Despatch from Eden

From Basab Majumdar, India
Christmas and the light winter chill (unfortunately absent in still muggy Mumbai) brings back pleasant nostalgia of adolescence in Kolkatta. Park Street resplendent by the festive illumination, cakes from Nahoum's in New Market and egg nogs from Flury's were special. But all these paled in comparison with the thrilling anticipation of the imminence of a Christmas/New Year's Test match at Eden Gardens.

The current rotation policy, another abomination designed by the BCCI in its relentless pursuit of profit, has put paid to the annual calender of Test matches in the traditional venues and a whole generation have been deprived of what was a high social occasion in Kolkatta. A day or two before the Test match my Dad would arrive with our Cricket Association of Bengal member tickets and that evening the planning would start. Several of his friends would arrive and over endless beer they would discuss logistics. One would assume from the level of detail that an invasion of Normandy was afoot but to the educated middle class Bengalee of the time, Test Matches were a serious affair. My father always positioned it to me as part of my education (as in by the time I was about 8 years old, I gathered that for my father and his close cronies, it was infinitely more essential that I understood the subtle difference between cover and extra cover and the angular difference between point and gully than knowing multiplication tables by heart). And if the Test match was on 1st January, then the discussions would be further complicated by the fact that the previous nights revelries would have to be calibrated suitably so that everyone was there in their seats by 8.20 am.

For me, I cannot remember ever suffering from greater nervous anticipation than the night before the Test match. I rarely slept and waited for the clock to turn 6 am when I would get up with a spring and alacrity quite unbecoming of normal school days. No battles with breakfast that day which was consumed without complaint or delay. By 7.30 am I would have dressed and then would put on my new county cap ceremoniously in front of the mirror, imagining me leading out India as 80,000 would rise in unison to cheer. It was a routine every odd year, but what a delightful routine. There would be a party of usually 10-12 in a cavalcade of cars. Other from the locality would be leaving as well and the envious faces of those without the priceless tickets was a sight to behold. I along with another kid were the chosen two amongst the next generation by Dad and the usual suspects. (my obsession with obscure cricket statistics had obviously resulted in my passing muster in the civilisation Test). The lunch boxes would be readied by Mom with specific instructions (Rice and Chilli Chicken for lunch, oranges during drinks and cucumber sandwiches for tea). That itself was much part of the fun with the respective Moms competing to produce a more delectable lunch box than the other- the five days (if India lasted all five, that is!) were also a gastronomical delight with the smell of fresh food was billow as much across Eden as the sound of leather hitting willow.

My greatest thrill would always be as we approached the ground as you gradually wound your way amongst the teeming millions. It was as if all humanity had descended on Red Road where the cars would be parked for the couple of kilometers walked to the ground. As you walked you met familiar faces - teachers from your school who had forewarned teachers about attending class int he first day of the Test match (one famous class teacher threatened to fail anyone in English if any unfortunate earnest soul would be present of the first day of the Test against Asif Iqbal's Pakistan, fellow spectators whom you had met last during a Test Match and myriad others. The crowd was a mix from every social strata - from box wallahs in suits, and well heeled ladies in the latest chiffon, to the old clerk from writers building in their ubiquitous Dhoti - the lucky 100,000 on their annual pilgrimage to the greatest temple of cricket.

As I would walk in I would hear the sound of bat hitting wall and a shiver would go up my spine at the realisation that the Gods were on the field at the nets. Remember this was a time before live television and this was the only chance to see the heroes int he flesh. And as I walked in to the stands I would turn around sometimes mesmerised in awe as I would see RGD Willis warming up, Bishen Bedi turning his arm a bit. IVA Richards swaggering around taking catches and women gasping as Imran Khan Niazi would stand at the pavilion doorstep about to walk into toss giving the plebeians a royal aristocratic wave. Right through childhood till early adulthood, Eden Gardens was my favourite place on earth, where for 5 days the problems of homeworks and board examinations seem a distant away. And a place where learning Physics was all about Kapil Dev using the breeze from the hooghly post 4 pm to produce a devastating old ball spell after tea. And the frenzied debate of whether Gavaskar should have added an extra slip which would have snapped David Gowers slash. And then the classic counterpoint- glad he didn't, then how would we have seen Gower's elegant cover drive of Doshi. Always respect and love for a great opponent.

Post the toss the teams would be put up in the famous old score board (with Kolay biscuit advertising hoarding at the top). And then the Ranji block with the huge Boroline ad banner would erupt. This was the plebeian stand but very much the equivalent of the Sydney Hill. The crackers would start bursting and the conch shells would signal commencement of battle and then the good-natured barracking. Us from the members stand would be more reserved- not even a whisper during overs and necessary clapping for maiden overs and a well played forward defensive stroke! Fours through flowing drives were much appreciated. Sixes were sources of amusement but "tssk tssk...civilised batsmen (read Gavaskar and Vishwanath) did not hit balls over the ground". I once shouted sixer when Gavaskar was batting, and I was told by my Dad and any such repeat would result in banishment from cricket grounds! I kept my silence and peace thereafter.

I now shudder when I see the quality of the crowds at Eden or elsewhere. Test matches at non traditional centres are a disgrace and some real great matches off late has been played in front of empty stands (unlike in England and Australia where a great Test match brings in thousands through the turnstiles). The old faithful have all gone and opposition players are no longer applauded nor subtle nuances, like a great throw from the outfield applauded as much as a great straight drive. I still get goosebumps remembering the ovation Viv Richards received as he walked into bat in 1983. 90,000 rose to clap him fervently into the crease, a Roman salute to the greatest living gladiator in the planet. The King paused before taking guard, doffed his hat and raised his bat in acknowledgment, a brilliant cameo moment before rivalry was resumed. And the great Pakistani Asif Iqbal would remember his last test match with much joy - he mentioned later he would have taken Eden any day ahead of Lahore. He was run out in his last innings post which he was accorded a thunderous standing ovation with the members and the club house spectators all screaming in unison "three cheers Captain" as he walked up the stairs into the dressing room. This was the captain of Pakistan and in the midst of a seriously competitive series between the two traditional rivals.I have to say I had tears in my eyes that day.

I have not seen Saurav Ganguly bat amongst the Eden faithful, but I've seen Gundappa Vishwanath, Eden's favourite son throughout the 70's and till Saurav arrived, there was no one whom Eden loved more than the diminutive Bangalorean. In the famous Yuletide week of 1974 when I fell in love with cricket, Eden and Alvin Kallicharran at the same time, Little Vishy (or "Bhishee" as the Eden faithful called him) charmed Kolkata off its feet. With the Test Match poised evenly on the 4th morning, Vishy unleased in his inimitable style a counter-attack on Roberts, Holder, Julien and Gibbs. In real life he looked like a villainous side kick from a South Indian film. But armed with a cricket willow he was transformed into a Michaelangelo. His square and late cuts and glances of his leg were delectable and that 31st December morning he was in his pomp. His 139 contained 24 fours and old Eden hands still talk of that as the greatest innings they ever say. Next morning, the tactical mastery of Tiger Pataudi in conjunction with the spin wizardry of Bedi and Chandra resulted in Kalli, Richards, Greenidge and Lloyd all succumbing and India earning a famous New Years day victory. It was a magical way to begin my association with Eden and till 1989 when I left Calcutta for education and job, I hadn't missed a single ball bowled in that haloed ground. It was a privilege and pleasure that made my growing up years very special.