India Rising: Tales from a Changing Nation (17 page)

The scoreboard screams what we already know, the fact on which twenty thousand minds are solely focused.

6 RUNS, 1 BALL

Out on the pitch. Two men, bowler and batsman. A classic showdown, an all-or-nothing duel. Malinga, speeding in. The batsman, steeling his courage. The ball, launched down the wicket. The bat, wielded wildly. Thunk. Leather against willow. But the timing, tragically, is off-centre. The ball does not sear into the stands as the fairy tale holds. It scurries along the ground, straight into the path of a sure-handed fielder. A single is secured, a moment of crowning glory missed. Malinga celebrates, fist in the air. His team-mates pile in, football-style, one on top of the other. The heap of bodies collapses, victorious.

MUMBAI WINS

Fly Kingfisher. Fly Kingfisher.

The party continues outside. The crowd swells as the ticketless masses at the stadium gates join the swarm of departing spectators. Most are men, and most are ecstatic. Even the Royals
supporters. They leave with most of what they came for: not a victory perhaps, but a forty-over feast of adrenalin-fuelled highs. What’s more, the whole season lies ahead, nearly sixty games overall. The two will meet again.

Elbowing my way out of the thickest part of the scrum, I turn left and head down Marine Drive towards Nariman Point. The road is banked by the oil-blue sea, which languishes quietly and alone, a million miles away from the ceaseless, sleepless streets of the city.

On dry land, the air is damp and salty and rent with klaxon horns. The pavement remains thick with people. I continue on, bodies moving all around me. The mood is festive, but I have a growing desire to be away from it all. I love the constant jostling of India, yet it can gradually work me over. India is a nation of the masses, a nation that instinctively inverts the private into the public. Indoors becomes outdoors. My space becomes our space. Unused to living in a crowd, the presence of so many people leaves me craving quiet.

I duck off the road and into Geoffrey’s pub. The British-era refit is located in a smoky corner of the Hotel Marine Plaza. I find a stool at the bar, and order a murgh malai kebab and a beer from the waistcoated barman.

An even mix of Indians and expats divides the room. The split is by age, not nationality. The younger crowd occupies one end, with their lagers and lounge seats, while the old-timers lay claim to the other end, nurturing their whiskeys and escaping their wives. My seat at the bar places me between the two camps. It’s a neutral zone, with pots of peanuts to keep the peace.

A wide-screen television is tuned in to the sports channel, Max Live. The studio is kitschily decorated and painted in a bright bordello red. A child-faced presenter with a Brylcreemed quiff and a silver suit is rhapsodising about the ‘cracker jacker’ of a game just gone. Highlights of Pathan’s innings are played back. The Sixes, Max Live’s on-screen bulletin reveals, are Brought to You by Hero Honda. Ad breaks flow copiously. Lux Beauty Cream, Samsung Dual Sim Phones, 7 UP ‘The Lemon Drink’. All are told in a
polyglot hybrid of English and Hindi. A let-up comes with the IPL’s Green Tip of the Day. Plant a tree, the nation’s viewing public is encouraged.

The message is lost on the old guard. Their backs are turned. The success of the IPL may be galactic, but its appeal is not entirely universal. Cricket purists cannot abide it. A ratings-led barbarity, a desecration of the sacred game, they say. They bemoan the loss of strokeplay and deride its dumbed-down simplicity. The Mickey Mouse format is ruining young players, the critics allege. Their temperaments are too flighty. Their techniques too flashy.

For others, the rot runs deeper. The IPL stands for all that is ill in India. Everything, not just cricket, is becoming tainted by cash and greed. Life used to be all about ‘being’. Now, it revolves around buying. People want their pleasures now, not later. Patience, respect, history – such values are disappearing job-lot in an India bamboozled by the novel and new. The IPL, like reality TV and fast food, speaks of a country that is losing its way. India is prioritising the present over the past, and endangering its future in the process.

