May 6, 2012
My childhood, like most others in middle class India in the 80s, was one in which much excitement was generated at the sight of ever-so-slightly wide and straight neighborhood streets that have managed to hold on to the tar on them for more than one monsoon. Our eyes would widen at the street cricketing possibilities such "pitches" offered. I have noticed that similar eye-widening effect is brought about by wide flat screens and LCD monitors on today's kids. Times change.
Nevertheless, I have managed to find a few dinosaur kids in the neighborhood who still enjoy '1-bounce-out-underarm' version of the game played with a tennis ball. Obviously, I am no good at it but I will blame that on the bat that resembles a buffet spoon in my hands these days. I do manage to prolong my stay at the wicket by entering into furious arguments about LBWs which happen every other ball. Some childhood lessons are never forgotten.
On a recent afternoon, despite my imposing largeness in front it, a sneaky spin ball managed to hit the cardboard sheet that acts as the stumps supported by a brick. The little bowler dude was ecstatic. He punched his fists in the air and 'airplaned' a few feet acknowledging the roaring cheers from an imaginary stadium crowd. Then he did something interesting.
Pulling his clenched fists closer to the body as if attempting to open a rather stubborn drawer, he silently mouthed, "Bay....cho...oo!" and pointed me to the nonexistent pavilion. The mouthing was done in slow motion as learnt from the action replays of match live telecasts. For those with working knowledge of our national language, it is pretty clear which word he was mis-silent-pronouncing.
Almost every kid in India who has access to television has learnt this Hindi word even if their state government's insist on education in the mother tongue. It is the most obvious word that accompanies celebrations on the cricket field by our players... our national treasures ....our icons. It has become India's own "fuck!" Our cricket league may use Caucasian blonde cheerleaders, but you Westerners can keep you four letter word with you. We have our own.
With a virtualyl infinite amount of cricket on TV with the IPL in progress, a few of our beloved cricketers (under the leadership of Virat Kohli) are providing an unexpected (and some would say unpleasant) fillip to our national language.
I remember the unnecessary ink and bit spilling that happened some time back in the USA about the excessive on-field celebrations during NFL. The Indian Information & Broadcasting Ministry that brought down the hammer on the "Dirty Picture" has no qualms about the slow motion repeats of this word. The dime a dozen women's rights groups are also mum about the repeated assault on the opponents' sisters that these players unleash every time they manage a catch or a wicket. That poor player is already returning to the pavilion but the heroes of the occasion seem to insist that the festivities are not complete without invoking his female blood relatives. Perhaps this shows how close-knit and glorious Indian families are. May be they've all watched Stephen Fry discuss the joys of swearing on youtube.
Rain has taken a break today. And this means snail invasion. Which is the most patient kind of invasion out there. In the morning sun, the streets and footpaths sparkle with the ephemeral silvery paths these slimy slow movers leave behind. Like luxuriant grandma's hairs for those who can remember the days before grandma's dyed. In the attempts to cross the roads, they stagger and exhaust themselves in regressive circles, like John Abraham's efforts at acting, till death by squishing under the next vehicle.
Though the road development and traffic departments of Thiruvananthapuram provide them no assistance by marking lane dividers, the stray dogs in the city somehow pick precisely the middle to crap!
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