Travel Travails on Indian Trails: Chapter 03

The cricket match with Military School Chail, contrary to my expectations, turns out to be as exciting as a 20-Twenty between India and Pakistan.

It is a Sunday morning – bright, sunny and calm -- just perfect for cricket. The highest cricket ground in the world is so well groomed it looks like an over-done Indian bride on her wedding night.

The cricket oval, surrounded by an excited crowd of five hundred boys and masters of Military School Chail, echoes with raucous cheering.
‘Jee-tan-gay bhai jee-tan-gay, Em Es See – jee-tan-gay!’
Come what may, MSC will win!

The local army band, not to be outdone, begins with Colonel Bogey and then breaks into Hum Honge Kaamyaab.

In the exclusive enclosure for the VIPs, I sit next to the Headmaster of MSC with my loser’s heart well marinated in the bitter juices of impending defeat and ready to be roasted in the oven of shame. Had never expected so much hullabaloo, assuming it would be like one of those lacklustre affairs we occasionally have with Military School Ajmer.

The Headmaster of MSC regales me with the tales of his First Eleven’s exploits in a recent contest featuring such luminaries as Lawrence School Sanawar, Yadvindra School Patiala and Doon School Dehradun. He has already shown me the Champions trophy sitting proudly in his office.

Soon it is time for the game to begin, but first the ceremonies. No Public school in India worth its name would ignore the ceremonies. No matter how ordinary the event, the ceremonies must be immaculate.

At 10 a.m. sharp, the two teams emerge from the Pavilion and march towards the centre of the ground. The host team is dressed in spotless white from head to toe. The visiting team is a motley bunch late Mr. Kerry Packer would have been proud to be associated with. I, being no Kerry Packer, wish the earth to open up and swallow me.
Ten of my boys are dressed in jeans, trousers, shirts, and shorts. Only Manish Jain, the wicket keeper, is dressed in white kurta-pajama he slept in last night. That he is the wicket keeper is obvious from his padded legs and wicket keeping gloves.

With my head bowed in embarrassment, I manage to steal a peek at the Headmaster’s face. It is the face of a man sorry for making an occasional impulsive decision.

However, the show must go on, as Raj Kapoor used to say in MNJ. So when the time comes, the Headmaster walks to the centre of the ground where the teams are lined up.
He shakes all the players by the hand and stops a moment in front of each to say a good word like the Duchess of Kent does during Wimbledon finals.
When Manish offers a cricket-gloved hand to the Headmaster of Military School Chail, I’m so embarrassed I’m unable to give it a damn.

~

At 10.15 a.m., umpires are in place, the opening batsman has taken his guard and fielders stand wherever they feel like. Manish as wicket keeper has no option but to stand behind the stumps.

I’m alarmed to notice that Gaurav Mehta has agreed to open the bowling attack. I know he hates games in general and cricket in particular. Give him anything of the Beatles on a good turntable and he is game.

When the opening batsman has taken his stance and the umpire has dropped his arm, Gaurav charges down the bowling run at a furious pace.
The pace, in fact, is so furious it takes him yards ahead of the popping crease before he releases the ball. He hurls the ball with such fury it pitches more than two yards outside the leg stump and rushes to the boundary like a bullet. The crowd bursts into cheers and jeers. No ball! Or is it wide?

5 for no loss.

Sandeep Gupta as team captain leaves his position at the slips and sprints to his opening bowler. A quick conference ensues; it is not difficult to guess what the agenda is.

Gaurav’s second delivery released a yard short of the popping crease is so emphatically assertive it turns into a bouncer.
The batsman tries to hook it. The ball rises vertically off the edge of his bat -- its descent from the apex so slow it seems to be looking for Sandeep’s hands.
5 for 1!
Stunned silence!

Overcome by cricket emotion, I jump out of my seat with a roar and do a step or two of bhangra. The Headmaster of MSC takes his sunglasses off and polishes them thoughtfully with a white hanky.

The new batsman plays it safe. In fact, Gaurav does it for him. Surprised at his unexpected success, he now bowls with such gusto it is either a wide ball or too fast for Manish to gather even if he had wanted to, which he rarely does.
Gaurav delivers so many wide balls his first over lasts nearly half an hour, at the end of which the score reads 23 for 1. All extras!

Sandeep has no alternative but to bowl the second over himself. The ball is so new I fear a massacre. The opening batsman resting and rusting for half an hour at the non-striking end is so impatient he steps out of the crease to make mince meat out of Sandeep’s first delivery.
The decision costs him dearly. Sandeep, the crafty leg spinner, produces a well-pitched flat delivery that dodges the bat and topples the middle stump. The silence this time is so thick you could cut it with a khukri.
I leap out of my seat for the second time and execute another step of bhangra.

