I am not much of a cricket lover. Every match pans out a Lagaan for me, to the extent where a sure-footed striker spells boredom and a dismissal resulting from LBW is a wasted wicket. Sure enough, I wasn't a trusted companion for any during the World Cup final match; perilously pushed to the other side or dismissed to the washroom when a wicket was much in demand.
Having languished the first innings at a corner clucking over Sreesant's freebies, I was granted the rare privilege of accompanying my father and uncle to a South Kolkata club, where an impossible target seemed to seal the cricketing fate already for the evening (read- I could do no more damage). A regular variety of bald-pated men munched menacingly on tidbits, growled at regular interval at the projected screen. The engineers and MBAs donning bandannas and bermudas lurked furtively behind their fathers, awed at the lot, having witnessed the '83 win. They were for once granted an unobstructed view to the screen, secretly wishing their magic dust to swirl and land via the medium straight to Wankhede.
Leaving my cynicism behind, I was strangely patriotic. Jumping at Sachin's drive and waving our national banner. That day the boys had no edge over us. They did what we did. They sighed when we did. They ducked at a close shave, as we did. They could do precious little even with their cricketing gear sprinkled unevenly, brandishing air in a sweep that Kohli could neither use nor see! Just beside our open-air restaurant, that doubled as the match-watching lounge, we have our swimming pool. The pride of our club, brilliantly blue and romantically lit, shone, providing a distraction when the tension got the better of our men.
The club committee had chosen a rare occasion to filter the pool by a handful of teenage boys that evening. Throwing the fine mesh in a grand gesture to filter, they waited patiently, almost languidly, going about the elaborate task. I saw my father looking betrayed by his own daughter's preference for cleaners over national heroes. But I could not explain my enchantment as the mesh floated in air, catching the pool lights, shedding gold in mid-air and draining diamond as it met the water. My trance broke at the certain shuffling of chairs as the men inched closer to the screen and the youth raised their first victory alarum of the evening. I saw Gambhir rise to the occasion and expectant eyes by the pool side gleam in reflected glory. It took me a little while to figure out the pattern as cobwebbed mesh rose and fell to India's victory. As shrills of joy tumbled the dishes, carefully maneuvered by the bearers to and from the tables, I saw my father turning into a little child running to the screen in spite of cautions and catcalls. I saw old men lift each other up, reliving their glory days, and I saw India win the World Cup again. Our dads found spring in their step and with boyish tears in their eyes surrounded the screen, half-expecting the win to transport them into the wishing well of youth. One last time I saw the mesh, now caught in the wire above, waving gently in the breeze lulling the water to sleep, busy workers unconsciously fusing into history and lore. We led our folks back home, witnessing our generation's moment of history, sharing a bond with the men who had seen it all.
