The lessons we learned from the game against Bermuda have led to two major upgrades--a big broad bright brilliant blue banner (Dr. Seuss would be proud) with Dileepan's calypso and new India t-shirts for the ladies--two things that the cameras cannot afford to miss (even though I say so myself).The stadium is abuzz when we arrive. The teams are just wrapping up their warm-ups on the ground. Irfan Pathan remains, bowling to Greg Chappell. It seems the boy (I call him this to remind myself he is several years younger than I) spends every free minute practicing and he and the coach apparently share a good relationship.
India has won the toss and elected to field. We think it's the right decision. As Smi points out, at least we can watch half the match without biting our nails. Our seats are fabulous and we are ready to roll.
The first half of the game goes to our satisfaction. The icing on the cake is Tendulkar's bowling. He looks delighted with his wicket, which is all we need to gladden our hearts (and focus the cameras on our banner). We get our five minutes of fame, too, but not without working hard for it. An imperious cameraman comes by and asks us to cheer for the cameras. We start chanting "जीतेगा भाई जीतेगा" but he cuts us short, peremptorily demanding that we come up with something else that hasn't been beaten to death. We are stumped (no pun intended). Unni recovers first and makes up some nonsensical ditty that we recite, a creditable performance under pressure. Next, the cameraman pounces on the fan from Mumbai who is sitting is front of us. The poor man is quiet and unassuming, and up to this point has been showing his support by silently waving his flag and creating chart paper banners on the spot as demanded by the occasion. His response to the pressure exerted by the cameraman is to chant "गणपती बाप्पा मोरिया," which we are exhorted to join.
All in all, it is a good half day's work and we think the bowlers have done well to restrict the Sri Lankans to a total of 254 on a ground this size. We watch the canival-esqe half time entertainment and eat our hot Trini lunch in the afternoon sun with a pleasant sense of anticipation, not even batting an eyelid when the belligerent cameraman comes back to film us eating.
And that's when it all starts to fall apart. Before we have even settled down to watch the batting, Uthappa succumbs. I train my binoculars on the dressing room to see how they are taking it. To my astonishment, many of the players, not least of all Tendulkar, are gnawing at their nails! It's disconcerting, to say the least, to see world-class players looking like nervous schoolboys even before the going gets tough. I've never seen anything like it in any other sport. Either they know something I don't or they need to fire the person in charge of their mental fitness. One way or the other it doesn't bode well for us. Sure enough when Ganguly gets out, Tendulkar comes out looking tense, shoulders arms to a couple of deliveries, and is back in the pavilion all in the space of five minutes. We stare at each other in disbelief. There is no rewind button to convince us that what we just saw did indeed take place.
Fortunately for us, Veeru and Rahul get it together and we reach the nineties without losing another wicket. A few more runs, I pray; make it 100 for 3 and then I can take a breath. But it is not to be. At 98, the wickets start to tumble once more like a recurring nightmare. When Agarkar replaces Dhoni we know there is no one left to save us. His innings does nothing to change that impression and, like all the others before him, he leaves all too soon. We sit there, bemused, as the match unravels before our eyes. I will never forget the image of the solitary figure of Dravid, leaning on his bat, standing alone at the wicket among the ruins. Something must have snapped inside him because he lets loose a flurry of effortless fours before scooping the ball up to Murali as if saying "enough is enough." And that signals the beginning of the end.
The game reaches its inevitable conclusion and the India fans start streaming out of the stadium. We decide to stay till the team leaves to show our support and make our way to the balcony overlooking the dressing room and the waiting bus.
The only person we see for a long time is Ganguly, who appears on the opposite balcony and has a quiet chat with Sanat Jayasuriya. The Sri Lankan supporters standing with us call out to "Sanat Maali," urging him to smile for a picture, which he does with good cheer. Ganguly, not surprisingly, is not as obliging. I think it is sporting of the two players to interact in this way but I can't help wondering what motivated Ganguly to leave the confines of his own team's dressing room.One of the Sri Lanka supporters is a lady who takes great pride in informing us that she is Arjuna Ranatunga's cousin. She is happy and animated and tells us many stories. To her credit, she is sympathetic and says she would support India over any other team besides Sri Lanka. I feel like the old girlfriend talking to the new wife, smiling on the surface, crushed on the inside, knowing that she knows how I feel.
What can you say to support a team that is facing an irrevocable truth? The indefatigable fan from Mumbai, (the one who'd been making his banners on the spot throughout the game), has an answer. "See you in India in 2011," his chart says. Seeing him standing there, quiet and steadfast in his support, is somehow more poignant than any other display of emotion.
The players slowly emerge from the dressing room and board the bus in silence. We are strangely comforted by seeing how hard they are taking it and our hearts go out to them. The straggling group of fans surrounds the bus and applauds lightly as it leaves. Rahul Dravid draws the curtain on his window, bringing the curtain down, as it were, on India's performance.
Later that evening, we decided to drown our sorrows by going clubbing. Lystra, kind as always, piled us all into her car and drove us to the nightclub. The boys' shoes didn't pass muster with the bouncer so that idea was a non-starter. We decided it was the club's loss and made our way to find a place to eat instead.
If you ever find yourself hungry and heartbroken (or even heart whole and fancy free) in Trinidad, I highly recommend a visit to Veni Mange. It is a charming, colorful restaurant on Port of Spain's fashionable Ariapita Avenue and its owners, sisters Rosemary and Allyson, are straight out of a storybook. We arrived there after the kitchen had closed but the sisters took one look at us and decided we needed to be fed. Rosemary, herself a vegetarian, tackled the cooking, while Allyson fussed over us. She reminded me of the oracle from the Matrix, right down to the unhurried speech, ample frame, and fondness for clean-cut young men. She had our drinks brought to us while we waited (the best rum punch in the country, she averred) and we sipped them, feeling the blue mood recede.
Four desi uncles seated at the table next to us were drowning their sorrows in drink, or perhaps using their sorrow as an excuse to drink, and using their drunkenness as an excuse to dance with the hostesses. At any rate, they were considerably further along than we were and yet showed no signs of slowing down. They invited us to join them at a nightclub later and we used our recent experience with one as an excuse to refuse.We were rescued by the arrival of our food--fresh, flavourful, and served steaming hot in generous platters. Allyson plonked herself down next to Unni ("let me sit next to this handsome young man") and Rosemary joined us soon after. They regaled us, telling us stories of "Briiiiian" (as Allyson referred to Lara with her drawn out vowels) and how he considered Allyson a mother to him. According to Allyson, he had brought "Sashin" to her restaurant some years ago ("what a lovely young man").
By the time we were ready to leave we were feeling warm and mellow. They called us a taxi and bid us goodbye with hugs and kisses (especially for the young men). See, women? The secret to aging gracefully is to call all the lads "young men" and then flirt shamelessly with them.
Tomorrow we say goodbye. Come back to read about it!
- Who do we like?
- Irfan Pathan, for his hard work and dedication
- Rahul Dravid, for standing tall among the ruins
- Saurav Ganguly, for being a sport in defeat
- The fan from Mumbai, for his stoicism in the face of defeat
- Allyson and Rosemary, for their warmth and hospitality
- Not so much?
- Dictatorial cameramen
- Sri Lanka fans whose unabashed glee is like salt on our wounds
- Bouncers who are finicky about footwear
- New friends
- Allyson and Rosemary
1 comment:
Wonderful reading experience! Enjoyed soaking in the atmosphere (vicariously, of course), the tense faces and the heartbreak. Thank you!
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