Its sweltering hot outside, and people have wisely stayed indoors this Sunday. The shops have mostly remained shuttered, but the roads - Oh the roads - Congress Exhibition road, Shakespeare Sarani, Chowringhee - rush past as if they were everyday names. On the way I spot an ad for that English "Indian beer" - COBRA. Nobody knew it ever set foot in India ! Modernity has brought fly-overs to this ancient city and while atop one of these, the colonial-age-old La Martiniere's school peeps out for a moment from behind the clutter of multi-storeyed developments.
The ride is to the Eden Gardens, that giganticstadium symbolic of India's massive presence in world cricket. The stadium is flanked by huge soccer maidaans on all sides reminding you which sport is really popular in this part of the country, and in the distance shines the Victorian edifice, Her memorial itself. The taxi-driver informs me how the Memorial shines resplendent from the stadium lights on ODI nights.
The walls of the stadium are towering and fortified. Unlike the British grounds, there is no way you can get a preview of the action from outside the perimeter. So I have to go in. The entrance to the Dr. B.C. Roy clubhouse is nondescript and shielded by tinted glass. There is a huge frame of Sourav Ganguly being felicitated by K.R. Narayanan in a glamour you'd have trouble picking out the erstwhile President of the nation. A bunch of players in cricketing whites rush out, one of them is bleeding from a gash on his cheekbone, the others are fussing about him. I linger around the entrance looking for a way in, when a guard stops me. On being asked about the possibility of entering the watching arena he is ready with a rude denial. I linger some more, but to no avail. He is adamant, and getting ruder by the minute. I walk out, take a stroll around the stadium walls looking for another way in - again, to no luck. Hot and adamant, I go back and this time go for the jugular - asking to see the club authorities. Before I can finish my sentence, another guard steps in and volunteers to show me around. Unbelievable!
We go up the stairs of the main stand. AIR offices pass by, all locked, eking hordes of wires from rotting door frames. Further up a flight and suddenly there we are, out in the pavilion end stand, right above the sight screen and below the media boxes, in the VIP stand looking at the grand arena. The field is a sheet of grassy green, the pitch looks flat and bare, there is a game on, the seats all around are all blue, the sun is out and the stadium is empty.
On request the guard lets me be to sit in there for a half hour. He quells my curiostiy - East Bengal is playing Shyambajaar in Calcutta Assoc. of Bengal club league semifinal, the 2-day game is fifty overs old. I see the score standing at 140 for 4. I give him whatever currency notes I can prise and he disappears. Two shamiyanas on either side of the pavilion-end sight screen serve as dressing rooms for the teams. The play seems is dull, players undoubtedly getting sapped in the heat. The huge electronic score-board is switched off, and of the replay-display only the iron frame remains. When an EB batsman hits a lovely straight drive for four there are some cheers from the home tent- echoing from the empty stands and then dying out quick. Then all is dull again.
I stay there for another half hour - noticing how the 'keeper has put his pads inside the flannels, walking around the stands, going up to the entrance of the media boxes, peering in to the TV studios from behind locked glass doors. Its not too impressive - these boxes - but it'd be fun, sitting in them with the gurus of the game - someday, maybe !
On a sour note, on the way out I passed a group of four British tourists who were being duly tour-guided. Its sad that an Indian man has to argue/cajole/bribe his way in, while Caucasians are escorted in and served cool drinks.