As a metaphor, the IPL is a flexible construct. Just as it can be viewed as the road to ruin, it can also be portrayed as a harbinger of hope. Cricket in India is a majority pastime. Yet, for years, its top-flight players have come from a minority of the population. Sourav Ganguly, for example, belongs to one of Kolkata’s richest families. His family house reputedly has twenty-two bedrooms. V. V. S. Laxman, captain of the Deccan Chargers (and later Kochi Tuskers), comes from a family of affluent doctors. Though of more modest means, Tendulkar’s father was a Marathi novelist and teacher. All are Brahmins. Today, a new breed of stars is coming to light. Yusuf Pathan, the son of an impoverished muezzin, burst on to the scene from nowhere. Likewise, millionaire heart-throb Mahendra Dhoni, the son of a steel-factory worker, clawed his way up from the backwaters of Bihar to become captain of the national team. The IPL is giving ambitious young cricketers an unprecedented shot at fame and fortune. Talent is being noticed.
The gifted now have a chance. And India too – so the parallel runs – is becoming an equal-opportunity enterprise.

Drunken laughter breaks out from the far end of the pub. Behind me, ice chinks frostily in whiskey glasses. It’s time I left. Outside, Marine Drive has grown quieter. I hail a cab and head down the crescent highway to the exclusive Oberoi Hotel.

The hotel’s foyer is five-star chic and almost empty. At the indication of a liveried doorman, I take the lift down to the basement function room. The button pings. The door slides open. And into a different world I walk. The carpeted Regal Room is rammed. New India, dressed in its designer best, has come out to play. Air-kisses fly. Diamonds sparkle. Champagne flows. At an IPL Party Night, everyone has their part. The day’s cricketers meet and greet. Mumbai’s cool crowd shimmers and struts and smiles for the cameras. Leggy models saunter down a catwalk in seductive, semi-clad strides.

Around midnight, the same crowd ups and leaves for Bandra. I follow in pursuit. Shilpa Shetty is hosting the launch of her new nightclub, aptly named Royalty. A red carpet and bank of paparazzi line the route to the door. Inside, three blonde Eastern Europeans sway in the middle of the packed dance floor, half a foot taller than everyone else. The Indian cricketers have all gone, leaving the foreign players to monopolise the models. The silver-sequinned Shilpa presides over the VIP lounge, an entourage of actors and impresarios swooning at her feet.

At three a.m., the lights come up. Partied out, the IPL juggernaut retires for the night. The photos of the evening are already with the newspapers. The cricketers can sleep easy. On and off the pitch, they have given people what they want.

‘Sure, a pop-up – that makes sense. Let’s run it throughout the afternoon. “Viv Richards, live at nine p.m.” Rajesh. Can you get on to that please?’

All eyes are on Rahul Kanwal. A semicircle of senior editors sits
poised around his desk, pens and notepads at the ready. Behind them, a back-up troop of reporters and sub-editors form a more scattered, outer ring.

We’re twenty minutes into the morning editorial meeting at Headlines Today, an upstart English-language news channel beamed out of the Videocon Tower in Delhi. Its coverage is ‘fresh’ and ‘alternative’, according to Rahul, the precociously young chief editor. Three years into the job, he’s still shy of his thirtieth birthday. His tabloid, newsflash style – borrowed from Aaj Tak, Headlines Today’s longer-standing Hindi sister channel – is proving popular with today’s viewers. Ratings are creeping up. Rahul’s star is shining.

‘That’s good. Let’s play this up in a biggy?’

Rahul’s focus is turned to the bank of television screens fixed to the wall in front of his desk. On one, a block of flats is crashing to the ground. A minion runs off into the busy newsroom to relay the message.

The screens show Headlines Today’s competitor channels too: CNN-IBN, Times Now, NDTV and Breaking News. All four combine to create a frenetic montage of bold graphics, shaky camera work and non-stop bulletins of ‘Exclusive!’ news.

