As I picked up the car keys, I made the mistake of telling my wife that I was going to the neighbourhood liquor shop for some beer.
“Why? Don’t you already have enough?” she asked in a disapproving tone.
“Well, I do have a few cans, but this evening there are two IPL matches, and I have invited Gopu to come over. It’s more fun to watch with a friend.”
“That no-good Gopu? He’s going to guzzle our beer?”
“So, all of a sudden it’s our beer, eh?” I mocked. “Gopu is a good friend; I will have you know.”
But I spoke too soon—because that day Gopu almost put himself on my list of unfriendlies. Had he been a Facebook friend, I would have certainly unfriended him.
Gopu came by in the afternoon and we settled down before the TV to watch a lot of glorious cricketing action. The first match was between two teams—one wearing red and the other blue. The batsmen were in form, the beer was cold, the atmosphere in the stadium was electric, two friends were sitting in companionable silence. What more could one ask for?
Illustration: Job P.K.
Then the missus came and flopped down by my side. She joined the affable silence, but it was too good to last.
“Why are there so many advertisements?” she asked after a while. “They are plastered all over. The players’ caps, shirts, sleeves, gloves, trousers and even their shoes! There are advertisements around the boundary, the rope, the stumps and also on the grass. This is not cricket! There are ads even on the side and bottom panels of the TV screen.”
“Be reasonable dear,” I said. “The TV channels must make a bit of money, shouldn’t they? After all, we are getting the live telecast of all this lovely cricket absolutely free!”
But the little woman continued her tirade. “Just see the products advertised! They are largely gambling, tobacco and alcohol! It is so stupid. The government bans betting and then allows advertisements for these games of chance? I am horrified by these invitations to play poker and ludo online. It is nothing but gambling. And many children watch these matches.”
“Quiet!” I said sternly. “Let us watch the game. You are ruining all the pleasure of watching cricket for us.”
That is when Gopu decided to betray me.
“Cricket? Who says this is cricket? This is as much cricket as any WWF-choreographed dramabazi is wrestling,” he said. “I have played a bit of cricket in my time, and our coach would have hanged us from the sight screen for playing cross bat. This IPL style of batting is much worse! Terming them as ‘paddle scoops’ or ‘periscopes’ does not condone the sin of playing those improvised shots. This is a nautanki. This IPL is certainly not cricket.”
I was taken aback by his vehemence. I had never seen Gopu so worked up!
My dear wife too went for my jugular. “If you are so darn happy with the advertising, I challenge you to buy me some Springkisser packaged drinking water. From anywhere. At any price!”
While I was trying to think of a suitable comeback, Gopu was busy scribbling something on the back of an envelope.
“Do you have any idea what obscene amounts these guys are paid? They are paid in crores!” he declared.
“Well, they deserve it,” I said. “They worked hard, didn’t they? Just look at the athleticism! Look at the level of physical fitness! Look at the skill—it is poetry in motion!”
“Yes, but there must be some sense of proportion. What these guys earn in one season of less than two months is many times more than the lifetime savings of a cabinet secretary or an Army chief. There must be something wrong with a country in which a cricketer is paid Rs25 crore for playing a few matches; that too wearing coloured pajamas. Do you realise that the president of India would get this much money in salaries only if she remained in office for more than 42 years?”
“The IPL has commodified not just the game of cricket but the players as well,” observed the missus, primly.
Gopu bashed on mercilessly. “The commentary is nothing but clichés and hyperbole. Every six is a ‘maximum,’ every catch is ‘miraculous’ and even disappointing games are ‘the best matches ever’. These commentators try to sound like modern- day Sanjays, relaying the events of the Mahabharat war to a blind Bharat rashtra. But all that frenzy can’t be real. They have to be faking it!”
My wife chipped in, “It’s obvious that my dear husband will watch anything on TV, provided it can be used as an excuse for drinking beer. But you, Gopu? You don’t seem to even enjoy the game. Why do you people waste so much time?”
“Because we have nothing else to do,” we both said, almost in unison.
“You two don’t seem to be alone,” sniffed the missus as she bustled off to the kitchen.
I am not too certain, but I think she added under her breath, “May God help this country!”
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com