him enough scope for his creativity and started taunting the Pakistani fans in front of us. The Pakistanis
retaliated with some choice words of their own. Soon, water bottles started
flying. (Plastic ones, thankfully!).
We were surprised at how quickly
good-natured banter turned into a nasty brawl. When a few policemen came down
to enquire who started the brawl, my brother challenged Desi Dada towards to display his bravery to the policemen and gave him an encouraging shove in the right direction. Dada did no such thing,
of course. A few policemen took station near where we were, and that settled
things down for the rest of the day.
On the second day, Shiv Kumar (his real name), an Indian fan started teasing the Pakistani players. We were too far from him to be able to see him, but could hear him clearly, as he had a megaphone. He was particularly critical of Inzamam Ul-Haq’s body weight, calling him an aloo (Potato). I did not hear him say anything unparliamentary, but he was taunting the Pakistani players non-stop.
At some point, the Pakistanis had
had enough. Pakistan was fielding then. For some reason, one of the substitute
players brought a bat to the boundary. Inzamam picked it up, jumped the fence,
entered the crowd, and attacked the fan. The security personnel intervened and
broke up the fight before anyone was seriously hurt. The game eventually
resumed. The Toronto police spoke to everyone concerned and decided to not
bring up criminal charges. I suspect the High Commissions of India and Pakistan
were involved.
I have been thinking more about
this in the last few days. Why? Two recent incidents.
The first incident is an
accusation of racism against some Australian fans in Sydney. I am willing to
believe that it started innocently enough and escalated due to lack of reaction
from the players or under the influence of alcohol. We don’t know exactly all
that happened, but it is hard to believe that the instigators would have
thought race is an appropriate theme for humor without some inherent bias.
Unlike what happened in Toronto, there were no physical fights. Mohammed Siraj
had the courage to bring it to the match officials’ attention, and the Police
acted more decisively.
Some Indian fans generalize this to ‘What do you expect? The
Aussies crowds have always been racist’. Someone reminded me in this context that
Moeen Ali was called “Ossama” by an unnamed Aussie player. I want to remind
them that Moeen was also the target of a "noncrime hate-related incident" involving expat Indian population. That happened in his own hometown, Edgbaston.
The second reason for me to
remember the Sahara cup episode was last week’s civic unrest in Washington. Many Republican supporters have now woken up to realize that they have
been on the wrong side for a while. The common reaction that I see on social media is - 'what took you so long?' It may have been misplaced loyalty to a
person, party, or just willful ignorance. Or it could be just the aversion to the
alternative. Many people have seen something bad coming. It is hard for the such
folks to resist saying ‘I told you so’, but that restraint is exactly what it might
take to unite all the folks against the fringe elements.
Indian press has been wondering
if the events were uniquely American, with headlines such as ‘Could it happen
here?’. I have seen similar questions raised in the Canadian media as well.
I think it absolutely can. Bias has
been hiding in plain sight and has been waiting for a spark. Most people can’t
recognize their own bias until someone with the same bias ends up doing something
appalling. In the Indian context, some
examples are Godhra, Babri Masjid, the rise of Bindranwale, the anti-Sikh riots,
support for LTTE and the spectator unrest in the 1996 World Cup Semi-finals.
The Sahara Cup episode above is a
miniature incident that I have seen from close quarters. It might
have been a lesson sent to teach me not to see things in black or white. It’s
all too easy to be sure of your conviction for a long time, and then find that your moral compass has been off after the fact.
The purpose of this article is
not to defend the erstwhile Trump supporters, or the erring spectators in Sydney.
Rather, the point is that it is usually hard to tell the good guys from the bad, after nastiness becomes the norm. Wasn’t that the main theme of the war
of Mahabharat?
