Bowling Through India

by Justin Brown

  Much to our guide’s anguish, we soon found ourselves parked outside Gorkha Stadium. A derelict, empty coliseum of sorts, the once-proud arena looked as if its builders had left after Friday drinks and never returned. We were told it was a major venue for major tournaments, exhibitions and cultural activities. To us, it looked like a stadium the Taliban might run.

  The view was daunting; the sand beneath our feet, Waikiki white. Prayer flags wrestled the wind, draped between sky high Himalayan pines. Impossibly balanced homes perched on the hill, stealing a view of a pitch most groundsmen would die for. As for the rest of the stadium, anywhere else in the world and it would have been pulled it down, but it still had charm and, though it had clearly seen better days, a certain amount of history. This seemed typical in India: a once regal, refined and revered monument now needed too much dough for upkeep. For some unknown reason – I guess because Darjeeling was so stunningly beautiful - it gave the false impression that its people weren’t poor. How, one could argue, could you have no money, yet have an unobstructed view of the world’s third highest mountain, Mt Kanchenjunga? But Darjeeling’s people, like most in India, lived hand to mouth, many having no access to a toilet or clean running water.

  As no one in Kolkata thought we had any show of playing cricket in the Himalayas because of the temperature, we felt quietly vindicated when we found some teenage boys bashing a ball around by the stadium's far goalposts. We walked over to them.

  They didn’t appear too keen to play a couple of plonkers wearing knitted cricket vests. The young ones laughed at Stew’s hairless head when he took his cap off.

  ‘Baldy!’ they screamed. Stew took it well. I thought they were walking a fine line given he was carrying a cricket bat.

  As usual, we acquired the squirts, and India selected a team worthy of playing in the Indian Premier League. John, seeing the imbalance in power, abandoned his camera and demanded a call-up. Brendon headed for the hills to get some once-in-a-lifetime shots. And Reece, poor Reece, sat under the goal posts and did his best to appear ignorant. ‘How many runs for a wide again?’

  ‘One!’

  ‘And you get another ball for that, right?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Okay!’

  It’s easy to become a know-it-all when travelling. To solve the world’s ills from the luxury of a mini van. Why don’t these people go to university? Why don’t they put their rubbish in the bin? Why don’t they just leave? It was no different with the boys we were about to play. Sure, Darjeeling was poor, but this was a week day and they were mucking about like no hopers. Instead of studying, and carving a brighter future, they were knocking a ball about. They were uneducated school-skippers who had no idea how important it was to learn, develop, and grow. Bothered by this, I asked Reece to translate my concerns to a kid who had about as much future as the beggars we had stepped over in Kolkata. Reece did so, but let the good-for-nothing delinquent answer for himself.

  ‘It’s the holidays,’ said the boy, the happiest smile I’ve ever seen.

  The kids loved Reece. With his fluent Hindi, he was the star attraction. They continued to crowd and harass, but with the best of intentions. Like anyone passionate about cricket – and in twenty years of following the game I’ve never seen anything like it - they couldn’t bear knowing that Blanket Boy may dock them of a run, or, worse, let their mate bat higher up the order.

  That said, this was to be the first game on tour whereby the boys we were playing really weren’t interested in playing a horde of butter-loving gatecrashers. Or at least that’s what we thought. Their fake apathy was matched only by their resolve to utterly annihilate us. This became apparent when their opening bowler, Amit, huffed and spluttered his way to the crease, taking out Stew’s middle peg, first ball. It was a nut that would have got anyone out. Then again, as Stew would argue, international cricketers don’t have to bat on a pitch more suited to the Calgary Stampede.

  Amit got another wicket with his second ball, and suddenly we were in real trouble. Chasing a solid total of 30, I stepped up to the plate. It’s slightly ridiculous to think that in a friendly backyard game, one has such a steely-eyed determination to succeed. But that’s blokes; always have to win. Second is first loser. John played a short cameo, then I managed to fluke a few boundaries, but only because they bowled meaty half trackers down the leg side. The teenagers, meanwhile, playing hard to get, continued to mumble and mutter and bully the younger boys. This behaviour was typical in many of our matches. A pecking order was established. Some younger ones would try it on with their more mature counterparts, but more often than not, would get a hiss, curse, or whack around the ear. As we handed the man of the match hat to one of the friendlier six-year-olds, the older boys sat back with surly faces.