Viv Richards’ visit to the Headlines Today studios marks a veritable scoop. The former West Indies cricket captain is passing through the Indian capital for the Commonwealth Games, which kicked off three days ago.

‘Saddath, get me a print out of the promos quickly.’

The cub reporter jumps from his chair and disappears.

Rahul is visibly excited. He taps his pen on the desk and runs a hand through his wavy side-parting. The charismatic editor is anxious to milk the Richards interview to the full. It’ll run over the hour-long Centre Stage show, the prime-time evening slot hosted by Rahul himself. That much is decided. Now, how to market it?

‘Let’s think of a contest, right. You know, erm, “Which batsman has the most similar style to Sir Viv?” We’ll get him to
answer the question on air and give the winner . . .’ Rahul pauses for thought. ‘Everyone, what can we give the winner?’

‘How about an autographed cricket bat?’ suggests the goatee-bearded copy-editor.

‘Good idea. We’ll need someone to go and buy a bat. Imran, get onto that. And, Rajiv, put something up on the website right away. And prepare some tweets on it too.’

Richards is due to arrive just before three o’clock. A protracted discussion follows about who from the guest team should go down to meet him. It has to be someone who knows about cricket, one of the editors points out. And someone who can butter him up, says another. ‘He’s a moody guy. We need to try and pump him up a bit.’ A junior assistant is mentioned and the name agreed.

Rahul is jotting furiously on a piece of paper. A waiter in a frayed black jacket approaches his table with a steaming cup of tea in a Headlines Today mug. ‘Refreshingly Different’, the caption reads.

The editor looks up, a glint in his eye.

‘So I was thinking, let’s lead on a history of his career. We’ll call it, “King Richards’ Life”. Right? We’ll need to dig out some footage of him at his prime. The Original Master Blaster. The Most Feared Batsman Ever. That sort of thing.’

The programme manager raises a hand. ‘He’s very particular about being referred to as Sir Vivian.’

‘No, that won’t work,’ the head of investigations chips in. ‘We’ve got to say, “Sir Viv”.’

Another debate unfolds. The Delhi bureau chief goes off on a tangent about Richards being called Smokin’ Joe, ‘you know, like the black US boxer Smokin’ Joe Frazier’.

Rahul cuts him off. ‘Sir Viv’ has his vote. He shifts to the question of graphics. Ideas are thrown in about what will work and what won’t.

Meantime, Saddath comes back with the promos. Rahul scans them, his ear still tuned into the discussion around him. ‘Too long. Cut it back. And make it punchier.’ Saddath skulks off.

‘Settled then?’ Rahul looks to his colleagues, who nod hesitantly. ‘So, not full frame. We want his picture on screen too. Remember, he’s a big guy.’

Thirty minutes pass before any mention of the interview questions is made. Two story editors taking hurried notes at the end of Rahul’s desk wait expectantly.

‘We’ll just talk about his glory days, and which players he sees coming up after him,’ says Rahul.

His manner is offhand. No one adds anything. He’ll be the one fronting the interview. The questions are his call.

‘Then a bit about how the West Indies are declining and how India are in the ascendancy. Sound good?’

Again, no comments. Rahul himself voices what everyone else is thinking.

‘So that’ll take about twenty minutes. How can we string it out over an hour?’

Legs crossed, a biro wedged down the side of his shoe, the copy-editor lifts a hand. ‘How about Kapil Dev?’ Kapil and Richards were Test contemporaries. The two could banter about old times. The chief editor likes the idea. A phone call is put through to his PR. Kapil is in Kolkata. ‘Talk to Avijit,’ Rahul responds immediately. ‘Check the outside-broadcast van is available this afternoon.’ A follow-up call is patched through to the former cricket star himself. The receiver passes across to Rahul.

‘A small request, sir. Can you give up twenty minutes for us this afternoon? . . . Of course, we’ll send the van to wherever you are . . . Sure, the Taj Bengal . . . Three o’clock, great . . . Brilliant, sir. I really appreciate this.’

