IPL's over! Can we all get back to being friends again?
Whose side are you on, brother..or should I even call you that anymore?
The day dawned hot, which wasn’t much of a surprise. There was a bit of wind, which is kind of like Coimbatore’s thing- no matter how hot it gets, there’s always enough wind to cool off the perspiration, and buffet your face with sand.
I woke up at 7, slightly groggy and bad-tempered. The TV was still on- last night’s match had been a bit too dull, and I could recollect only until the 17th over or so. I kicked up my roommate, who had drooled out a puddle and both of us made our way to a nearby tea-shop for our early morning shot of caffeine. The guy behind the counter, a 50-something year old geezer, had known us for the past three years and we had- on more than one occasion- been treated to his entire genealogy. Naturally, he knew what our ‘usual’ was and I had my black-coffee within seconds.
Without so much as a glance, I took a sip, while straining to read the headline of the day’s newspaper that hung at the entrance. I spat it out the next instant.
“Why are you dirtying the place?” the geezer asked.
“What is this, Anna? No sugar and it’s too strong…! How can you expect me to drink this?”
“This is what’s available here today. Either you drink it or go!”
I stared, stupefied. He looked at me, almost menacingly. Then it hit me.
He had been wearing the yellow CSK jersey.
He knew I was a staunch supporter of the Mumbai Indians.
It was the 23rd of May. The day of Le Eliminateur.
It was not uncommon for me to be served coffee that tasted like my roommate’s socks, but the menace behind it at this instance was unmistakable. This man knew me for the past three years. This is what IPL has done to the people of my country.
Good thing this didn’t come out when the Angrez were around; the IPL would have superbly complemented the ‘Divide and Rule’ system of governance. And, of course, the revenue it generated would have financed another World War.
It’s everywhere- much like a Stephen King novel. IPL hangs thick in the air, everyone has chosen a side. Bets are on at every nook and crevice; I even chanced upon a group of women betting at a fish-market here. Of course, being Tamil Nadu, CSK’s flag flies the highest.
Social networking sites have become minefields. You just cannot open your Facebook page without being bombed by a few hundred page-requests which go like: ‘We Love Those Who Hate Anti-CSK-fans’ ; or something of this nature. Chat-windows either become equivalents of artillery shelling or are largely silent. You wait for the other green-dot to pounce first and attack your team. It’s the calm before the storm. The minute a match ends, unleash hell.
And don’t even get me started on twitter.
On a personal front, I had made a lot of rivals in college this past month, but also a whole lot of comrades; people I’d never spoken to in my life would come to my aid whenever Mumbai lost a match and I’d be in caught in a Chakravyuh of people who weren’t ‘Bleeding Blue’ like I was.
Who said the IPL’s all about cheerleaders and film-stars and money? Homo sapiens are boiling blood here!
Love it or hate it, you cannot ignore it. It’s the quintessential ‘Elephant-in-the-room’. No one’s bigger than the team and the team’s defending the team’s honor gives you purpose in life.
So KKR has ended it all, for now. Life can return to normal, the storm has blown itself out. The yellow, blue and purple jerseys are locked up in the cupboard for another year. The cheerleaders will be missed. The betting-ring tables are empty. People revert to primitive gestures- such as smiling to each other. Supporters of the victor-team will have a smirk for a while but ultimately, it’s all good.
There is hope in the world for good coffee again.