Friday, June 24, 2016

THE CHILDHOOD THAT WANDERED AROUND CRICKET

People who had badly wanted to pinch me in the cheeks (neighbors I mean) when I was in school started running away yesterday with a blank stare that suggested they were intimidated. The location during the flashback as well as the present was the Valamburi Vinayagar Kovil. And, the reason they thought of running away was the beard. “Enna daa idhu asingamaa dhaadi ellaam vechundu?” says an aunt; “Indha kaalathu pasangaluku French beard, funk dhaan trend aayiduchu; thalaiyezhuthu”, remarks another uncle. Though it was a bit annoying, their affection towards all the children of the locality remains the same. The way they recall the incidents of the past and how we tormented the whole area with our hide-and-seek and cricket took me back to those days (Cue BGM “Nyaabagam Varudhey”)

Let us rewind to my fifth grade and above.

I have a sense of pride for belonging into the probably last set that played street cricket. The slender stem of some random plant became the stump at the non-striker’s end, and the Coca Cola grate became its counterpart at the striker’s end. With only one bat (rarely two, if a luxurious foreign relative gifts us one) and a Stumper ball, the arena would be all set for the battle and a car would honk from behind. We would have to clear the arrangements while being scolded by the driver and owner, and reset them back after the car is gone. This would happen at least 5 times in a session. Oh by the way, on weekdays, it was only one session from around 04:30 PM to 06:30 PM, while on weekends, there were two sessions – from 10:00 AM to 01:30 PM, and 03:00 PM to 07:00 PM.

We belonged to the three adjacent streets of Muthukumarasamy Nagar and Anna Nagar and were around 16 in number. Each one of us loved to play daily but not all parents were lenient enough to let their wards play in the “study time”. We would go and call them and they would scold us back. “All you people come and call my child to play and that is the reason he flunks in exams. Get lost”, would be the reply. The strength started coming down to 12 and then to 10. So we devised a strategy to bring these amma chellam guys into the loop.

The four of us (whose parents, including mine, were (and are) lenient), who would come to the field first - say half an hour before the scheduled time - would go together to the strict houses. Only one among the four would yell out the name of the boy to be called out. As usual, the mom would utter that trademark reply without even opening the door. So we would stand there for the next 10 minutes, silently talking to each other to pass time and then the second person would call that guy again. Now the reply would slightly be different. “Thambi, avan thoonguraan paa.” In reality, the mom would be half asleep while the poor guy would pretend to be sleeping while waiting to go out somehow. Even if she scowls on why he is being called again and again, we would be like, “Oh, he was called already? I was not aware. I come directly from my home.” The resilience of this mom would start coming down as the third guy calls in the next 5 minutes, and we could hear her scolding the locked up soul, “Poi thola, saniyaney. Correct ah 6 maniku vandhudanum.” And promptly, this guy would return only at 7, just like others.

Now playing was an easy task. But what if the ball finds its way into the compound of some houses? The answer was ME. The fate of being tall had its toll even when I played cricket; since my height enabled easy climbing of walls and posts, I would be asked to climb walls. The street we usually played was surrounded by homes of Vasantha Teacher, Manickam Vaadhiyaar, Sivakumar Tahsildar and the like (glad it was based on profession and not on caste). Vasantha Teacher was that strict woman who would not want even ants to enter her place. So naturally she blasted us away every time she found that we are sneaking in to take the ball away.

In order to overcome this “humiliation”, we formulated a plan. Since we had the advantage of all the houses being closed once we started playing (because of the noise and ruckus; it is not as if we were professionals who targeted doors and windows with our hooks and pulls), we could pretend to be playing as if nothing had happened even if the ball was not there. So everyone would start giving comments like, “Dei. Podu daa ball-a”, “Koomutta. Catch yedhuku daa miss panna?” to maintain the noise levels and make sure they do not sense something fishy. The wicketkeeper would meanwhile see from behind the stumps if there was any unusual door slams or window shuts; if there were even the slightest noise, he would say “Winning Declare”, which implied the man inside the compound (mostly myself) should hide somewhere behind the bushes.

One day, the lady found out this technique and caught me red-handed. As usual, the typical abuses to my family and forefather started coming out. “Don’t your parents advice you good? Does your school teach only bad habits like climbing walls?” As if school is the only way to learn. When my friends started smirking, I could not hold but ask her, “Did your school teach you to be grumpy?” That was the end of the story. I do not think I should explain what must have happened then.

I can still remember this 3 o clock protocol because of my History examination in the 10th grade mainly. Mom was gracious enough to allow me play even the day before board examinations, and I was about to start the Charter Act question when the clock struck thrice. I thought I would study that later after playing, and eventually I forgot. On the next day’s paper, that was one of the questions asked. I knew the other answer (Explain about First World War or something, I forgot). But this Charter Act was just 10 points that I could have finished in a jiffy and scored 10 full marks just like that (because the school teachers were so fond of bulleted points) while this other stuff took me almost 40 minutes to complete. I had to hurry up at the last moment to finish the paper somehow. The others in the gang would also have had several embarrassing incidents like these every now and then. But nothing would stop us from playing daily till the start of 11th grade, when tuitions and school would become the mornings and nights for us (That was a different kind of enjoyment, though!)

There were the hide-and-seek moments when we would climb walls in the nights and freak the house owners who would come to pee (the bathrooms were outside the house in the garden side); there were ass moments (Is the card game called Ace or Ass? I still have a doubt) when everyone would be afraid to get A Spade, because that person would have to open the account and almost 5 of the 15 people would not have Spades with them; there were ding dong moments when we would ring the bell in some stranger’s house and just hide at a safe haven from where we could spot how much the people at the houses got afraid and anxious, but could not spot us.


But cricket always holds a special place because of the fun that happened around the game; it was as if the 16 of us rebelled against this whole area of employed, orthodox people. Everyone is in different college now, and many have lost touch (Alas, those were the days without mobiles; I do not even know their WhatsApp numbers), several people have migrated to cities, some have started working, one anna has even married. I saw him yesterday at the temple and the first word he asked was, “Cricket ellaam ippovum aadriyaa? Shall we play here some time soon?” We may not be the clubs or the elite players; cricket was something that united us, that made us enjoy life despite public examinations, that which has now made someone who had torn me apart with her words earlier to ask about my well-being. Probably, that is one reason I do not want to move on with my life watching football (or some other sport) as many of my mates at college do.