This Above all
Madness called cricket
KHUSHWANT SINGH

I confess I got a certain amount of malicious pleasure watching our cricket team being humiliated by Bangladeshis. It would have been different if the Pakistanis had given our boys a drubbing. We fight on equal terms. Though the Pakistanis have got the better of us more often than we of them, we have often hammered them on their own soil. Our rivalry is as ancient as our existence as separate nations. But Bangladesh beating us was something beyond our imagination. It is only yesterday they learnt to play the game and today they dare to beat us! As they say, pride goeth before a fall. And we were full of vainglory till the Bongs rubbed our roses in the Jamaican dirt.

We tend to go overboard in our enthusiasm for cricket. The adoration we give to Sachin Tendulkar, Rahul Dravid, Yuvraj, Sehwag, Irfan, Kaif, Kumble and their playmates defies belief. Prayers were offered in temples, mosques and gurdwaras for their victory. It ceased to be a game and became a kind of dharamyudha. All said and done cricket is little more than sophisticated gulli-danda (tip cat). Nobody gives a fake naya paisa to gulli-danda champion but the day a boy makes it to the Indian cricket side, he becomes a minor deity, and a crorepati. He makes lakhs more selling fizzy drinks, soaps, toothpastes, cellphones, cycles, motor cars etc and cricket becomes a pastime. It is as sickening as it is laughable. If we showed more restraint in our hero-worship and our media, both print and electronic, did not waste their paper and time, we might develop a more balanced attitude to the game. Defeat at the hands of Bangladesh would not make us suicidal, nor making a record score against Bermuda elevate our spirits to nirvanic heights. Remember, it is only a game, not a matter of life or death.

Peaceful death

Renuka is the daughter of Bhapa Pritam Singh, the most prominent Punjabi publisher of his time who died over a year ago. She was brought up as a Sikh but has become an ardent disciple of the Dalai Lama. She rang me up to ask whether she could drop in for a minute to deliver an urgent message. I invited her over to join my evening mehfil. By the time she arrived, the bazm (assemblage) was chiraaghaan (fully lit) by Josh-e-kada (wine). She refused to partake the libation I offered her: she is strict teetotaller. I asked her what message she had come to deliver. She took a bright red string and proceeded to tie it like a rakhi on my left wrist. "This is from the Dalai Lama," she said," it is to bless you for a peaceful death."

To say I was taken aback would be a gross understatement. Most people wish me long life and good health; this one sounded like wishing me a speedy departure. ‘Thats’ an odd kind of blessing I stuttered: "What better can you or anyone of your age wish for?" she asked. And left.

Later at night I pondered over the blessing. I was reminded of Keat’s immortal opening lines of Ode to the Nightingale. He was sitting under a tree on full-moonlit night when the bird began its mournful melody:

Why envy the Nightingale?Keats answers in his third verse:

The more I pondered over the holy message the more I realised how profound it was. When a person is in his 70s or 80s, it is foolish to nurture worldly ambitions of any kind. His elders, including his parents, who gave assurance of continuity, are gone. So are many contemporaries and those younger than oneself. That itself should be a reminder that your turn to go is drawing nearer and nearer. A more telling reminder is the gradual decaying of one’s bodily functions: teeth gone, vision and hearing impaired, movements getting slower by the day, memory fading etc. It could be worse with onset of diseases that cause bodily pains. Thats what Keats meant by "men hearing each other groan". Bodily aches and pains are real and make living insufferable. So much as you might hate to think of your own death, you can’t put it completely out of your mind. Don’t brood over it, don’t let it become a morbid obsession, continue to enjoy food, drink, jovial company and cheerfulness and pray (or if you don’t believe in prayer) wish you fade out peacefully into eternal sleep.

My bindi

N.B. Occasioned by Aishwarya Rai’s visits, with the Bachchan family, to various temples in UP and the dot of vermillion on her forehead.

(Contributed by Smita Agarwal, Allahabad)

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