23 for 2. Still all extras!

The army band is now silent. Looks like the musicians have taken an early tea break.
The Headmaster’s face has turned a shade darker -- not entirely on account of the hot sun, I suspect.

Now 23 for 2 is a score at which most batting teams start wilting. Not so with MSC team – the reigning champions of north India.
Egged on by a fusillade of hysterical cheering, the next batsman swaggers to the centre stage and takes stance without taking guard. Looks like some kind of a local hero. The Headmaster informs me he is the Kapil Dev of MSC – a formidable pace bowler and a hitter of the ball.
I’m more than convinced when he hits Sandeep’s next delivery with perfect timing. The ball races past Wahid standing at mid-off and trying to stop it with a foot. Sadly, his football skills do not seem to work while playing cricket.

Despite vigorous rubbings on his jeans, Sandeep fails to produce magic with the new ball. The local hero smashes his next delivery into an effortless six. The crowd goes berserk with excitement. A costly over thus far in spite of a wicket in it!
Sandeep, however, is not in our First Eleven for nothing. His next three balls are so clever the local hero fails to score on them. Surprisingly, Manish gathers all of them behind the stumps.
The score now reads 2 overs, no maidens, 33 for 2.

Bowling change is inevitable in view of Gaurav’s generous contribution to the host team’s opening score.
Manoj Kripalani standing at deep fine leg is called in. Manoj is a math wizard of our school. Good thinking from Sandeep: Manoj’s abilities about parabolas and ellipses might do the trick.

Ball in hand and deep in thought, Manoj stands next to the umpire for nearly 2 minutes. After that, he decides to bowl round the wicket.

Feeling no need for a bowling run and standing firmly on his feet, he releases his first ball in a high parabolic arc determined by the parameters of a mathematical equation inside his head.
The one-down batsman tries to read it but in vain; most residential schoolboys are abnormally weak in mathematics. Deciding to play it full toss, he misses it completely. The ball caresses the off stump gently like a lover’s hand and dislodges the bails.
33 for 3!

Manoj, however, is far too dignified a mathematician to jump at the predictable conclusion of his calculations. The honours, therefore, fall once again upon me – a fickle, excitable cricket fan like millions all over the world where the British once ruled and left behind a curious game in which 15 people stand on the ground at a time but only 2 of them actually play it!
So when I stand up from my seat to execute another step of bhangra, the look of dismay is unmistakable on the face of the Headmaster of MSC.

The host team, however, does not crumble like the proverbial cookie. Sandeep and Manoj keep the pressure on and take two more wickets but not until the local hero has made 38 not out on the completion of 20 mandatory overs.
At the end of the innings, the score of MSC reads a respectable 102 for 5.
Depression invades me like a sudden bout of diarrhoea as I rise from my seat and follow the Headmaster to the Pavilion for a cup of tea with the staff before the start of the second innings.

~

The opening pair of Sandeep Gupta and Rishi Dhawan walks to the pitch amid thundering applause not meant for them.
The army band too is back into business, playing a titillating pahari folk tune.

Before taking guard, Sandeep gazes at the sky for a moment or two like many cricketers do before batting. Some say they do it to assess weather conditions; others say they do it in prayer. My guess is Sandeep has combined the two --offering a prayer for bad weather. That is the only way crushing defeat could turn into a consoling draw.

The local hero is the opening bowler for the host team. To my great distress, he replicates Kapil Dev’s bowling action to perfection. His first ball whizzes past Sandeep, missing the off stump by cat’s whiskers. Sandeep shakes his head in disbelief at his good luck.
The next ball hits him squarely on the pads. Even before the local hero can croak “Howzzat!!!!” the umpire has already raised a finger heavenward.
1 for a duck!

It is the Headmaster of MSC this time who jumps out of his seat and performs a little twist – the favourite dance of his younger days, I believe. Embarrassed at his impulsive action, he immediately sits down with the inscrutable expression of a Headmaster’s face back in place.

For the first time in my career as a schoolmaster, I feel a surge of compassion for all headmasters. They too are human, after all!

