Bet

Howzzat

A few days ago in preparation for a combined Eid and birthday celebration for Amal, Maliha and I undertook a deep cleaning exercise in our apartment. Toronto is similar to Mumbai inasmuch as its attitude to housing is that of the management of Lays when filling a chips packet.

“Less is more”

Even then, it took us almost half the day to cover just one half of the house. Bits of cereal that were older than the government in Canada, plastic toys that were missing heads or feet and book covers of books that we had given away. It may have also taken longer thanks to my attention span. I boomeranged from sweeping to emptying the dishwasher to cleaning out drawers.

One trigger was while emptying a draw, where I found an empty photo frame. I invested 15 minutes and 350 steps looking for a portrait of Amal that was shot at her pre school but couldn’t find it. Rather than going back to finishing with the draw, I moved on to a plastic folder that my mom had given me on our last visit home.

In addition to coasters from a holiday in 2015, train tickets from Berlin in 2017 I also had prints from a film roll I had shot on a road trip to Mysore in 2008 with friends from school. As I began to flip through them, I had that bitter sweet feeling you get when you encounter something in your possession that is almost old enough to vote.

I was in only one of the photos myself so it wasn’t just about seeing things that no longer existed

“Are those cheekbones?”

Like any other time capsule, it was about how much had changed. The photos of the drive to Mysore would be unrecognizable because of the express highway that gets you there now. The route earlier would be punctuated with slow downs as we passed through a town enroute. Bidadi, Maddur, Channapatna etc. Which was better suited to our chariot of choice, a green Maruti 800 called Padma.

2 things from this trip scream the hubris of youth. One being that it was impromptu. And the other that we were in a proximity that allowed this. Three of us had driven down, thanks to Padma, from Bangalore to meet our classmate from school. He was studying medicine in Mysore.

Today, we are split across Canada, Australia, the UK and furthest of all, Electronic City.

There’s photos of pitstops for Chai. A gig we attended at Purple Haze which had just opened there. Some blurry photos from drinks at the helipad near the palace. And then of the bet match.

Almost a third of my film roll was shot at a ground outside his house in Mysore. It was one of three grounds with TV towers on either end. It must have been one of five cricket matches I have played as an adult.

It was a tennis ball match. One bounce, one hand catches allowed. Round robin where each person had a chance to bat. With the person with the lowest score being the loser. The bet?

Loser had to pay for the first pitcher at Pelicans. Which, if memory serves, was me-

A yell from the hall drew me back and I hurriedly pulled a photo out of the envelope and went back to cleaning. While I have no interest in watching cricket on TV, I will still pause and watch a game that’s happening on the street.

Maybe because as a kid I had spent hours across different fields in south Bangalore, perfecting a leg cutter. Which I put to the test in bet matches. Some with kids in the neighbourhood and others in Jayanagar or Banashankari. Notes and coins would be deposited with someone who was too slow to run away while we played.

The biggest win I remember was 100 rupees that we had won in a match where I took 3 wickets. The biggest loss I remember was a match somewhere near Yedyur lake. Not only did I get hit for 14 runs, we had to give them a bat to cover the shortfall in the money. I blame our captain. One of my classmates from school who’s only qualification was to look like a 45 year old even when we were 12.

Incidents like that, parental rebellion and the looming threat of board exams slowly disconnected me from the sport.

So it’s safe to say that Amal’s interest in the sport isn’t thanks to me. I think the initial trigger was a book given to her about a girl called Sitara who plays cricket. Our last trip to India added fuel to the fire.

My father amongst 700 hundred other gifts had given her a plastic ball and bat. Instead of threats of corporal punishment that were given to Kau and me, she was actively encouraged to hit the ball indoors. Explanations of who does what on the field were given to her as the women’s IPL was being played on TV.

Which is why a few days ago, she was the one to spot a cricket match being played in the park close to her school. The park which has a baseball diamond is usually just a place that dogs are let off the leash. This time there were two wickets set up - one on the pitchers mound and there were 6 people playing.

Instead of rushing home to make dinner, we stopped at the park bench as she peppered me with questions.

“Is that the Batman”

“Its Bats-man, yes the one with the bat is the batsman”

“Are they out yet?”

“Wow Amal you know about getting out, Not yet, see he just hit the ball and then they are running”

They changed at the wickets and then the bowler bowled the next ball. It was a slower one. He scooped it straight in the sky to the fielder for what looked like an easy catch. The fielder clapped his hands and fumbled it. He looked frustrated before throwing the ball at the wicket.

I may have had a role to play as well. As the ball was landing and he foozled it a guttural yell emanated from me that seemed to come from 1997. A word that communicated that it was an easy catch and that he should have been out.

“LOLLIPOP”

I feel like I would have caught that. I remember that one match where we were 6 down and-

“APPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPA”

“Yes chellam”

“WHERE IS THE LOLLIPOP”

P.S If you like movies about cricket, watch Puta Tirugisi Nodi, a sweet movie about kids playing cricket in Bangalore that triggered this piece