Dr. Roopali walks down the memory lane to time travel with cricket and cricketers. How she wrote letters, met them and more. An exclusive for Different Truths.

The game of cricket made me travel in real time. Sometimes, just the exciting voice of the play-by-play cricket commentator flew me out to exotic islands and places I had never seen. 

From one city to another. Wherever cricket and its cricketers went, I tagged along in my mind’s eye. England, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, the West Indies, Australia, New Zealand. My cricketing days began in Bangalore. I had just morphed into a college undergraduate in a very famous women’s college. 

Some of Father’s junior officers played for the Armed Services cricket teams or for the famous Ranji Trophy. Our worried mother would have them carry lovingly packed snacky goodies from Hyderabad to our dormitory in Bangalore. In Mother’s mind, we were perpetually on the brink of starvation!

And so, the introduction to cricket and cricketers came to our dormitory’s door in the form of snacks and goodies from Mother. Quite often the snacks were accompanied by a well-known cricketer friend. Sometimes, the cricketer friend would take us college kids out to yummy restaurants. A dinner out to the famed Koshy’s restaurant had blown our young minds.

Cricket’s “Test matches” last five days. This meant five days of total deafness to lectures on political theory or 17^th century poetry.  My mind would leave the classroom. A transistor radio, encased in a leather cover sneaked into the classroom took me away to faraway places. 

My head bent in concentration, I would listen intensely to live cricket commentary crackling through from another town, another city, another part of the world.  I could easily be at the Brabourne Stadium in Bombay, the Sampangi Stadium in Bangalore, the Feroze Shah Kotla grounds in Delhi, Eden Gardens in Calcutta, or Lords in England.

My heart and mind and soul would leave the dusty suffocating classroom and wing their way to the cricketing grounds where the action was taking place.  Sometimes while the Hindi teacher droned on about the exiled King Rama and his travel adventures in the forest, I wrote letters to India’s cricketers.

Who one wrote depended on whether the cricketer was handsome. To be honest, how well anybody played cricket did not really matter. The cricketer’s good looks allowed for much daydreaming. In those daydreams I travelled. I would find myself sitting in the players’ box and cheering. I often found myself in Bombay. 

Father frequently spoke of his hardships as a young boy. We took advantage of his “deprivation nostalgia” and by getting him to fulfil some of his, and some of our unfulfilled desires.

A trip to Delhi just to watch the cricket match! Or a visit to Kanpur to meet Jethamoshai, our oldest paternal uncle. But to also watch the cricket match between India and England at the Green Park stadium.

Season tickets were expensive. We were allowed to use one tiny bit of the family vacation budget on tickets. Mother was interested in leather bags and Father wanted a jacket. Nobody seemed to be interested in cricket or any good-looking cricketer.

The budget dictated the five-day test match be relegated to one day of viewing. A grumpy cousin was appointed to escort us girls. 

Well, as luck would have it, the whole thing turned out to be a disappointing affair. The seats were miles away from the cricket pitch. We could barely see the players.  They looked like stick figures, dressed all in white.

We were left guessing about the score when the crowds cheered. We went ahead and cheered with them. The grumpy, bored cousin insisted we leave. We gave away the precious tickets to urchins clamouring entry at the exit gate! 

Cricket had gripped me so badly that one year I walked out of my annual exams to hang out with the Sri Lanka team at their net practice. The practice was taking place at the local Army club. Soon I found myself sipping orange juice with the captain of the team. 

Within no time, the generous Sri Lanka captain had given me complimentary tickets to the players’ box! Within days, I was sitting close to the handsome Indian cricketer, Mansoor Ali Khan of Pataudi. No more stick figures for me!

My parents were in Hyderabad, and I was studying in Bangalore. I would travel back and forth depending on the cricket season. My friends and I would just show up at the hotels where the cricketers were staying. We would ask to speak to a cricketer by name.

Those were very simple, happy days. The cricketers would not only take our call but also come down to the reception to meet us, their fans. Complimentary tickets, autographs and chit chat followed. But somehow, a date with a handsome cricketer always eluded us!

My autograph book slowly filled up. The letters I wrote always brought a reply. The English team sent me a letter filled with all their autographs. All on club letterhead. They also sent autographed photographs and a nice letter. Father continued referring to Bernard Shaw and something about 11 fools basking in the sun and 11,000 fools watching. 

Today, I take little or no interest in cricket. I have passed my crazed baton on to others in the family. Yet, when the giant flat screen television set brings in cricket matches in high definition, I never fail to ask – “Where are they playing?”

Photo sourced by the author and picture design by Anumita Roy, Different Truths

Dr. Roopali Sircar Gaur

Dr. Roopali Sircar Gaur is a poet, travel writer, and social justice activist. A former professor of English Literature at Delhi University, and a creative writing professor at IGNOU, she is a widely published academic and creative writer. Her book Twice Colonised: Women in African Literature, is a seminal text on women’s socio-political empowerment. In 2020-21, she co-edited two poetry anthologies – In All the Spaces: Diverse Voices in Global Women’s Poetry, and Earth Fire Water Wind.

See Full Bio