ORANGES AND CRICKET

ORANGES AND CRICKET

FIFTH COLUMN

Iti Misra

The smell of oranges reminds me of cricket. The sharp spray which hits the face as you peel one of the Nagpur beauties takes me back to the wonderful days of cricket as we knew and loved it. Why oranges? Because, like cold days and picnics at the zoo, oranges and cricket were both blessings of the long-awaited winter in the plains. I remember eagerly anticipating winter, when one of the foreign cricket teams would visit India for leisurely but competitive Test cricket. Plans were made and work was rescheduled for that visit to the Mecca of cricket — Eden Gardens. We had to set off early to beat the crowds, with flasks of coffee, bottles of water, and picnic baskets loaded with sandwiches, luchi-alur dum, cakes and, of course, oranges. Oranges were an invaluable ingredient of the day’s enjoyment, used sometimes as guided missiles by miscreants, and sometimes as a good-luck charm by the superstitious. I recall celebrating Neil Harvey’s dismissal as soon as I had peeled my orange, and being asked by my neighbour to repeat the trick with another well-set Aussie batsman. Over five days of close proximity, shared lunches, hopes and despair, a fair amount of bonding took place . If matches were played elsewhere in India, our lives revolved around the Philips radio set. My mother had to synchronize the housework with the morning, the post-lunch and the post-tea sessions. We would arrange ourselves around the radio — mother with her knitting, didi and I with our holiday homework, my brother with the score cards, and father with his snuff box and cigarettes to relieve the stress should India be on the mat yet again! As the velvet baritone of Berry Sarbadhikari cut across the static “welcoming you to the Feroze Shah Kotla grounds, on the first day of the second Test”, we shut our eyes and imagined the scene out there — white flannels, green outfields and the red ball. The pin-drop silence as the bowler completed his run up and the thunderous applause for a well-executed cover drive floated over hundreds of miles to our sitting room. Another world Drink breaks, with expert comments by Lala or Vizzy, were time for our own tea, coffee and milk. Lunch too revolved on the cricket theme. Daal-bhat was forbidden, we had to have ‘dry lunches’ as if we were out there on the grounds. My mother took extreme care to recreate the atmosphere of the lunch break at the grounds. Then, it was time for oranges, peeled lovingly by our mother for each one of us siblings. My brother would break the monotony of a maiden over by squeezing the stinging citrus oil from the orange skins into our eyes. A smart clip behind the ears from father would soon bring him back to his duties as score keeper. I think my love for the game is inexorably linked to the wonderful time we spent near the radio. Friends and family were invited in turn to ‘hear’ the match together. Tea-break menu would then include muri and ghugni made of fresh green peas from the garden, as also natun-gurer sandesh. This party around cricket would last for all of the five days and if India were trailing, father would console himself by snuffing and puffing and we would hang on to Vizzie’s assurances that “Cricket was a game of glorious uncertainties!” Call me an old woman, but how can the sight of spitting cricketers, bikini-clad dancers and a fast-and-furious game of 90 minutes replace what I loved? Cricket, for me, was something that happened rarely; it was to be eagerly anticipated like cool winters, fresh green peas, natun gur and always...oranges. Today, we are on OD2. Yes, I know the lingo. There are endless games on innumerable television channels. If it isn’t one-day internationals, it is Pro 40 or T20, or India A versus South Africa A, or Aussie Eves vs English Twiggies...my head spins like a Kumble delivery. I will just watch EPL.