The ABC of the IPL: What you miss on TV

Kolkata went IPL crazy last night because it was a double bonanza – home team Kolkata Knight Riders and Sachin Tendulkar’s 40th birthday. Even a nor’wester storm couldn’t keep the crowd at bay. The home team lost. Shah Rukh Khan wasn’t there. Sachin scored two runs off six balls. But there was still plenty to see and absorb that you just cannot get on a television screen. Here’s the ABC of the IPL, when seen with over 60,000 crazed, sweaty, screaming fans. Ads: There’s just no way of ignoring the ads scrolling around Eden Gardens. Yes Bank. Gatorade. Vodafone. Star Plus. Reebok. Of course, the Pepsi IPL itself. At least we are spared the barrage we now know by heart on television and Farah Khan. Everyone’s t-shirt is a patchwork of logos. Everything is sponsored by someone. “Soon all sixers Dwayne hits will be sponsored by some company,” quips one wag. Books: “No books are allowed inside the grounds,” says the police officer. What? Not even my Outlook commemorative issue about Sachin Tendulkar himself? How funny is that? The policeman is humourless. It is raining. Muddy. Thousands of people are trooping into the stadium, asking him where is Gate 1 while standing in front of it. He has no interest discussing the irony of the situation with me. No books allowed into the stadium he repeats. This is all about cricket, cheerleaders and chanting. No reading allowed. (Or books launched as projectiles by angry fans). [caption id=“attachment_727289” align=“alignleft” width=“380”]  The crows, fooled into thinking it was daytime because of all the lights and noise, flutter around confusedly, cawing in between Hookah Bar and Sexy Radha. Image: BCCI[/caption] Crows: The crows, fooled into thinking it was daytime because of all the lights and noise, flutter around confusedly, cawing in between Hookah Bar and Sexy Radha. One comes and perches on the wire running over our heads. A woman in a red saree sitting right within potty shot of the bird, waves her handbag at the bird agitatedly. The crow doesn’t even notice, her hand wave lost in the general hubbub. “That’s what happens when they don’t let you bring anything in,” says the man behind her. “You can’t even throw something at a crow.” Someone suggests throwing Chiclets. Dada, sit down: Dada, sit down is the most commonly heard phrase from the night. Especially as the match crawls towards the final overs, and the audience cannot keep to its seats. Watching a game at the stadium means there’s no television camera guiding you to the action. Where’s Tiwary asks someone. There he is. No, that’s not him says someone else squinting at the field. It’s a bit like playing six blind men of Hindoostan. Thank goodness, Sachin is so short, said one man. No way to miss him. A man waves his hand-lettered Happy Birthday, Sachin poster. “Dada, TV has seen you. Now just put it down,” complain viewers behind him. Experts: Being at the stadium means you get real raw expert commentary not old cricketers shooting the breeze or Sidhu’s verbal diarrhea. The power of Manoj Tiwary’s hand is just decreasing, says one policeman ruefully. The man next to him touches the cop’s hips on either side and says,” What do you expect? He’s increasing this side. That side. His bank account is increasing. Something has to decrease, na?” From conspiracy theories about why Kallis was missing in the second half to who should bowl the last over to why Yusuf Pathan was just a “nonsense player” – yeh public sab jaanta hai. Forty is not the new 30: Forty is not the new thirty as Sachin Tendulkar proves resoundingly with his two runs off six balls for his stint at the crease. The stadium roars when his name is announced last on the Mumbai Indians line-up. Blue and white balloons and a happy birthday sign hang outside the stadium. Even the most die-hard KKR fan would have been happy to have seen a vintage Sachin knock. “Sachin’s middle stump just knocked out!” exclaims the man behind me disbelievingly. “Now you can tell how his reflexes are slower. There’s just not that footwork anymore. It’s sad that we have to see this.” Korbo, Jeetbo, Lorbo: KKR’s fighting words don’t get them too far. They lose again. The supporters are unfazed. “I am not here for Sachin,” says one man. “We are Kolkata, Kolkata Kolkata.” But the Mumbai cheerleaders are better says another man. G. M. Ansari is on duty at the stadium. He works for the fire department. “It’s my first time,” he grins tearing open a plastic bag of water. Mumbai Indian fan: The solitary Mumbai Indian fan sitting in the row in front of me erupts into applause and wolf-whistles every time his team hits a four or a sixer or takes a wicket or just fields well. At other times he just bites his nails. The KKR fan behind him makes it a point to shout K-K-R into his ear every time his team scores a big one. But the Mumbai Indian fan will not be cowed down. He wears his minority colours with