The autograph hunters

If you were to do an energy mapping of the MA Chidambaram Stadium in Chennai the day before the second Test between India and Australia, in the morning, this is what you would see. A broad red patch on one side of the field, where the Indian team is working hard in the nets; a smaller red patch on another side, where a few of the Australians are having a net. And large swathes of white, indicating largely empty stands which contain only indolent officials, lounging journalists and TV crews, and assorted hangers-on.

And then, suddenly, a streak of orange starts near the big red patch, and moves rapidly towards the pavilion. It slows near the sightscreen, and - just as suddenly - disappears. What accounts for this sudden burst of activity? It's the autograph hunters at work.

Autograph hunters work in packs, but before they assemble, you wouldn't be able to point them out in the crowd. They hang around unobtrusively, some alone, others in small groups of two or three, and some of them don't even watch the cricketers at work. But as soon as a player leaves the nets and starts walking back to the pavilion, they rush towards him.

There is the little boy whose nose would perhaps be level with Matthew Hayden's knee, with spectacles and a small white pad and a large red pencil. He scampers. There's a middle-aged broadly built lady in a green salwar kameez holding what appears to be loose sheets of paper. She jogs. There are two teenage girls and one slightly younger boy, at that awkward age when hair appears on the face but not enough to shave. They walk briskly. And there is a gentleman with greying hair who looks much too sophisticated to be here, and perhaps wants an autograph to satisfy a son or daughter at home. He ambles sheepishly.

The player in question always walks fast. The trajectory of his walk begins in a straight line, the shortest point between where he was practising and the entrance besides the sightscreen from where he wishes to enter. But he always veers, just slightly, from his course, as the predators swarm. There are about 15 of them, and the first few to reach him just jog alongside him, requesting him to take that pen from their hands please, "Please, Saar, best of luck, Saar". When there are about three people on either side of him, a couple of people get in front. This is the tipping point, when the only way he can break through this rush is to push them aside, which is not a wise course of action with 50 eager journalists watching. So he stops, and he takes a pen.

Very few of the players actually satisfy all the hunters. A standard tactic seems to be to oblige three or four of them, often the insistent people who have blocked their way, and then, as the orange turns white, to rush through in a sudden show of urgency, as if the phone is ringing in the pavilion and the prime minister is on the line.

Players sometimes come off in groups of two, which disperses the attention of the hunting pack. Aakash Chopra and Zaheer Khan came off together at one point, and as everyone rushed at Zaheer, Chopra smiled a sly smile and went around the people gathered. This man has a cricketing brain. But can he see off Jason and Glenn with such panache?

Gradually, the Indian patch of red goes smaller and smaller, until it disappears, its last vestige accompanied by a final, plaintive streak of orange. The boy who could kiss Hayden's knee has got the most autographs, which proves that you don't have to be big to get your way. The lady in the green salwar kameez has got two or three autographs, but she looks satisfied at having lost many calories. The two teenage girls and the slightly younger boy are excitedly discussing their conquests, and where they went wrong tactically. ("As in batting, so in autograph-hunting," I imagine the boy saying, "the positioning of the elbow is really important.") They disperse with their spoils. The Test for the rest of us begins tomorrow.