by Justin Brown
‘Don’t choose him, pick me!’
‘I want to be captain!’
Reece was slowly being backed into a corner. Given the chance, I’m sure the boys would have written their own names down, but relinquishing control to adolescent frenzied cricket fanatics with no timetable wouldn’t have helped anyone.
‘Okay, okay!’ he pleaded. ‘One at a time! Now, is it Jitesh, or Jitash?’
‘Jitesh! But I want to be Sehwag!’
‘I want to be Sehwag. You can be Ganguly!’
‘Ganguly is out of form.'
‘That’s why you should be him!’
We looked at Reece, who resembled a harassed teacher on a field trip
‘Whoever gave the job of scoring to Blanket Boy is a genius,’ I said.
And on it went. Fifteen minutes later and we still hadn’t started. Reece, at his wits' end, yelled something in Hindi and boys swiftly stepped back.
‘Handy,’ said Brendon. ‘Must remember that one.’
I took a seat next to a young boy who was smoking a bidi. Popular throughout India, the small cigarette is a rolled-up leaf with a bit of tobacco enclosed, and tied up with string. Shocked to see such a baby-faced youngster holding one, I asked him his age.
‘I’m thirteen,’ he said, justifying his fag.
‘Isn’t that too young to smoke?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Thirteen year olds don’t smoke in India,’ I said.
‘Two year olds smoke in India!’ he replied.
I don't know whether smoking is prevalent among Indian children, but it seems unlikely as it was only recently that international tobacco companies began a major push to the billion potential buyers there. Many different state governments, however, are outlawing smoking, the latest of which is Goa. Many say this will affect business in the foreign tourist season. Or maybe not, given what happened when Delhi’s big wigs banned lighting up in public places. The rule didn’t apply to foreigners, as apparently they couldn’t control their urges like Indians could. As a result, gloating tourists were allowed to continue to smoke in restaurants, but Indians were not.
Reece eventually gave up writing down names, deciding instead to wing it.
‘For Christ’s sake, someone just bowl!’ he yelled, wrapping his blanket round him like some Jedi knight. ‘The boys say there’s only one rule - ‘spin bowling only.’’
Stew and I were very happy about this, given we had no pads, gloves, or boxes, and we were playing not with Vicky but with a real cricket ball.
The second rule, unbeknown to us, was that the first rule only applied to New Zealand. As we were soon to find out, India were allowed to bowl as fast as they bloody well liked.
The leaf-covered pitch was like rock. Every time the ball pounded into it, a puff of dirt would hit the air. After India scored a well rounded twenty-five off four overs, Stew and I asked if we could borrow our opponents’ sweaty, junior-sized pads. (I would have worn their box, too, but it was also junior size. It was still in the wrapper, I guess so they could share it.) The kids had written ‘India is Great’ on Reece’s scorebook and, judging by two run outs in our first over (including Stew, who went first ball), I was beginning to believe it.
Enter Utkash. Smaller than his mates – and obviously not highly thought of, given his place in the batting order – Utkash wasn’t the best player on the planet. But he was keen, hungry and a nuggety little batting partner. Soon, after squirting twos and fluking singles, we were in reach of the target. I glared down the pitch at a bowler with ‘Get lucky with an Irish Boy’ plastered on his shirt. I had to pinch myself - I was in India, on an Indian pitch, facing an Indian bowler – albeit a ten-year-old.
With Irish Lover Boy imitating Brett Lee, I was more concerned about protecting my manhood than advancing the Black Craps’ scorecard. With this in mind, the next time he let one rip, I closed my eyes and swung like a madman. To my astonishment, the ball flew off the meat of the bat and rolled past an old army tank by the main road. ‘Isn’t that a four?’ I asked, coming back for the second run.
‘No runs!’ said Irish Lover Boy. ‘Anything behind the tree - no runs!’
Ah, the peepul tree. Otherwise known in India as ‘The Buddha,’ this monstrosity of nature ensured that most leg-side shots went no further than your nose, but that was the price you paid for shade.
