Lasting memories

It's been 54 days since I landed in Kingston, days spent in cricket grounds resembling a carnival setting, in hotels resembling home, in beaches resembling images on exotic postcards, and in departure lounges resembling anything between bus stations to seven-star hotels. As is always the case, sometimes I felt it was all happening too fast; sometimes I just wanted it to end then and there.

Visiting the West Indies fulfilled a lot of my childhood ambitions. As a 15-year-old night life usually involved staying awake late, tip-toeing onto the television room, muting the sound, and watching cricket from the Caribbean. The passion that was on show – the sight of people dancing in the stands, fans watching from trees, spectators constantly providing advice to the batsman – never ceased to fascinate.

The flair that accompanied the West Indian cricketers – Hooper's smoothest of smooth cover-drives, Lara's square cut hit on the jump, Ambrose's bouncers which batsmen only smelt – made the game a true spectacle. Then there was my grandfather, a die-hard West Indies fan, who somehow always insisted that my dear Azhar was not a patch on Lawrence Rowe when it came to style. The best part was he's never seen Rowe bat, but only heard and read about his exploits.

It's one thing to know that West Indians are passionate about cricket, but another to actually experience beach cricket, as I did in Barbados, and feel the enthusiasm. While playing in the gullies all I had done was to hit across the line. Sometimes I connected, mostly I got out and everyone laughed. So it came as a complete shock when I tried the same here, with the wicketkeeper firmly insisting that such a stroke "would get you nowhere". Cricketing technique is almost ingrained in the Caribbean psyche. While a street discussion in India might revolve more around statistics – something like "Laxman has scored just one second-innings fifty in the last 11 games, he should be dropped" – the argument here would almost surely veer to technique – "He managed a four off such a good outswinger, getting his head over the ball. He must always play."

It's a region with such a rich cricket tradition, that you never know when you may run into a legend. I would never have imagined that I would one day drive around Antigua with Richie Richardson, never thought I would actually get to spend an entire evening with Gordon Greenidge, never dreamt of opening the door to realise that Wes Hall, topless after his morning swim in the beach, had come visiting. One felt a complete absence of star culture and soon realised that, for most people here, the game is far bigger than any individual.

Amid all this, I was involved in a cricket series. I'm sure there were close to 100 press conferences, 50 immigration forms and several boarding passes. At the moment, it's all a blur. I remember key moments but have already started getting confused about which innings was played in which match. It's tough to pick out a favourite on-field moment but the final stages at Antigua, when the game gradually turned into a classic with a near capacity crowd feeling the tension, will remain an enduring memory.