pride leading his own chant of Mumbai Mumbai. Noise: The noise. The noise. The noise. After 10 pm the music shuts off as do the announcements but the noise never lets up. It’s like a wall of sound exploding over the ground. What’s truly amazing is that in the middle of that din (different from the Media Dinning Area) people still answer their phones. “Has Babloo gone to sleep?” asks the man next to me. “Did you give him his vitamins?” The man behind me is attending to his business, whatever it might be. “I think there is too much air in it. We can check it tomorrow. No not tonight. I am outside. A little busy with something.” Meanwhile everyone around him is chanting KKR. OOPS: The giant screen tells you what to feel. OOPS it says when a catch is dropped. NAIL-BITING FINISH it tells us helpfully as we go into the last over with ten runs needed off six balls. Its friendly electronic letters guide us through the night, signposts for our emotions, choreographing a rollercoaster ride whether or not we feel it. RO-HIT for 6 it chortles, very pleased with its own witticism when Rohit Sharma sends the ball sailing. Peddlers: On a rain muddy night peddlers standing along the way vigorously hawk Lasith Malinga rainbow Afros for Rs 100 and Mumbai Indian and KKR t-shirts and headbands. And face paint even though it’s raining. A man in a KKR tshirt buys a Mumbai Indian headband. “For Sachin,” he says. The cheeky boy selling the t-shirts says Mumbai Indian shirts are selling better today. I ask him who he is supporting. “Mumbai,” he grins. “Why?” I ask. “I told you. It’s selling better.” Quote of the night: The quote of the night comes from 10-year-old Aritra watching his first IPL match. He came togged up in his purple KKR jersey, breathless with excitement about watching his heroes especially Eoin Morgan. Someone gets him a box of Bijoli Grill dinner which he tucks into with gusto. Then he suddenly yells to a friend sitting three spectators down from him “Oh no. Aren’t we in ashouch (mourning)? I just ate fish by mistake.” “Never mind,” says a random spectator reassuringly. “Consider it Sachin’s birthday special.” Rose Valley: In a state reeling from the Saradha chit fund scam, it is a little curious to see all those t-shirts emblazoned with Rose Valley logo. Rose Valley is the ubiquitous sponsor of everything in Bengal. A company that also mobilizes deposits from thousands of ordinary people, it’s under attack as panicked investors are afraid it will go the Saradha way. Trinamool MP Tapas Pal is already issuing statements he is not a Rose Valley director. Newspapers in Kolkata are carrying ads from its managing director pleading with the public to “just keep patience… keep your faith on Rose Valley.” It’s tagline still reads optimistically “Happiness Unlimited.” Good times, indeed. Seat fights: It can’t be a match without fights over seats, even when they are assigned seats. Everyone starts moving up, switching seats, breaking into fights. “Sir,” says one man to the police officer. “I was here first. You saw me. I was sitting here. Then I went to the toilet. Now he is sitting here.” “Whose seat is this?” says the policeman. It turns out it belongs to neither. “My seat is too far back,” complains the first guy. “Well mine is on the other side,” gripes the squatter. “Throw them both out,” votes the audience around them. “Bujhiye bolun (explain nicely). Don’t shout at them,” one police officer with a May I Help You tag tells another. Taxi driver: My taxi driver, Ranjit Pandit, says he forgot his wedding anniversary on April 18. His wife asked him two days later, “Did you forget something?” “I forget my own because I have to work so much to make money. And we have to celebrate Sachin’s?” he scoffs. He says he liked cricket when you waited all year for a few months of cricket in the winter. That was between one desh and another. “This is just idhar ka paisa udhar, udhar ka paisa idhar,” he says. If Kolkata wants to give Sachin a birthday gift, why not just give Mumbai the match and save all the traffic jams and police bundobust, he asks. Umbrella: As a sudden thundersquall erupts before the game people run for shelter clutching plastic bags over their heads. The maidan churns instantly into mud. Buses splashed water. “Umbrellas for sale, buy one here,” shouts a man standing outside the subway station under an umbrella. He was selling them for 100 rupees. I pay up, facing a long walk to the stadium in the rain. He just hands me the umbrella he was using with a smile, pockets the hundred rupees and walks away in the rain. At the stadium I realise I cannot take the umbrella in anyway. “Leave it in the bin,” said the officer. “Take it on the way out.” I laugh, just adding it to the cost of night. A birthday gift to Sachin. But it is still there when I leave close to midnight. I don’t have a Sachin story to take back with me. But at least I got to take home my new(ish) umbrella.