I was offered a ticket to the opening IPL game. With a smirk of condescending righteousness (although no one but myself saw me smirking; it was in front of the mirror), I declined. In ordinary circumstances, I’d say yes to anything to not be in the office. But this was a principle thing. I won’t go to an IPL game.
Ossified, deluded me
I am a Twenty20 sceptic. The IPL? I abhor it. So now you know the kind of demented mind that is behind this column. Stick around at your peril.
A day after I had declined the ticket, and hours before the spectacularly kitschy opening ceremony began, I had agreed to do this occasional column. Fate smirked with righteous condescension.
In my defence, I revere my paymasters. They help me put wasabi peanuts and single malt on the table. I’d do anything for my paper. I’d do anything to keep wasabi peanuts and single malt on the table.
So work being work, I watched a bit of the opening ceremony. I found Deepika Padukone absorbing. I had last seen her at the gym of the Taj in 2005. In those days, I’d wonder desultorily about my (as yet unformed) body of work, she’d work zealously on her (already well-formed) body.
Most of the opening match I was too busy to watch (all those fraught and frantic cigarette breaks), but it was wonderful to see Sourav Ganguly’s gamut of expressions: glum to go-getter to gleeful. For a moment, it seemed like cricket.
On Saturday afternoon, I spent a lot of time very close to the action at Brabourne Stadium. Stuck in a traffic jam on my way to interview the novelist, Upamanyu Chatterjee, I gazed at the ramparts of the stadium and the shimmering sea of painted, smiling faces heading towards it.
This is like a reality show in print. Six weeks to go. Will my defences be breached? Shall I watch an entire IPL game by the end? Can you bear the suspense? I can’t.