Living: Cricket Watch; Cricket Crazy

In India's teeming bastis and hinterland cricket is a serious, comical and spontaneous celebration of life.

View from the Edge
Kannagapattu
Tamil Nadu
Wild festivities break out as India beat England and enter the Super Six. The panchayat board colour TV is a treat for the audience of about 50 young men and boys, and this a rare time to relax, be together and let off steam. Only yesterday they were grumbling when India scraped together 232. "For these fellows I lost my daily Rs 150," laments van driver Elumalai, 26. He doesn't particularly care when a sombre Selvam, 16, explains that "this is a bowlers' pitch, so this is the best we can do".

It's a steamy summer afternoon in Sona Gopalpur village and the Bihari farmer's wife is fuming. "The onions are rotting but neither he nor the boys are concerned."

It's that same steamy afternoon in Malisahi, Bhubaneswar's tawdry red-light district and Rukmini is irritated. "There are no customers, not one," she grumbles.

Steamy again, down south in Neelankarai, a fishing hamlet on the Mahabalipuram high road, and a desperate driver is entreating Mano to fix his van. "What repair?" shouts Mano, swinging his spanner above his head. "See there, there are two more vehicles waiting, but I will not touch any of them until the game is over."

Ah, the game. Yes, it's cricket that's making these good men dysfunctional. And as India Today correspondents fanned out into the villages, paras and bastis during the India-England match, they realised how nothing else can freeze this already soporific nation into dead inaction. Nothing else can stoke the passions of its one billion something, not even the threat of a thermonuclear Armageddon. "The attention of the entire nation should be diverted to the war-like situation on our borders; instead it's diverted to cricket," fumes Rashtriya Janata Dal supremo Laloo Prasad Yadav, demanding a ban on World Cup telecasts.

It's Super Six Time
Chitpur
Calcutta

Life on the streets and in the shops grinds to a halt in Calcutta, never mind the dim, distant images. From rickshaw pullers to petty traders, Indians simply don't work when the game rolls. At Bhubaneswar on May 29, train passengers had a harrowing time. First, crowds gathered around a TV set at the station entrance. Second, there were no rickshaws available. "We've got the cricket bug," shrugs rickshaw puller Haladhar Doloi. It was the same everywhere. In Tamil Nadu drivers of vehicles needing repair had no option but to cool their heels until the close of play.

It's not even a possibility, as the extreme reaction of the fans indicates. Angry farmers from five villages near the Bandel Power Station in West Bengal bore irrigation losses from a power breakdown but could take no more when the World Cup began. They stormed the district administration offices demanding to see "Sachiner century (Sachin's century)". As one of them demanded: "If the rest of India gets to watch Sachin's century, why can't we?"

And so they gather at roadside tea and sweetmeat shops, PCOs, medical stores and panchayat offices. Flickering sets powered by batteries and generators run into the night, meals are on hold, enthusiasm is unbounded, censure is swift and unforgiving. It's 31 for no loss in nine overs: a decent start, but not for the fans. "De de, de de, de de, oiiii," urges carpenter Surinder Singh in Chaggarsi, a village on National Highway 24 outside Delhi, as an English appeal against opener S. Ramesh is turned down by the impassive umpire, Javed Akhtar. "Pakistan ka hai na, nahin dega," says Singh, spitting in disgust. "Ab ye b******** Ramesh run rate rok lega." After two 300 plus scores, India wants blood. "Aaai Rameshwa, yeh World Cup hai, kauno desi khel na (Hey Ramesh, this is the World Cup, not a local match)," scream the youth of Bihar's Gopalpur. There's no sympathy even in his home state, Tamil Nadu. "Sadai madiri adinan (useless fellow)," sighs Gautham, 14, in Ganakovil Pettai village.

The cliches are all true. Cricket unifies India. In insurgency wracked Nagaland, rebels retire to their jungle camps to watch the World Cup and discuss India's chances. Another unifying factor: captain Azharuddin, all India vilifies him. They say his time has passed. Tamilians call him Kizhavan, old man. "Avanukku vayasaiyidichi (Azhar's become old)," explains Ezhumalai, 22, of Kannagapattu village. "That's why he holds his bat like a walking stick."

No Power? No Problem
Sona Gopalpur
Bihar

There's been no electricity for three months: the transformer burnt out. But the failures of the state don't stop them. So the villagers scrounged a worn-out car battery and hooked up a TV. "Now we don't watch news and films," explains Mithilesh Kumar, 20. "We want to preserve the battery to watch cricket." In the powerless hinterland of a cricket-crazy nation, batteries, diesel generators -- anything that produces electricity is used to power up the ubiquitous black-and-white, 14-inch sets. Their hazy pictures are rural India's window to the World Cup.

But many of the analyses reveal a cricketing acumen as sharp as Geoffrey Boycott, the language just as colourful. In Delhi's Makhanpur village, Mohammad Aslam draws in his breath as Ramesh is beaten for the umpteenth time by Alan Mullally. "Oh b********, bahut cutting kar raha hai Mullally, hawa bhari hai na (Mullally's cutting the ball a lot, the air's heavy you see)." In Tamil Nadu's fishing villages, they take comfort in India's superior run rate and in Bihar, they bemoan the lack of a genuine allrounder.

Yet even for this panel of experts, some things are beyond comprehension. There is commotion in Patna's Sampat Chak village when rain stops England's run chase at 73 for 3. Pintoo pushes his ear to the dying speaker on the black-and-white TV and holds up his hand for silence. "Varsha ho gailayi (It's started raining)," he explains, promising a victory on Sunday. No one's convinced. "Why," asks Bablu, "is it raining in England in the summer?" No one, not even Pintoo, can explain that.

The enthusiasm spurs a great marketing jamboree in the hinterland: freebies, discounts, contests, jingles. "We're an MNC and it makes sense for us to have an Indian heart," says Rajiv Karwal, vice-president (marketing) of South Korean giant LG Electronics. The custodians of that heart are Azhar's men and thus LG's "All the Best" TV campaign. In dusty Ranchi, Britannia Industries, which offers more than five lakh prizes for World Cup '99 contests, finds biscuit sales have risen by over 50 per cent.

Things aren't exactly as rosy for the little shops where India congregates. "The excitement is so much; no one buys anything," sighs Brajesh Mishra at his laddoo shop in Chaggarsi. Closing time: when the match ends. Not that he minds. Chalta hai, he says with a smile. Life goes on.