An American Yankee's IPL woes

I was probably flying somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean when Sohail Tanvir singled in the winning run thus missing a sublime conclusion to the wonderment that was the Rajasthan Royals IPL domination. Now, I sit on a couch in Los Angeles a few hours after returning from Mumbai watching a match from that other bat and ball affair. Sure, it’s nice to be back in the States after a whirlwind, two-week Indian voyage where I lost five pounds and spent countless hours inhaling vaporous fumes of Vicks. But the scent of the IPL continues to linger.

During the two weeks I was in India, from Mumbai to Calcutta to Gandhinagar, it was the Superbowl every night, even when the Deccan Chargers played. At my grandmother’s bungalow in Gujarat, my in-law’s flat in Borivli, to my hotel room in Kolkata, the television blared Sony Max telecasts every evening. Even when other obligations prevented me from watching first hand there was always a mobile phone update or a FM transistor radio to keep me up to fresh about every score and wicket taken. Never had I seen a sporting sensation pervade the social fabric of a society the way the IPL has spread its tentacles around the Indian household. Of course, I’m no sociologist, but it’s utterly obvious that when your wife’s nearly deaf grandmother asks for Mumbai’s run-rate then something surreal this way comes. I finally had to throw up my hands up and use that perennial Mumbai phrase, Aila!

After the duties of a family wedding finished I was inevitably hit by the mysterious virus that strikes all visitors to India, you know that hazing period where everything you eat and drinks spins like a Murali doosra in your stomach. So, bed-ridden, I spent a few days trying to regain the remnants of my stomach and watching even more cricket. Analysis from former players, music videos, highlights and even standup comics in cheerleader outfits cracking jokes in Hindi, which was quite scary even without knowing the language.

Thinking I’d be alright to handle the topsy-turvy thrills of another IPL match I convinced my wife and her brother to go with me to the first semi-final in Mumbai between the Delhi Daredevlis and Rajasthan Royals. The newspapers reported the day before the match that tickets had increased, some seats nearly quadrupling in price. I had to get my tickets fast. We went to my brother-in-law’s accounting office and tried to book tickets from there, only to find out the website wouldn’t process my credit card. We had another source. Apparently, tickets were being sold at some gas stations. So, we drove to another section of the Mumbai suburbs and bought our tickets. But it turned out that my earlier apprehension was totally misguided. The next morning ticket prices were slashed. I had paid 2000 rupees each for my tickets. Now, I could grab them for just 500 rupees. I made sure to hide the paper from my wife that morning. The cashier at the gas station told us to be at the ticket window by four p.m. so we decided to rent a car and drive the one and a half hour drive to proper Mumbai. My brother-in-law was the first to spot Wankhede Stadium as we drove along Nariman Point. Even at the early hour hoards of police and scalpers were scattered about. We dropped my brother-in-law off to pick up the tickets. He came back to the car a little while later with a huge grin on his face. I asked him what he was smiling about. In his hand he held a wad of cash. Apparently, we were refunded for the tickets.

We took our places and waited in the queue. Lines seem to work backward in Mumbai because we continued to get pushed back instead of going forward. Of course, the source of this problem was a small gap that was open just enough so any streetwalker could easily sneak in. The police didn’t seem to mind. But soon we were through and into the stadium. We found a section that gave us a decent place to observe, but it still made us see through the prism of a barbed chained linked fence. My brother-in-law enjoyed the experience and it was amazing to find out this was his first time to a professional cricket match though he lived the sport his entire life. When the match began we stood up and joined in the ruckus. Rajasthan had quite a solid fan base I thought, but under careful inspection it was obvious that the rowdy applause was for the cheerleaders. Men would quickly whisk out there mobile phone cameras and film the girls every time a sixer or boundary occurred. Even as I began to see families sprinkle throughout the audience I couldn’t help but feel like those poor cheerleaders were like those dancing bears that perform on the side of roads.

The crowd increased to the point where we couldn’t move. I reached the threshold of my tolerance when a guy out of nowhere nearly pushed me from behind. This time I shoved back and told him to move. He tried to stare me down. And that belligerent American side in me looked back at him furiously. My brother-in-law calmed me down and the man went about his way. Then that dreaded Delhi belly I tried to wash away with mass medical prescriptions returned. My brother-in-law told me to just wait till the top of the hour to leave. I couldn’t. Go to the bathroom in the stadium? I wouldn’t even go at work. We left early once again. When we got home Delhi was performing miserably at bat. I was feeling bad physically, but even worse mentally. Though my brother-in-law said watching cricket was better on television I couldn’t help but feel he wanted to stay for the duration of the match. And I, the spoilt, sick American brat had prevented him from doing so.

We watched the second semi-final at my in-laws flat and when Shaun Marsh unexpectedly exited after having played fantastically so far, we all cried in disappointment. My brother-in-law didn’t hold a grudge against me. We shall repeat this again he said. It will be even more fun. I agreed whole heartedly as I sprinted to the bathroom. Aila!