Utkash hit the winning runs and put on his Man of the Match prize, an Auckland Aces cap. His smile was as wide as the nearby Hoogley River.
SCORECARD
Maidan Park, 9th December, Calcutta
India won the toss and fielded
INDIA
Sara run out - 4
Patan not out - 9
Jitesh not out - 8
Nitin did not bat
Extras - 4
Total - 25
Bowling
Gunn - 0/2 - Koshal 0/6 – Mohit 1/6 - Utkash – 0/12
BLACK CRAPS
Stew run out - 0
Mohit run out - 0
Utkash not out - 10
Justin not out - 13
Extras - 3
Total - 26
Bowling
Nitin - 0/16 – Patan 0/7
Result – Black Craps take 1-0 lead
RUNS AND RUPEES
Classified advert in Kolkata newspaper: 'HIV groom looking for HIV bride.' Indian morning papers are a treat. Waking in Kolkata, having stayed in bed all night, I was about to read page 401 of Shantaram, but asked myself, why read an adventure when you’re in the middle of one? Books and movies are pure escapism, meant only for extended plane trips. Once you reach land, you write your own script.
Khaled was waiting for us at reception. As soon as he saw us, he sprang up.
‘Carpet shop this morning?’ he asked, with the look of a boy on his birthday.
‘No, not today,’ said Brendon.
‘Silk shop?’
‘No, we want to go to Eden Gardens, mate,’ said Stew.
‘But, sir, there is not game on. Pakistan left last week.’
‘Doesn’t matter. We just want to see it.’
‘And then we go to a carpet shop?’
‘Maybe,’ said Reece.
‘Probably not,’ said John.
Outside, Kolkata was stretching its arms and getting ready for the day. The horns had started, street vendors were primed and jet-black oversized crows – who seemed to run the joint – dined on every scrap be it newspaper, cigarette packets or leftover peanuts. Overcrowded buses with bars on every window chugged through gaps, narrowly missing rickshaw drivers, who readily accepted they were at the bottom of the food chain. The ringing of bicycle bells, blowing of noses (no hanky necessary) and clearing of throats – otherwise known as a dirty old hoik - meant all was well in India’s third largest city.
Khaled parked up by a main intersection. We thanked him and hopped out.
‘Carpets later, yes?’ he said.
‘See how we go,’ said Stew.
‘Definitely not,’ said John.
Two boys, most probably brothers, crept up behind us. The younger one was wearing what looked like a curtain, his brother what could only be described as a large rubbish sack. Their feet were the colour of soot. Like the woman at the lights the previous night, they put their hand to their mouth and grunted. They faked a shiver, but didn’t need to. I looked down an alleyway which was still, due to the early morning hour, devoid of people. A man squatted and peed into a shop’s roller door.
‘Sir,’ said the older boy, putting imaginary food in his mouth.
We put our hands in our pockets and turned the other way, pretending to be as hard as nails. Don’t give them money. It goes to pimps. It’ll just encourage them.
‘Here ya go,’ said Reece, handing them a ten rupee note. ‘Now bugger off.’
The boys accepted with joy. Suddenly we felt mean, stingy, heartless.
‘I know you’re not supposed to,’ said Reece, 'but those poor little guys l
ooked freezing.’
‘Oh great, now we feel really bad,’ I said.
‘Karma, Justin,’ he smiled. ‘Karma.’
I had never travelled anywhere with my main focus being finding a game of backyard cricket. Other tourists hunt down museums, or monuments, or vineyards. We just wanted to roll the arm over.
‘We need a bat!’ said a purposeful John. ‘Has someone got Vicky?’
‘Yep,’ said Stew, the organised one. ‘She’ll be dirty in no time, little slut.’
As it was a Sunday, we were having a hard time finding a shop that was open. Sure, there were vendors, but we were after a sports shop with cricket gear.
‘Reece, earn your bloody keep and ask Khaled where we can buy a bat.’
