It will, unsurprisingly, be a laissez faire policy. Sources inform that Mr Modi will permit all comers to streak provided they meet a few minor qualification requirements. Streakers must be female, have participated in the Miss Bollywood SA contest, have little Citi-branded patches of cloth placed over their naughty bits, and be amenable to being covered up by large sheets emblazoned with the DLF logo when they are tackled after a decent interval. Duration of said decent interval to be worked out in consultation with the good folks "without whom this tournament would not have been possible". All unlicensed rebel streakers will be brought to ground by a roving squad of dreadlocked bouncers and then banned in perpetuity not only from streaking but also from ever taking their clothes off again - even in the shower. The successful tackler in each case will be rewarded with an ugly gold-trimmed fig leaf at the post-match pleasantries. The one with the most fig leaves at the end of the tournament will be able to redeem them for a life-size cardboard cutout of Mr Modi at any participating outlet.
Despatched a senior editor to Monaco to pose this question to Vijay Mallya last month as he wintered on his yacht. Dr Mallya was perusing proofs of the new Kingfisher calendar, but gave the question some thought. Frowned for a minute, then said, "Cellulite, hmm," walked to humidor, picked out a Havana and went up to the deck. Many beautiful women employed expressly to sunbathe during daylight hours lay about indolently there. Dr Mallya dictated three memos, consumed six flutes of champagne, then proceded to have a lie-down. Senior editor was then rudely ejected by security-troglodyte person waving a clipboard and saying, "Not on the list, not on the list."
Why not indeed? The Sunil Gavaskars of the world can point fingers at Buch and how few first-class games he's played, but our John would be more than a handful in the IPL given half a chance. Would show these wimps what it's all about: running ambidextrously - i.e. using both legs - between wickets, wearing his pants inside out to confuse the opposition, batting one-handed while using the other to scrawl mysterious oriental alphabets in the air to throw the bowler off his rhythm, and whispering bits of insidious Confucian gospel into the umpires' ears every now and then. Is the world ready for all that? Afraid not.