Rahul runs his hand through his hair again. He talks out loud to no one in particular about the logistics. Visuals would have to be ready an hour before. Someone would need to speak with the manager at the Taj Bengal hotel. The relevant team members take notes.

Time is running on. Packages for the evening’s other shows have to be decided too. Attentions turn to Ground Zero, the channel’s other prime-time slot. The older of the two story editors
reads from a list of top stories: a Saudi prince beating up his male lover in a London hotel, a toxic leak in Hungary, racist comments by New Zealand television presenter.

Rahul takes notes, interjecting with questions all the while. ‘What are the images like?’ . . . ‘We can run the blurb on the side.’ . . . ‘Get Sunita Narain from TERI for a two-way?’ . . . ‘Who’s got the phone number of our local fixer there?’ . . . ‘Fantastic.’ . . . ‘So what do we all have?’

‘Then there’s the Commonwealth, of course,’ the story editor continues, raising his eyebrows.

‘Anything positive?’ Rahul asks.

The story editor stifles a laugh.

For weeks, Headlines Today has joined every other Indian media channel in slamming the Games. The swathe of bad press began as a trickle. First came reports about ‘eleventh-hour mayhem’ and Delhi not being ready in time. Then charges of sleaze and missing millions began to filter out. Next, stories emerged about slums being flattened and beggars being deposited outside the capital. News of ill-paid workers, safety lapses and traffic gridlock followed.

‘Global Scorn for CWG Fiasco.’ So ran the headline for a
H
eadlines Today
exposé in the days just before the Games kicked off. The story played out against grainy photos from the multi-million-dollar Athletes’ Village: paan-stained toilets, broken stairs, stray dogs on the beds, faeces in the corners. The programme then shifted to a collapsed pedestrian bridge and the caved-in ceiling of the weightlifting venue. ‘Should CWG be called off?’ the show’s host asked provocatively. Viewers were invited to post their comments at twitter.com/rahulkanwal.

The Commonwealth Games were supposed to be the opportunity for ‘Shining India’ to dazzle the world. It wasn’t turning out that way. A spectacular opening ceremony did little to allay the criticism. For the first two days, news-stands still flooded with reports of empty stadiums, ticketing problems and condom-blocked toilets in the athletes’ village. Many Indians were embarrassed. Some were angry. On screen, Rahul was righteously indignant.

For all the emotional fervour, however, I sensed no one deep down was that surprised. After all, this was a sporting event, and India doesn’t really do sport. Sport that’s not cricket, that is.

By any measure, India’s performances on the international stage are dire. The country has never had a world champion sprinter, gymnast or racing driver. Its national football team has never graced a World Cup. It took a century of the modern Olympic movement for India to lay claim to its first individual gold medal. The contrast with China, which wrapped up the last Olympics with fifty-one gold medals, is telling.

The lack of priority given to sport in India is lamentable, but understandable. In a developing country, precedence has traditionally been given to schools and hospitals, not leisure centres and athletics tracks. Even now, two million Indian children die every year from easily preventable diseases. Were the country’s social needs magically done away with, Indians would still remain sceptical about investing in sport. To the public mind, there’s a childish frivolity to men and women running laps and chasing balls. Indeed, the Hindi word for sport is ‘khel’, which also translates as ‘play’ or ‘playful’.

In as much as Indians do engage in sport, it’s generally from their lounge chairs. Formula One Grand Prix attracts almost twice as many television viewers in India as it does across all of Europe combined. By the same token, only one in every fifty pairs of Nike jogging shoes sold on the sub-continent is ever used for running.

All the same, enough is enough. Rahul feels a change of tack is needed. The public mood is switching, he says. The self-flagellation needs to end. He wants some success stories. ‘So, really, any going?’ He scans the faces of his deputies. No suggestions are forthcoming. ‘What else have we all got?’

The second story editor pipes up. ‘The political crisis in Karnataka?’

There’s a note of scepticism in his voice. The Karnataka affair is an ongoing saga centring on a vote of no confidence in the state government.

