India has once again won the Cricket World Cup for the second time after a long deserted gap of 28 years. India celebrates in unison, making this victory their own. In the days to come, much will be written and said about the euphoria that surrounds the celebrations. The team in all their generosity dedicate the cup to THE ONE who epitomizes perseverance, strength, resilience, kindness and love for the game – Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.
I take the liberty to dedicate this cup to my father. Like the million Indians all over the world who think of this victory as theirs and theirs lone, for doing their bit for India to win. Some praying, others keeping a fast, and even some wearing the same lucky shirt every time India played, and the rest making the wish to the universe for the men in blue. All superstitions have followed, sitting in the lotus position for hours when India seemed to lose and surprisingly recovering a win to show that God had listened to these little requests. My father did his bit too. He sat patiently in his rocking chair, diligently watching on television every ball bowled, every stoke of the bat that kissed the ball, every run made, every wicket risen and fallen, all despite sometimes troubled by his seven-year-old grandson who wanted to watch Pogo every time his attention span on cricket dipped. This was sacrifice.
This World Cup Belongs To My Father, Too.
My father played cricket when he was five years old. At least that is how far his memory goes. That would be around the year 1944. His memory is a little blur. This merges with the only memory he has of his father – a busy civil servant working in the British Raj. His father, Bantwal Ganapathy was a District Collector in the British Raj. B.G Ganapathy was born in 1889. Having secured a BA, learning seven Indian languages, including horse riding a must to clear the Indian Civil Service exam, Ganapathy was a busy man. That meant he often had to travel to Madras Presidency in his carriage that carried piles of files back and forth. When his father was around, the memory of the light burning in his father’s study room, way into the night sticks on. He has no recollection of his mother, as he had lost his mother a couple of years earlier. It is said that Ganapathy could not take the heartbreak of losing his wife. He would often wander to her resting place. His heart sunk with each passing day. He followed her soon after.
One memory that has lived through is of the little boy, merely five, waiting at the threshold for his father to return home. The little Devdas throws a tantrum on seeing the carriage pull over in front of the house. He insists on having a new ball now (which perhaps his father has forgotten to get). This is all he remembers of his father -of his father picking him up, promising to buy a new ball tomorrow.
A couple of years later, my dad lost his father. He was merely seven years old. Those days’ births and deaths were not registered the way they are today. B.G Ganapathy died in 1946, at the age of 56 (the year he retired from civil service). He served the British Empire for 36 years. Dad by the school records was born when the Second World War had just begun. It was the year 1939. The Second World War was fought from 1939-45.
That is not the tale here. The tale here is of cricket.
The little boy's love for cricket shone very early in life. He was selected for the Sub Junior level when he was merely 7 years old. He was playing with his seniors who were around 10 -11 years of age belonging to 5th and 6th standard class. Being the youngest in the team, he was sent to open the innings. Ever since then he opened the innings through the Sub Junior, Junior and Senior Level in school, representing St. Aloysius College, Mangalore, through this BA, and through his tutorship, where he taught literature. He continued to play for local clubs in Tripur, Tamil Nadu (between 1972- 1977) where he worked in Corporation Bank. His greatest “fame” came when he played for the South Canara Cricket club in Hubli, Karnataka between 1978 -1981. He was recognized as a key batsman, often when they would play against the Railways and other teams of Industrial houses.
The Game That Taught Him Truth
Cricket taught him one of the finest lessons of life – Be true to yourself and to the game. When he was 12 years old (studying in the 8th standard) a cricket team from Madras was touring Mangalore. Kripal Sing was playing in the team. The young cricket enthusiast wanted to watch the match and spoke of his desire to his eldest brother. The brother took him to watch the match. Next day a leave application needed to be submitted to the school principal for being absent from class. Dad’s brother signs the leave application stating the reason for non-attendance as “went to watch the cricket match”. The principal on reading this is furious, and asks the brother to come and meet him with the wad the next day. In the meeting the next day, the principal rebukes the brother of being careless in his responsibilities and taking the boy for a match when he should be in school. Dad’s eldest brother, Keshav, had since the death of their father taken on the role of a guardian to his seven siblings. He himself was 19 when his father had died. Keshav patiently listens to the arguments of the principle and merely states:” I did not want to teach my brother to lie, and therefore stated the true reason of absence. If you want me to teach him to lie, I can furnish a new application.”
If Sachin Tendulkar quietly walks away into the pavilion, unwilling to look at the umpire, knowing he is out, it merely affirms the tale of truth that cricket taught my dad.
The Historical Day of 2nd April 2011
Just as the entire country waited for the sun to rise early on 2nd April 2011, the day for me began with nervousness of how the day might end. Being glued to the television an hour and half before the match started, listening to pre-match analysis that prophesied fatal contradictions of the heart and mind, I thought it would be best to call my father to sooth my nerves. He tells me the game of cricket is unpredictable, until the last ball is bowled. His understanding of the game, the analysis of the complex and yet ‘simply-turned-simple’ imperial game is a treat to hear. His match predictions and insights can sometimes put a Harsha Bogle on the back foot. When I call dad, he too was sitting in his rocking chair, listening to the ranting speculations. He knows his cricket best. He knows India will win, again. He wants to see India winning its second world cup trophy in his lifetime. He did not get to watch the 1983 world cup on television, but followed the All India Radio broadcast commentary carefully with a transistor placed close to his ears. He followed the entire match with his eldest son (who is today a doctor living in the UK) who was 12 at that time. He has waited long and hard, for 28 years.
Cricket is our connect through him. Growing up with two brothers who glued themselves to our dad, discussing cricket all the time, much to the irritation of my mother, who wanted to be part of the conversations, but had to be in the kitchen cooking a meal, left me also to become a cricket buff!
Cricket is today passed on to his little grandson, Himanshu. Himanshu is today the same age as when my dad first wore borrowed pad and gloves, walked with his bat in his hand, without shoes into the middle of dusty grounds. Dad is 72. He takes his grandson to cricket camps during his summer holidays in the hope that the child will have a sport to anchor him. The techniques that dad learnt in rugged conditions are quietly taught to this little kid. They have a bond of cricket in them. They follow the match and the highlights over and over again. Himanshu talks of cricket like an adult. There was a time, Dad tells me sometimes, after his father's death, poverty took on a new challenge, and having a pair of shoes was luxury. There were times when he would mend and wear the torn shoes that rich boys had left behind in college dressing room.
This is perhaps the tale of countless Indians who have grown through the game of cricket. Generations connected in one family by the bond of a game that runs a narrative through historical times.
This trophy belongs to my father: for all that he accomplished and for all the dreams he nurtured to play for the state, and could not, because of compelling poverty and limited resources, and above all for passing on the spirit of sportsmanship of LIFE to his children. Today he plays the game of cricket from his drawing room, watching Sachin open the innings like he did, appreciating the techniques of Bradman, Sachin and himself, as he quietly passes on that knowledge to his grandson.
This world cup belongs to my dad too, just as it belongs to every Indian who follows the game. It is each ones trophy.