Khaled, who was walking behind us, sprung to life when Reece asked in Hindi.
‘He reckons we’ll find one down the road,’ said Reece.
Khaled proudly went to the front of the pack, showing us his city. Within minutes we were walking past street vendors selling cricket bats.
‘You want good bat, sir?’ one asked.
‘Cheap bats, which one do you want?’
Brendon and I stopped to inspect the MRF Tendulkar replicas. ‘Please!’ said Khaled, grabbing my arm. ‘Better price next place.’
The vendor wasn’t happy. Khaled didn’t care.
We received sinister looks from the remainder of Cricket Bat Alley before Khaled took us into a dark, dingy lane with the roller doors down. With its apparent secrecy and shifty vibe, this was starting to feel more like a drug deal than buying a cricket bat. Every couple of minutes a young boy would be asked to fetch another bat. Another worker, an Indian version of Del Boy from Only Fools and Horses, tried to coax us into buying fake Manchester United football shirts.
‘No.’
‘This one?’
‘No.’
‘This one?’
‘No.’
‘David Beckham.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘How about this one?’
‘No.’
And so on.
John eventually bought a bat with a horridly girly, purple grip, named Galaxy for 450 rupees (eleven US dollars.) Khaled seemed stoked. Sadly, this meant a walk of shame back through Cricket Bat Alley. I know it’s just business, but it’s very difficult carrying the same product past someone who tried to sell it to you ten minutes beforehand. And cricket bats are not the easiest thing to hide in a place like India.
A few years back, I met a Frenchman in an Auckland cafe. His dream, for as long as he could remember, was to visit Eden Park. It didn’t matter that it was midsummer and there wasn’t a rugby game on. He just wanted to stand where his heroes had. I had a spare couple of hours, so drove him to Auckland’s Home of Rugby. Invariably, as my French friend did, sports fans always say the same thing when they see a ground in real life: ‘It’s a lot smaller than on the TV.’
That, however, is not the case with Kolkata’s Eden Gardens. The Home of Cricket (Lord's and the MCG aside), this colossus of a stadium is a 42’ plasma-surround-sound double woofer of a ground. Having been told you can’t just walk in, we just walked in.
Stew and I stood in the main stand having a religious experience. This was the ground where VVS Laxman scored 281 against Australia, with Harbhajan Singh taking a hat trick in the same game. It's a place of pilgrimage, where riots have disrupted matches, entire crowds have been evacuated for being bad sports, and where India stands still to see its national team fry others in a pressure cooker like no other.
‘It’s a lot smaller than on the TV,’ said Stew.
The men in white on the field were from a textile company playing a social match – to 90,000 empty seats. ‘Just think, a week ago this place would have been packed,’ I said, referring to the rarity of India playing Pakistan at home. Even though the test was drawn, the scores were still proudly displayed on the monster of a scoreboard.
‘Not according to the bloke at the gate,’ said Brendon. ‘They reckon it was only a third full. Combination of high ticket prices, not allowing any food into stadium, and hideous security checks.’
The facts were hard to fathom, given the Pakistan series was so hotly anticipated. But if you delved a little deeper, there were other reasons for a poor crowd turnout. Along with the fact that Kolkata was now a working city, and unlike the old days, when many people had five days to laze around and watch cricket, friction had also been caused by Kolkata’s latest curfew. In recent weeks, batons and tear gas had been used to disperse hundreds of protesters, namely local farmers who felt they were being forced to sell their land at cheap rates so the government could replace it with a shipyard and a petrochemical plant. Demonstrators, violent farmers included, had accused the Communist Party of using gangs to try to seize back the district and of killing members of the local farmers' Land Acquisition Resistance Committee who had opposed them. At least thirty-four people had died in the clashes, including six people not long before we arrived in India.