  SCORECARD

  Gorkha Stadium, Upper Lebong, Darjeeling, West Bengal

  India won the toss and batted.

  INDIA

  Baskar caught Anurag - 8

  Parag caught (don’t know who by) - 10

  Amit not out - 8

  Nikit not out - 2

  Anub did not bat

  Extras - 2

  Total - 30

  Bowling

  Anurag 1/2, Kapis Sharma 0/8, John 1/4, Stew 0/11, Brown 0/10

  BLACK CRAPS

  Kapis Sharma don’t know how out, Reece didn’t write it down - 8

  John - ‘caught’ crossed out. Maybe he was caught. Maybe he wasn’t - 6

  Stew ‘caught’ crossed out. Sticks went flying. (That’s ‘bowled’, Reece.) - 0

  Brown not out - 19

  Extras - 0

  Total - 33

  New Zealand win. Black Craps lead series 3-1.

  The younger kids escorted us back to our van and continued to laugh at Stew’s shaved head. Despite the back of the stadium smelling of urine, it didn’t stop me needing to contribute to its aroma. Even though we‘d witnessed thousands pee wherever they could, I couldn’t bring myself to piss in front of another bunch of locals busy playing Karom (a tabletop game whose mechanics lie somewhere between billiards and table shuffleboard.) Our driver suggested I ask one of the locals living under the stadium - which appeared to double as a dorm - if I could use their facilities. I was led through a dank, lightless room by a man who appeared to own nothing more than a few blankets and possibly the coldest accommodation on earth. It was a sunny day, yet his room was like a beer fridge. How he survived at night, atop the Himalayas, was anyone’s guess. I used his loo.

  My bowels, not my nose, were thankful.

  Meanwhile, outside, the kids had moved on from Stew’s bald head and had spied our – by Western standards - extremely modest mini van. But to them, it was as if they had found K.I.T.T from Knight Rider! They rubbed their hands along its exterior. They peered through its windows. They checked themselves out in its wing mirrors. Then suddenly, as if they all had the same idea at once, asked if we could take them for a ride.

  ‘Definitely not,’ said our driver.

  ‘DEFINITELY!’ said the rest of us.

  The boys couldn’t believe their luck. Their joy was infectious. It got even better once the van started moving. Bursting into a number of Bollywood songs, they yelled to people they knew out the window. Reece translated:

  ‘Isn’t this fucking great?’

  ‘Much happiness is coming!’

  Yet they still had to get back down the hill once we reached the top. But kids don’t care. Kids don’t get wet in the rain. They don’t get cold. And they certainly don’t mind walking down a tiny hill if it meant you got a free ride in the Mobile Goldfish Bowl. We were all incredibly humbled.

  Driving past the town’s main bazaar, (‘Carpets?!’ ‘No thanks.’ ‘Later?’ ‘Nope.’) we found a bunch of school age kids playing hacky sack, and India’s second most popular sport, soccer. A cricket match, however, was taking main stage in-between markets and stalls. We watched for half an hour, particularly one left handed batter named Arougya Dhami. Here was a boy
of five, with the grace of David Gower and shot selection of Yuvraj Singh. After each masterstroke, he stood back and let the other kids have a go. Then he was straight back into it. His mother, realising her son was getting some attention, came over, tucked his shirt in, did his jacket up, and brushed his hair.

  ‘My husband was a very good player, but my son is better,’ said the mother, proudly. ‘He will one day play for India.’

  John gave him of our bats.

  I’m sure he sleeps with it.

  Other kids wanted their photo taken. Snotty nosed toddlers came up and hugged our legs. Dogs lay in the afternoon heat, glad, finally, to get some warmth out of the Himalayan sun. Mothers, babies on backs, squatted, washing clothes in a dirty bucket. We noticed an absence of young girls. We kept bowling. Then I had a bat and hit the ball into a nearby hole. ‘No, no,’ said a boy, following me as I attempted some backyard cricketing etiquette. ‘Don’t go in there!’ he said. ‘Very bad! Golden water!’

