In the late eighties, after Kapil's Devils catapulted cricket to every household in pre-liberalisation India, the country was not familiar with crystal-clear televised images.
In the beginning there was All India Radio.
In the late eighties, after Kapil's Devils catapulted cricket to every household in pre-liberalisation India, the country was not familiar with crystal-clear televised images, a household feature now.
The Caribbean sounded like some godforsaken place in Mars, but aficionados who began to develop a fondness for cricket were putting to test their finetuning skills to spot the right band from which All India Radio was broadcasting the running commentary of the India-West Indies series.
Some fortunate souls were lucky enough, after many attempts, to make a foray into AIR's hitherto unheard of virtual sound waves from the lucid din of forbidden islands.
No attempts could be made to contact even the next door cricket buff to figure out where exactly to tune in that ragged structure which we affectionately now call a collector's item – The humble radio.
Landline usage was a luxury, mobile phones were yet to make an imprint in this vast nation and it was too dark to jump the small building wall with a bizarre query of that sort to the cricket fan in the making next door.
Imaginary situations, though highly probable, did the rounds of the minds – Marshall and Holding unleashing the demon of their elegant pace on our hapless men...
But pride would burst through when the little master intercepts the chain of thoughts with his helmet-less stride towards the mine-fields of pace – Bravo, here's our Robinhood, who can mock at your sheer pace with the gumption of technique, the resoluteness of the lone warrior in a Calypso crowd.
By then dinner would be served, like an unwanted guest who had come to spoil a family party, the irritant of a life time.
The noise of the radio would have to make way for the silence of the night – The whole world has ganged up against the little joys this English game has gifted to this small town connoisseur of cricket.
At dawn, after overcoming the sleepless anxieties caused by the mutiny of Caribbean pace battery in the virgin landscape of a young mind, disappointment greets you.
The local newspaper only has half the story about the battle between the ball and the bat, which is the case now as well.
Only from the humble showpiece called radio would you get a sketchy two-line comment, probably a filler those days, on the drama unfolding in the Caribbean -- The News, read by X, Y or Z. Yesterday's drama would unfurl only in the next day's broadsheet.
It was still fun and the next day was eagerly awaited, though the tuning skills would be put to baptism by fire later in the day without fail.
Cricket then was a lullaby played out in gentle minds with a willow. Now, it is a hyperlink in the debris of the world wide web, just a vision from the stump and a simulated caricature of a brand. A sad commentary that is.
prem@dnaindia.net
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