Indian Premier League: The Scum of Indian Cricket!

Indian Premier League, what a beautiful name to start with! Maybe the name is a copy-cat name: a poor country cousin who is plainly satisfied to play just one silly game called Cricket, and sure does want to enjoy the name, fame, and money like the European football clubs do, the ubiquitous English Premier League’s Manchester United and others! What dreams may come!

After all that has happened and is still happening in the upstart ‘Premier League’ Indian cricket realm, it seems to me that it has already been hit for a Sixer and smacked hard in its face. Last heard it was on its way to the infamous zoo of BCCI’s Sharad Pawar-laden control-freak honchos!

Alas, after three years of IPL startup, it should have turned into a magnificent sports bonanza of a very indigenous kind where no corrupted dealers or mindless political interventionists or tax-evading cohorts can possibly operate; the one without any hideous link-ups leading to any sort of sordid happenings. On the contrary, the recent IPL baloney involving Modi, Pawar, Tharoor, Praful, and several other money-minded personnel has undoubtedly met a trashy end, sounding a death knell for the so-called brand of Indian Cricket. Whatever little reputation it miraculously had during the first 3 years of its somewhat well-deserved inception, it went kaput thereafter. The promise of great expectations from the IPL sporting extravaganza has been reduced to dirty linen left swinging in the breeze for the entire world to see. I, as a TV viewer, with somewhat little interest in cricket got kicked in the behind in their history-sheeting jaghda!

Well, I admit that I am no Cricket lover, neither long-form nor T20 short-cut. It does not appeal to me much. I enjoy the bonhomie though in a TV room, and it ends there. Stadiums packed with people give me nervous jitters. The fact that security is a big crisis everywhere and the terror-mongrels marauding in every nook and cranny is enough for anyone not to come home in one piece! I know I am being gluttonous with self-importance but sadly that is how the world works!

I favour Tennis or once-in-four-years Olympics for my sports binge. Olympics is so full of grace whereas IPL is a disgrace. One-day internationals have been a likable sort of game but Twenty-twenty has made me highly skeptical of it. Personally, I abhor short-cuts or quick-easy games which bring no value except money and so, therefore, I keep a long way off from such games. Surely, gully cricket is a different ball game altogether because it gives me an instant-noodles kind of affection and continual bonding with friends and acquaintances minus any expectation of monetary benefits from anyone at all; although I do not play gully cricket anymore. Those days are, thankfully, behind me.

Even it doesn’t matter to me whether at the helm of Indian Cricket there are great models of fantabulous players to ape such as Sourav ‘Southpaw’Ganguly, Sachin ‘Tendua’ Tendulkar, or the erstwhile punjab da puttar-ish Kapil Dev who played great cricket. Yes, I played cricket and football all throughout my boyhood days and have followed Bengal’s brand of football in equal measure: the homespun variety such as the likes of Mohun Bagan, East Bengal, or the Mohammedan Sporting. European football too makes good sense! Hahaha…

I write this piece of sports blog with no certified qualification of a sportsperson, or a sports commentator like that rabble-rousing Sunil ‘Chotu’ Gavaskar or Ravi ‘Tukku Tukku’ Shashtri who have oh-so-gladly turned themselves into a money-making industry for their own personal profit. They are, of course, the usual suspects cut out for the task of commenting from their now-famished mouths; and with the likes of Tony ‘Earrings' Craig and Navjot ‘Bullshit’ Siddhu thrown in, their collective gasp of westernized cricket commentary becomes a mortifyingly pun-intended soap opera which never comes to its concluding episode! We all know that their gift of the gab has proved wonders for themselves, and therefore they are unabashedly making pots of easy money as if there is no tomorrow. Am I making a pot shot at them? Yes, probably I am and so be it! Who cares? Do you? I care no hoots! If people are so bent on hearing those rampant rambling from their mouths frothing at the ends; God help them!

I know what Cricket means; I’ve been a former fan myself. For some it means sportsmanship and for others, it only means good business sense and the concomitant production of money from advertisements (including several other illegal avenues via betting). I mean, friends, just think about it, how can IPL or ICC T20 format result in a show of gentlemen’s game of sportsmanship? It can only bring in money and lots and lots of it for those people who are involved in it. But those who are mere spectators and are simply watching TV at home end up merely getting entertained or that’s what they keep jabbering about. The late 1990s scandal of match-fixing brought Mohd Azharuddin and Hansie Cronje to their knees as their weakness for illegal stuff like betting and fixing the matches came to the fore. I remember watching Hansie’s agony-ridden face on TV when he was found guilty of match-fixing. He must have cursed himself deeply for having committed such a serious folly. But thankfully, God intervened from above and took him away as he died in a plane crash after a few months. He surely couldn’t have carried on in his life with the sinful burden of a match-fixer or being branded as a traitor to his own country. (Who am I to say that anyway?). You have been a great cricketer for South Africa and you always will be, Hansie. R.I.P.

Mohd Azharuddin, on the other hand, was rightfully banned from playing cricket but he happily continued to attend Hyderabadi soirees and kebab parties with his second wife Ms. Sangeeta Bijlani (former film actor, sadly, with no career now), and opened a new Gym. His shirt collar always lifted up, like a hunk. Hard to believe that he became a cabinet minister - a Member of Parliament no less - from somewhere North of India and is thinking about social issues and alleviating poverty from the villages! Omigod! Thankfully nobody gave him a ticket from Andhra Pradesh.