  I looked down the hole, it obviously being where one ‘makes toilet.’

  The boy was right; Vicky could stay there.

  Darjeeling’s streets are one of three things: narrow, steep, or narrowly steep. It’s not uncommon to have to manoeuvre a five point turn to squeeze past an illegally double parked vehicle, or a donkey with an attitude problem. Hence, by the time we arrived at the foot of another abrupt, heavily crowded lane - to a Muslim school with another game in progress - our driver was really beginning to believe he was wasting his time trying to make us visit a carpet shop. (Some of these guys were slow learners.)

  The game in question was run by an Indian Harry Potter look-alike. He was a short student with a quick wit and acerbic tongue. A sparkling new Vicky made an appearance, and within seconds was split in half. Stew hit the next one off a nearby cliff: an instant dismissal.

  When the ball rolled off, a mother laden with child ran after it.

  ‘Come on, shaky, shaky, bum bum!’ said Harry Potter.

  He noticed us laugh. We tried not to, but it was akin to your two year old saying ‘fuck’ every time she tried to say ‘truck.’ Unfortunately our suppressed snigger gave him license to continue. Honestly, watching this poor woman – with a baby on her back (and clearly bigger worries!) – negotiate her way down a slippery bank just to retrieve our stupid ball was totally surreal. All this, as Harry Potter handed out a limited – yet blue – English vocabulary. And then there was us: five grown men, who knew they shouldn’t be laughing, but couldn’t stop.

  ‘Come on, fucky, fucky up the arse!’ he hollered at the woman.

  The other boys were now cackling with delight. We tried to look away. It felt like trying not to laugh in class, or around the dinner table with your siblings.

  When Thick Skinned Woman (amazingly having located our ball among the debris and rubbish at the base of the cliff) finally threw it back, Harry Potter yelled, ‘Thank you, Mr Cunt!’

  As Harry Potter continued to try to teach us Hindi swear words, we witnessed a new Wasim Akram in the making. This kid was quick, whippy, fearless. You couldn’t get the ball off him. He seemed content to bowl all afternoon. Maybe he thought we were talent scouts. In between balls, I asked him what year he was in.

  ‘I’ve just finished my BSc!’ he smiled, femininely pushing his shoulder length hair behind his ears. ‘I have a new job in the state of Sikkim.’

  ‘How old are you?’ I asked.

  ’23,’ he said.

  As usual the kids looked a lot younger than they really were.

  But then grew up too fast.

  Meanwhile, due to Harry Potter’s incessant annoyance, and the fact that every time we hit the ball it rolled into more ‘golden water,’ we had long since given up trying to make this a legitimate match, hence Reece didn’t have to score.

  I have never seen him look so happy.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ said Stew, looking at his watch. ‘We’ve got to be back at the ‘Windermere.’’

  ‘Why?’ we asked.

  ‘High tea,’ said Stew, heading for the van.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ said Brendon, taking photos of kids taking slip catches. ‘I’d like to stay a bit longer. I’m getting some great shots.’

  ‘Come on!’ Stew persisted. ‘It said high tea is served at 3pm.’

  ‘We’re going to leave the very reason we came here - for a cup of tea!’ Brendon asked.

  ‘Yep,’ said Stew.

  ’17 hours on a plane, ten hours to get up that stinking hill, 7000 feet above sea level, and we’re going to leave it all just so we can have a cucumber sandwhich?’ Brendon asked.

  ‘There’s scones,’ said Stew.

  ‘I’m in,’ said Reece. ‘Let’s go.’

  Back at the Windermere, we followed the morning suits and spotless white gloves through to Daisy’s Sitting Room. There we sat with our legs crossed and lips pursed. This really was going from the sublime to the ridiculous. One minute we were fetching a manky ball from an Indian sewer; the next we were in a scene from Upstairs Downstairs.

