I decide to flee Delhi, in an attempt to flee the World Cup. But I make a mistake. I flee with my husband and son. There is a TV in the hotel room, and on our first night itself, there is a match between Scotland and Australia. (Scotland?? Next I'll be told there's a Welsh team.)
Husband and son watch with rapt attention. I study the décor of the room with rapt attention. My husband tells me he wants to see a massacre (who have I married?) but apparently, Australia's killer instinct has temporarily gone on vacation (the team is in the Caribbean, after all). My husband is acutely disappointed.
The next day, I decide to pre-empt things. I suggest a drink in the bar. But the World Cup seems to have addled my brain because, of course, there is not only a TV screen in the bar, it is also a very, very big TV screen. And of course, there is a match in progress — Bermuda versus Sri Lanka.
With thoughts of Erich von Danniken racing around in my head, I too try and watch. There is a very fat man bowling — isn't cricket a sport of some kind, and aren't sportsmen supposed to be slim and fit? This man looks like he needs an appointment with Shikha Sharma in the next 10 minutes. Thankfully, there is a break, and Mandira Bedi appears. Both my husband and I study her wardrobe. He doesn't approve. "Where are the noodle strap blouses?" he wants to know (she is in trousers.) "Maybe they're too passé now," I answer. And the two of us launch into an animated discussion on the merits of noodle strap blouses.
I can't believe my luck — the conversation is not around batting, bowling, fielding. Thank you, Mandira. May you be the mother of a hundred new noodle strap blouses. Unfortunately, the respite is short-lived. All too soon, we are back to watching the fat man bowling. There is one more day of our holiday left. I'm thinking of hijacking the family to a dhaba for dinner. Maybe, just maybe there won't be a TV screen there…