Rahul is uninspired. ‘Anything else?’

No answer.

He exhales slowly and picks up his pen. ‘So, what will we call it then?’

A few days later, I head over to the Shyama Prasad Mukherjee Swimming Complex. I am in search of a good-news story of my own.

The whiff of wet paint still hangs over the newly built stadium. It smells as it should do, fresh and unused. India has never had a heated Olympic swimming pool with a roof before. On seats of polished plastic sit fans from across the Commonwealth, excitement written on every face.

In the pool, it is Australia’s day. Their national anthem stays on perpetual loop as one broad-shouldered champion after another takes gold. The Indians in the crowd cheer as loudly as the rest, their buoyant mood strengthened by a large dose of low expectations. Swimming is not a sport in which India has much heritage or success. So when Prasanta Karmakar walks out for the start of the Para fifty metres freestyle, the home supporters greet him with enthusiastic applause.

Poised and professional, the lone Indian swimmer looks the part. A fraction shorter than his fellow competitors, his upper body is compact and his stomach muscles corrugated. A plastic racing cap covers his head. His trunks, which run down to his knee, are the latest in low-drag design. He raises his left hand to salute the crowd. His right arm, which ends abruptly above the wrist, stays at his side. He starts in Lane Six.

The athletes step onto the elevated starting blocks. Prasanta checks his cap and fixes his goggles in place. Knees bent, arms down, head up, he waits for the starting gun.

Collectively, we hold our breath.

Prasanta has travelled far to be there. Born into a poor family in Kolkata, he lost his hand in a bus accident aged seven. He couldn’t swim until his mid-teens, learning in a lake close to his home. His parents encouraged him to join a club and he began clocking up first-place finishes shortly afterwards. Now
aged twenty-nine, his first national record came almost a decade ago. He now holds four.

Away from the pool, life is distinctly less glamorous. He lives in a shared room in a student garret. He has no job, no money, no girlfriend and no commercial sponsor. He swims for four hours a day, with weight training on top.

We’d met several months previously. Nandan, a friend of a friend, had put us in touch. A lawyer by profession, Nandan runs a small charitable foundation that supports up-and-coming sportspeople. He has a dozen or so boxers, swimmers, hockey players and badminton hopefuls on his list. All are young, poor and glowing with talent. The Go Sports Foundation provides each with a monthly stipend. Not enough to live on, but sufficient to cover some basic essentials.

Mindful that the Commonwealth Games were coming up, I was interested in meeting a potential competitor, someone who had fought against all the odds to make it in their chosen field, someone who summed up the spirit of aspirational India. Nandan had given me Prasanta’s number. ‘If it’s tough odds you want,’ he’d said, ‘he’s your man.’

Prasanta was working out in the antiquated weights room at the K. C. Reddy Swim Centre when I arrived. Located in downtown Bengaluru, the outdoor pool is on temporary lease from the government. Three rusting lifeguards’ chairs lined the pool’s edge. All stood vacant. A dilapidated row of concrete terraced seating ran along one side. Along it sat a scattered gathering of vigilant mothers. Their faces wore tense and slightly pained expressions, as though they were stuck standing out in the rain. In the shallow end of the pool, decked out in armbands and goggles hawked from the back of a van at the club’s entrance, swam their little ones. A sign at the door advertised the three-week beginners’ course. It was Week Two.

We sat on a bench in the municipal park beside the pool. The seat’s central slats were missing. I’d asked Prasanta why he’d moved away from Kolkata. ‘My trainer,’ he’d replied. ‘He’s based here.’ Nihar Ameen, India’s national swimming coach, runs a
training camp for the country’s elite swimmers at the rudimentary K. C. Reddy Swim Centre. Prasanta is the only Para swimmer in his squad. His fellow training companions include Sandeep Sejwal and Virdhawal Ghade. Aged twenty-one and nineteen respectively, they are the fastest swimmers in Indian history. Both are more or less on the breadline too.