  TOY TRAINS IN THE HIMALAYAS

  Advertisement in local paper: ‘HIV (+) man looking for HIV (+) bride. Jain (28 years), 6’, good looking, Gujarati. B.E. Well settled, caste no bar. No dowry.’

  ‘Jain? Would that be his name?’ I asked Reece at breakfast.

  ‘No, Jain is a religion,’ he replied, asking for more butter for our toast. ‘Jains do not believe in harming any living creature. In fact, many wear a muslin face-mask so they do not breathe in any insects. And they sweep the ground in front of them so they don’t stand on anything they might kill. Jains run India’s banking and finance sector as they believe this is the only industry that does not harm animals. The most extreme Jains, the Digamber sect, will not eat any root vegetables — onions, carrots, garlic etcetera — as they believe eating the roots will kill the plant.’

  ‘So what’s a Gujarati?’ I asked, working my way through the ad.

  ‘A person from the western state of Gujarat,’ said Reece. ‘They are typically renowned businessmen and usually militant vegetarians, from the home state of Mahatma Gandhi. Gujaratis are the most internationally settled Indians, found in every corner of the globe. In fact, any Indian who runs a dairy in New Zealand is probably from Gujarat.’

  ‘And caste is like a pecking order, isn’t it?’

  ‘Every Hindu is separated into one of hundreds of castes which defines their position in society — originally developed by Aryans two thousand-odd years back to keep them on top of the pile. Caste defines occupation, and until the last twenty years virtually no Indian would even entertain the thought they may get a job outside family occupations that have been going on for generations. ‘Caste no bar’ means the groom is willing to consider a bride from any caste group, not necessarily only the one that his family belongs to. Advertising caste in marriage or having a person’s caste determine if they are suitable for a job has been illegal since the 1980s but still affects every decision made by most people.’

  ‘And what’s ‘no dowry’?’

  ‘Dowry is officially illegal too, but thought to be a part of at least ninety per cent of all Indian marriages. Traditionally, it was the wealth a bride bought into her new family. After marriage an Indian bride normally has almost nothing to do with her birth parents any more — she becomes the daughter of her husband’s parents. In fact, my Hindi teacher, supposedly from a progressive family, had never stayed a night at her own parents’ place since she was married forty years ago as that would make it look as though her in-laws were not looking after her. Dowry is usually demanded by the husband’s parents and although it’s supposed to belong to the bride, after marriage she usually loses the lot. Poor families these days usually make dowry demands such as motor scooters, colour TVs and always lots of gold. The minimum is usually one lakh, which is one hundred thousand rupees. Wealthy families will probably end up with a holiday home in Goa!’

  ‘So in this case,’ I said, pointing to the
page, ‘the poor bloke with HIV says ‘no dowry’. I’m guessing he doesn’t want any of the girl’s junk from her last place?’

  ‘In reality, it probably means he’s so sick he’s happy just to have her.’

  As we ate, an elderly man from Missouri walked around the Windermere dining room waving a letter of complaint. How sweet, we thought; and what a complete waste of energy in India. We were long overdue for a Delhi Belly round-up. ‘How’s everyone feeling this morning?’ I asked.

  ‘Solid as a rock,’ said Stew.

  ‘Fine,’ said John.

  ‘Mmghmmhg,’ said Reece, with a mouthful.

  ‘Bit gassy,’ said Brendon.

  This I knew, as Brendon lived in close proximity to Reece and myself (although not as close as our original porter intended). As much as we took the piss out of his ailing stomach, we did actually need him. We knew from watching Brendon try to get the ultimate picture while running around with lenses the size of an elephant’s hard-on that he had stamina, endurance, and an obvious love for his craft. He was pretty good at his job.

  Not that we’d tell him; that’s for girls.

  After breakfast it was time to leave, which was sad, as we’d become strangely attached to the Windermere. There was one final laugh before we left our room, in the form of a typed note left on our beds: ‘If you need a sock darned, a button sewn on, or a stitch put in a seam, please send the article for repair to Kan-chi through your room maid. Kan-chi sews for love. Her service is free.’