Cricket run out: IPL is the new soap opera for Indian men
Folklore has it that husbands drag wives by their hair from saas-bahu serials because they want to watch cricket. But the world stopped watching saas-bahus soaps long ago: we've moved on to reality and talent shows. And as for the game of cricket, it has emerged as Indian soaps for men. Yes, cricket is to Indian men what saas-bahu soaps were assumed to be to women. Look closely and you'll find it hard to overlook the similarities between the two: be it in terms of its periodicity, character or script. Are men confessing to this "serial" addiction? Of course not.
Growing up in a home dominated by women: Mum, my sister and I, you would think that my dad had to always fight for the remote to watch cricket, the truth being quite the opposite. For those were the days when the game was exclusive. Dad would announce that a World Cup (held every four years) was to be played this year and we would all sit down and indulge in the game. He'd fill us up with details on the personal lives and professional records of our Indian players and we'd be in awe. Kapil Dev belongs to Chandigarh and Sunil Gavaskar was named India's Best Schoolboy Cricketer of the year in 1966. All this information was pretty hard to obtain in the no-cricinfo.com-and-facebook.com days with only a handful of newspapers and magazines to rely on. Then there were the ODIs (One Day International) and the Test matches; both equally looked forward to and worth waiting for. Cakes were baked and cut to celebrate victory. Whiskey was poured when games were won by opponents.
Yes, once upon a time, the game of cricket was indeed exclusive. Players were rare gems, the ones we idolised irrespective of their wins and losses. Burning effigies and social media bashing was unheard of. The tournaments were scarce and the championships were worth fighting for. And most importantly, the calendar was not flooded with back-to-back games, which were on air irrespective of the time of the day or year. The days when cricket was not a routine matter, an Indian soap.
Today, a game is always on. My male friends, cousins and colleagues (women follow sport as much, but we'll leave that discussion for another time) switch channels to watch them all, simultaneously or back-to-back. There are occasions when they miss a few games, too, but they don't fret for there is always a re-run or another series/tournament/championship/tour beginning or ending. There have even been times when I have seen them scratch their heads to remember the name of a player or two (way too many entries and exits, they say). And since sick leaves are limited and matches are ample, they complain of stomach aches only during India-Pakistan showtime.
As for topics of conversation, they are never short of. Scores settled (think spiteful bahu versus saas), characters introduced or re-introduced (think memory loss/generation and time shifts), Sachin Tendulkar's retirement (think protests to bring back Mihir Virani in Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi), star weddings (OMG! Did you know everyone attended Suresh Raina's wedding?), noble causes (Yuvi's fight against cancer followed by a book), celeb guests on telly (think Comedy Nights With Kapil), award nights (SRK has made quite a few of them sway), match-fixing tales (the soaps are scripted too, aren't they?), records made and broken (so and so was the longest running show on TV), players bought for ridiculous amounts of money (actors quitting shows because of poor fee), Indian jerseys ordered online (remember how every woman wanted to wear the Sudha Chandran kind of bindi in Kaahin Kissii Roz?), grand T20 (characters from two-three shows come together for a grand episode) and more.
And as I see them exchange "cricket"-related messages on WhatsApp, forward links via mail/Facebook, make phone calls, stand by the water cooler (at work) and door (at home) and talk endlessly, I meekly tell them that the once-macho-sport has been reduced to the soaps they love mocking! A cloud of silence follows. Run out, I declare with a raised finger. And just like that I watch them walk back to the green room... er TV room. It's time to get glued to the screen and watch the IPL (Indian Premier League).
Do I feel sorry for them? Yes, I do. For I fondly recall the days when I'd tell my dad, "When will the next game be on? I am too excited! I just can't wait to watch!"
It was an exclusive treat that I used to look forward to. "Not anymore," I tell my dad.