Aspi, an assasination, Chappell and me

Posted Friday , July 06, 2007

“Saar?” said Aspi, maneuvering gingerly between two cyclists, a honking cab at the back and two teenagers riding a mobike in swirling left-right swings that would have made Shakira remarkably jealous.

“Yup, Asp” I uttered, feigning interest.

“Saar, is it true that they are planning to change, the name of the game? ”

“Which game, Asp?” I asked impressed with his knowing the title of the famous Abba song.

“Cricket, Saar. Aur kya baaki hai zindagi me, saab. (What else is there in life Sir?)

I was flabbergasted with that one. That was impossible. As improbable as Aamir Khan not calling a press conference before the release of a film. Then I suddenly recollected that Sunil Gavaskar was part of the ICC Technical Committee, so maybe, just maybe, such a drastic overhaul in branding was not altogether impossible. Suddenly, it started pouring kittens and puppies, reminiscent of Ireland.

“I heard some chaps from a TV channel say that they will call it Duckworth and Loser or something like that, Saar?

As you might have guessed by now, my sanity was going through a rigorous examination.

“Saar, can you believe it? India beat South America, and that too without the chap from Kolhapur.”

“Aspi, young man, you are getting too old too fast. That was South Africa that India defeated for the first time in a ODI series in Ireland.” I corrected him, getting a sadistic kick in projecting him as a fool.

“But which Kolhapur fellow are you talking about?” I asked him, my curiosity killing several cats in cold blood.

“You don’t know, Saar?” Aspi roared with malicious delight, clearly delighted at having his revenge instantly on me, and now enjoying my discomfiture as I squirmed, feeling like an ignoramus.

“Let me give you a hint, Saar”, said Aspi, thoroughly savouring my uncomfortable stature and playing hide and seek.

“He was the one who is so spiritually inclined he sought a medical remedy by raising his bruised middle finger in a rising salute to the heavenly gods in Kolkotta, Saar. That’s easy, no?”

“That’s easy,” I said with a sardonic smirk -----“ It’s not a Kolhapuri guy, it’s Greg Chappell.”

Suitably punctured, Aspi went into a momentary lull. And I breathed a huge sigh of relief. The respite was expectedly brief.

“Do you know what a TV channel has reported as Breaking News, Saar?”

“What? That SRK and Aishwarya Rai are starring in a remake of the 2006 version of Umrao Jaan? Or some boy has climbed out of a black hole, perhaps?”

“Saar----don’t joke, this is very very serious. Dangerous almost?”

“They have found who the bomb was targeted for in Glasgow before the India-Pakistan match, Saar?”

“Really, who? This seemed to be explosive stuff.”

“Chacha Chandu Borde.” It hit me like a thunderbolt from the blue and I now know how Saif Ali Khan felt when he received the National Award for some movie.

“Impossible”, I said, feeling agitated with the disastrous letdown of what was to be a revelation.

Who would want to assassinate the congenial, avuncular Chacha who is apparently still so stunned by his appointment, he asks for Chitale Bandhu aamrakahnd (mango-sweet) from MS Dhoni thinking he is in his home-town Pune.

“Saar, and another TV channel has revealed who is responsible? “

“Who?”

“Chappell, Saar. Very jealous of Chacha because of victory. Chappell very upset with Chacha.”

“And Saar” he continued. “Prince Charles has therefore decided to anoint Chacha Chandu as The Last King Of Scotland.”

The car crawled, as a buffalo wiped his tail on our windshield.

“Saar, we also heard that Sharad Pawar said that BCCI will be very careful in not selecting another coach.”

That was a like a load of bricks cascading on my head, so I let the experience pass.

“Saar, I am telling you I think the best coach for India will be Yash Chopra, Sir.”

Now why would a Bollywood director who has made films like Veer Zaara and Dil To Paagal Hai have coach credentials? And that too for Indian cricket, foxed me.

“Because saar”, said Aspi, understanding the pregnant pause to mean I was in a clueless state. “Because Saar, Chopra Saab will ensure a lot of hits, Sir.”

I actually laughed at that preposterous analogy.

Aspi, of course, was not sufficiently flattered.

“Saar, is is true that Mr Laloo Prasad Yadav will be the next President of BCCI?”

“It could be Pratibha Patil”. I joked sarcastically.

“No Sir, I heard that the gods she spoke to 20 years ago in her sleep, had forewarned her about the risks of running BCCI.”

“No, she will not become BCCI President because there will be no consensus, and the election will never be held.” I interjected.

“Sir, I hope you know that Lalooji wants to be President of BCCI because it is a cash cow, and he therefore has a birth-right to it, Saar?”

“No. He wants to put BCCI back on the track, like he has done the Railways.” I said supporting my Bihari brotherhood of man society, my chest pumped up in ballooning admiration.

“No Sir, you are saying that only because of Bihari Bihari bhai bhai sir! I believe he will milk the BCCI, Sir. Like the fodder bank, Sir.”

I gave Aspi a dirty look, which would have made the Mithi river swell up in pride.

“And Saar, I read in the papers that Irfan Pathan swings both ways, Saar? Lucky fellow, no Saar! First-class talent.”

“Saar”, ------- he braked suddenly. A pedestrian was jaywalking, his Ipod earphones belting music loud enough for me to hear them.

“Saar” ---- he braked again, as two women speaking animatedly crossed right in front of us without even having the decency to cast us a casual look.

“Saar” ------Aspi was once again pressing the brakes, but there was nobody there.

“Aspi----- why are you braking just like that, you crazy lunatic?” I screamed in anger.

“But Saar, what if someone comes? ”

I write this piece amidst severe bouts of schizophrenic disorder.

I don’t know about Shakira and you, but I know Aspi’s lips don’t lie.