We had seen photos from the massacre before entering Eden Gardens. Displayed for all to see, as family and friends of the victims rallied nearby, were close-ups of bloodied faces and chopped up bodies. It was shocking and sickening. On the one hand, it was hard to believe that families could post such horrific pictures of their loved ones. On the other hand, if they didn’t, among a billion other injustices they simply wouldn’t be heard. With such a bulging population and only so much land, there are bound to be complications. But if this really happened, as the farmers claimed, it was an extremely sad piece of Indian history.
The welcome silence of an empty stadium was a distant memory by the time we stepped back out onto Eden Garden Road. And the six month old baby by itself on the footpath served as a reminder as to where we were. Brendon and I were stunned. We looked around for a parent. OK, so the baby was happily asleep, with an empty bottle resting on her chin, but there was no parent in sight and she was only a few metres from fumes and chaos. Judging by the way the other guys marched on, the sight of an abandoned child had more of an effect on the new dads in the group. (Note to helicopter parents: kids are bloody hardy.)
Khaled had told Reece that he thought the High Court would be a great place to play.
‘Of course, why didn’t we think of that?’ I asked.
‘As long as we don’t get arrested,’ said Stew. ‘I don’t want to go to an Indian jail.’
‘I thought you’d enjoy it,’ said Reece.
‘Get fucked, Blanket Boy.’
But before we could get back in the van, four teenage boys halted our progress. ‘How much did you pay for your bat?’ one asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said John. ‘Four hundred?’
‘Four fifty,’ said Brendon.
‘Four fifty!’ the other laughed.
‘One eighty,’ he said, holding up the identical bat.
John, never one to enjoy being ripped off, looked down at the boy’s hunk of willow.
‘One eighty, you reckon?’ he asked, reaching in his pocket.
‘Don’t be stupid, John,’ I said. ‘How many bats do we need?’
As a result of his excessive amount of travelling, particularly in the last few years with the All Nations Quest, John had developed an enviable approach to touts. He was very generous to the good ones, but didn’t suffer fools. Where other travellers are polite, even to idiots, John’s unique ‘Fuggoff!’ was the perfect way either to deny or confuse, all in a way that sounded like, if there is such a thing, a lovely rejection.
‘What’s your good name?’
‘Fuggoff!’
‘Please come into my shop.’
‘Fuggoff!’
‘No buy, just look. Looking is free.’
‘Fuggoff!’
‘You paid too much for that bat.’
‘Fuggoff. Did I?’
Us: ‘He’s not buying another one.’
We took Khaled’s advice – as if we had
other plans – and a short time later pulled up to the Kolkata High Court. The oldest of its kind in India, it was established in 1862, and has jurisdiction over the state of West Bengal and the Union Territory of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands (two island groups near Myanmar and Indonesia.) Behind the picture-postcard frontage of the building is an alley flanked by run-down, three-story apartment blocks. Judging by the condition of the flats, this was obviously not where judges lived but rather clerks and junior staff of the High Court.
It was Sunday, a day of rest. Men bathed and drank tea. And when I say bathe, I don’t mean a quick shit, shower and shave. These naturists scrubbed their backs as if they were decks that had been pounded by the ills of winter. Naked but for loin cloths, they were rigorous, thorough, and sometimes downright aggressive. They relished every stroke, ringing every last sud out of their ever-decreasing soaps. Saving water was clearly not an issue either, with a nearby pump gushing more than could be used.
Khaled settled on a park in front of where some adolescents were playing street cricket. They sprinted to the van, probably thinking we were celebrities. The fact that we weren’t didn’t seem to disappoint. Reece grabbed his blanket, Brendon his camera, and the rest of us hopefully some kind of form with the bat.
When Stew and I started bowling, locals stopped and laughed. They peered out of their apartment windows. A shop vendor lit a cigarette and put his feet up. Old men listened to their transistor radios. When official cars carrying official people drove through, we let them pass. And when Stew’s practice shots flew over the High Court’s iron gates, kids squeezed through and retrieved them. We tried to pass the bat to kids, but they didn’t want a bar of it. They just wanted was to bowl at us, and lined up for the chance.