Yes, I don’t like cricket anymore. Most certainly IPL brand of Cricket gets me the creeps. Perhaps, my confession may not make any difference to anybody but I have been saved merely by not digesting the recent news of match-fixing, tax-evading and illegal money laundering activities. It gave me an excuse to wash the nonsense of IPL cricket off me. Of whatever was left in the form of somewhat potent liking, has now left me I assure you. I dug a grave today and kicked Indian Premier League cricket into it. I spat at it once and for all. I no longer shall talk about it or fetch a pair of human ears to cock a snook at it, for it will be now below my dignity to even think about it.

I have given up my ranting, but this blog needs to come to a logical conclusion and so I am writing a little more to rest my case closed shut! After all that has happened to this supposedly gentlemen’s game, I shall continue to stay aloof of all thingies that came to roost in the IPL cricket. I likewise shook myself off of being a neck-craning fan or hero-worshipping nerd.

A piece of advice: we should cease to be third-worldly in our ways of handling expensive sports. Our nation is NOT a terror-infested American poodle Pakistan or merciless Pashtu-speaking Talibanised, jihad-mongering Pathans of godforsaken Afghanistan or the terror-minded military junta of that godforsaken state of Myanmar. Aren’t we supposed to be the world’s best democracy? We are not a degenerative society of the aforementioned neighbouring countries to hanker after ill-gotten black money and undeserved fame by ‘betting’ and ‘fixing’ things up. Whatever happened to our collective aspiration to be a first-rate country and handle our sports like Cricket, Hockey, etc. the way they are meant to be handled? Can’t we handle one great sport that India does well in? So far yes, but we clearly failed as far as our brand of IPL cricket is concerned.

What was Lalit Modi thinking? He tweeted his ill-founded displeasure on the Net: of some new franchise disagreement and tried throwing his useless weight around by showing off how to Tweet, and look what happened: the entire IPL bunch of skeletons came tumbling down from his cupboard on him. Not only his but so many others as well. The former Cabinet Minister of External Affairs Mr. Shashi Tharoor was necked out. That was expected. His personal friend Ms. Sunanda Pushkar, who is a great looker and looks like yesteryear’s Hindi film actress Helen, was derogatorily called a ‘girlfriend’. Now, in the Indian sense of prejudiced things, the word girlfriend sounds like something nefarious and improper. If Shashi’s gal is Sunanda and wants to get Ouch!-on-the-Couch then why do the television journos think of it as their private business to sneak a peek at? Or is it that in order to supply their tabloid channels with some groovy masala clips that make them behave in such acts of impropriety?

She and her family have received undue importance from the media wallas. They have been hounded for news. Ms. Pushkar was called an unprintable word and the same media did not stop there; it went on splashing fake details of her life and times all over the television screen. If she is all set to marry her friend Mr. Tharoor then it is their private matter; what business is it of the media to get its wretchedly tenacious nose to waggle in their matrimonial prospects? It was pathetically distasteful. To get mere news bytes the media broke all lines of decency and crossed all limits of decorum. On the risk of sounding saddled on a moral high horse, I would rather that the intellectually blessed Mr. Tharoor, someone of his immaculate ex-UN stature and other accomplishments like completing P.hD. when he was just 22 years of age, could have shown some restraint on his part in dealing with this well-known shrewd character called Lalit Modi (a self-styled former IPL Commissioner) and his horrendous baniya tactics. Someone should give him a tight raptaa on Modi’s face. A minister of Tharoor’s repute should not have involved himself along with his ‘girlfriend’ neck deep into some kind of filthy-sounding ‘sweat money’ equity. A case of Personal leanings being mixed up with Professional interests is bound to throw up at you.

Mr. Tharoor, this is not your advanced or high-flyer cosmopolitan New York City life; this is your Hindu India: a proud nation of secular yet perpetual contradictions and conservatism of the most vigorous kind which never go away. Each has his own mind and typical attitude towards such modern and unconventional lifestyles. Such an open display of affection can only be personal hara-kiri in such a situation. It is looked down upon as scum by many (people like your own cabinet colleagues from UP, Bihar, Haryana, and the entire cow belt of the north) and do not really approve of what you have permitted yourself blindly into. Know your facts straight about your country. You have said that in your books too. Turns out your studied posterity and self-esteem have come off loose here which made you pay the heavy price with your job. You were asked to resign; got unnecessarily treated like scum and packed off to Thiruvananthapuram, where you originally hail from. Indeed, there is more to this IPL fiasco than what meets the eye, but mercifully both Modi and Tharoor have been done away with.

I better go back to my book buying and book reading passion. IPL cricket is not my cup of tea. Let me go back to the last few pages of the two books that I am reading at the moment: The Age of Kali by William Dalrymple (Penguin Books) and And Thereby Hangs a Tale by Jeffrey Archer (Pan Books), with a cup of coffee in tow (while you guys keep watching your favourite sport!). (It’s Kalyug, Dalrymple says…the age of destruction and then…the end of the world). Meanwhile, let me prefer being a mall rat and shopping frugally and indulging in retail therapy. Even my kebab and chicken tikka party (with butter naan, chicken biryani, and paneer tikka on a platter alongside) with a like-minded friend or two is waiting for piping hot in a middle-class restaurant in sub-urban Hyderabad. Gosh, I pity those unfortunate ones who still proffer their support for IPL cricket and just keep bingeing on dark soft drinks and dry wiry chips of Kurkure while at it, and still love it like as if waiting on an estranged girlfriend who slinked away drooling after a match-fixing dude of no repute! Good riddance and goodbye!

By Arindam Moulick