Land of Lime

I ran into my friend Abir Bazaz on Market Street in downtown San Francisco a few days ago. Unexpectedly, I might add. While catching up, he said he has been returning to the Land of Lime, and looking for updates. I guess that’s the kick in the backside I needed. A friendly one, though.

Folks much has happened in the intermission. We will chronicle much of it, from Cauvery river to Anna Nicole Smith’s death and Heather Mills’ divorce. From the many tragedies at the Cricket World Cup to a new season of Baseball, also known as year 99 of futility in my home town of Chicago. That would be on the northside of the town.
I want to write longer features and some commentary. Hopefully, more history and literature (including some in Kannada) as well as my usual features on Rajkumar.

I am back.

Many forests will be felled abusing Indian cricketers, postmorteming India’s performance. Blame will be assigned and scapegoats will be found. That’s always fun and we, in South Asia, have much expertise in that blood sport.

I am sure the same will happen in Pakistan. But the additional misfortune of losing their coach, Bob Woolmer, under such suspicious circumstances makes such an exercise even more tragic.

Much has been written on the grave moral and existential crisis (indeed, series of crises) cricket is passing through in the last decade or more. More will be written.

None of that is moot for Indian and Pakistani cricketers. Their crisis is more fundamental. For anybody who watched their performance, and has followed cricket as well as cricketers in these two countries for some time, it is obvious how jaded and listless they look. This is perhaps one of the consequences of attaining everything (money, fame, women and opportunities) very easily.
Some day, very soon, they need to rediscover why they play this wonderful game.

That perhaps is the only thing that matters.

PS: On the World Cup itself, see this typically insightful piece by Ashis Nandy in the Times of India.

Do you dig Bermuda? And all 20 stones/140 Kilograms of my man, Dwayne Leverock. And that incredible catch that Leverock took against India the other day. Folks watch this lovely tribute to the old man.

And that young kid, Malachi Jones, the first ever player to take a wicket with his first world cup delivery. All of Seventeen years old.
Bermuda are this World Cup’s Togo!

If you remember, last summer Togolese, led by their mercurial forward Emmanuel Adebayor of Arsenal, entertained us immensely in the Soccer World Cup. Bermuda don’t do any of the nakras that Togo team did. (To jog your memory here is how Togo’s World Cup unfolded: Manager quit before the first game, only to come back; the team almost opted not to play the second and were eliminated before the third game began. It was compelling drama, with each new development more implausible than the previous one.)

Bermuda are like me playing league cricket now. Not as good as Ireland or Bangladesh, the two heroic teams of this World Cup, whose exploits are worthy of ballads. But how do you not love this most unlikely cricket player on the international scene. A police man, and prison van driver, who lives above a curry house and seems to live to eat enormous quantities of his favorite dish, beef Korma.

What a character!
Dwayne, take a bow. We will watch you give hell to Bangladesh.