Prakash Kripalani, the younger brother of Manoj Kripalani, is a boy with an attitude.
On the free Sunday every month, boys of Mayo College Ajmer make a beeline to the Honeydew restaurant on the Station Road.
Prakash, on the other hand, rides his bicycle all the way to the CCP [Choongi (octroi) Check Post] on the Jaipur highway.
For boys like Prakash Kripalani, the CCP on the Jaipur highway is the only place worth visiting in Ajmer after the tomb of Khwaja Moin-u-din Chishti.
There are two reasons for it.
First of all, there is Sophia Girls’ School on the way. Secondly, dahi-paratha dinner at the CCP dhabas is “freaky stuff” – to quote majority opinion at Mayo.
On certain evenings in a week when even stray dogs find the mess grub yucky, plucky Mayo boys like Prakash Kripalani can be seen patronising the CCP dhaba complex.

There are two reasons why Prakash makes a beeline to the CCP even on a free Sunday.
Firstly, with a Sophia girl riding pillion on your bicycle and with the kind of pocket money Mr. Gupta allows you on a free Sunday, you can buy lunch for two only at the CCP.
Secondly, only a dumb fool would go to the Honeydew on a free Sunday and that too with a girl riding pillion on his bicycle.
There are two reasons for that.
Firstly, the place is choc-a-bloc with Mayo boys. Secondly, the management of Honeydew tries to clear off a month’s leftovers on that day.

Prakash’s attitude seems to me the only reason why Sandeep has decided to send him to bat one-down.
My conviction is confirmed when on his way out, Sandeep stops Prakash for a quick word, after which Prakash walks to the crease like a tiger.

Standing at the crease, Prakash takes in a 360 degrees view around him. Then he takes his stance – standing erect, feet wide apart, bat held firmly in both hands and drawn back to strike. He is ready.
But the bowler isn’t. He is still expecting the batsman to adopt the familiar stance until Prakash makes an impatient gesture at him as if to say, ‘Come on, you moron, what the f *** are you waiting for?’

The bowler, like the proverbial bull allergic to all fabrics red in colour, grunts his way forward to deliver a short-pitched ball. Prakash, incidentally, is wearing a red T-shirt.

With the magic mantra (‘I don’t give a damn’, most likely) from his captain still ringing in his ears, Prakash smashes the ball with such abandon it soars high above the long-on position, clears the highest cricket ground in the world by several yards and drops into the woods below, never to be seen again.

6 for 1!

Search for the lost ball is futile, so the umpires choose a new one. Not that it would make any difference, anyway – the first one was delivered only thrice and hit only once.
The local hero delivers a yorker with the new ball. Unable to do anything about it, Prakash hops up instinctively to save his ankle from grave injury. The ball spares the leg stump by a millimeter and reaches the boundary before you could say ‘Timbuktu’.

4 byes. 10 for 1!

Frustrated, the Kapil Dev of MSC bowls two wide balls in succession, making his wicket keeper sweat for them. I could be wrong but I think I heard the Headmaster utter a word that rhymes well with ‘hit’, ‘bit’ and so on.
My respect for this Headmaster keeps on going up and up.

In his effort to square cut the last delivery, Prakash nicks it so well the ball rises from the edge of his bat like the Columbia hurtling into space from Kennedy Space Center, Houston. It sails well above the heads of the slip fielders, lands a couple of yards inside the boundary and then crosses it at a leisurely stroll.
At the end of the first over, the score reads 16 for 1.

~

Tennis players, they say, make lousy cricketers.
Rishi proved it the other way round.
Prakash and Rishi (another CCP buff) proved to be good runners between the wickets – thanks to their frequent running between Mayo and CCP.

Rishi connected the bat practically to every ball he faced during the match. Using all the tricks of tennis – drop, volley, lob and so on – he dodged the fielders at will. Prakash with a ‘nothing-to-lose’ attitude hit the ball to the fence at regular intervals and ran the cheeky runs happily.
63 runs partnership and 9 overs to go. The asking rate of 4.5 per over almost within reach. Spectators chewing their nails so intensely I thought MSC would need no nail-cutters for months.

At 77 for 1, luck ran out on us. Prakash gave a wrong call and Rishi was run out. Prakash, who had crossed over to the other end during the run out, was clean bowled by the spinner’s next ball.
77 for 3 at the end of 15 overs. 25 for a tie, 26 for a win. I too started eating my nails from that moment.

Luck refused to turn in our favour from then on. Unaware of cricket rules, Wahid at the non-striking end strolled restlessly forward beyond the batting crease and was stumped out by the bowler.
Enraged, he stopped short of murdering the bowler for his treacherous conduct until I was called in to intervene.
Wahid finally departed, muttering obscenities in Persian.

The rest of the match turned so anticlimactic for us I don’t feel like describing it anymore.

This is how the Chail Cricket ground looks today: