When cricket was very English and racially superior, its aficionados
were as passionate about the game as its postcolonial inheritors are
today. James Astill in his book The Great Tamasha: Cricket, Corruption and the Turbulent Rise of Modern India
has this quote from Lord Harris, who was a player, impresario and
governor of Bombay: "(Cricket was) more free from anything sordid,
anything dishonourable, than any game in the world.
To play it keenly, honourably, generously, self-sacrificingly is a
moral lesson in itself, and the class-room is God's air and sunshine."
The ideal, as it travelled from the Victorian English countryside to the
colonial Bombay Maidan to the mindscape of modern India, the game may
have lost the loftiness that made the Englishman poetic, but cricket in
India has not lost the power to bring out the best and worst of a nation
possessed.
This book, written by a self-confessed "cricket tragic", is an enchanting as well as enchanted passage through an India that has turned what was once an English summer game into a multi-million dollar national entertainment in which the players are not just those boys in white but grandees from politics and business, impoverished romantics from shanty towns, princes, parasites and other captivating game-changers.
Astill (pictured right), political editor and "Bagehot" columnist of The Economist, is a storyteller, and what sets The Great Tamasha
apart from the usual cricket literature is the seamless blending of
politics, sociology, economy and sports history in a narrative enriched
by drama and delightful set pieces. So you will see Astill, after an
initial trip to the history of the game, in the visitors' gallery and in
the cricket don's den, in a Muslim enclave in Delhi watching an
India-Pakistan match and enjoying an IPL match in a Mumbai slum, and his
every encounter tells a story about India, its social, economical, and
political evolution. As theatre, Astill shows us, cricket in India is as
multilayered and dramatic as the Mahabharata. This is a brilliant
portrait of India at play.
EXCERPTS
The Pawar And The Glory
To see the ruler of world cricket, I naturally headed for Krishi Bhavan, the home of India's agriculture ministry. A big cuboid building, mixing Mughal red-stone colours with 1950s brutalism, it was, like most New Delhi ministry buildings, hard to enter and harder to navigate. After leaving my details in three ledgers, passing through two metal detectors and wandering the building's mazy corridors I arrived, a minute before my appointment was due to begin, at room 120. It was from here that Sharad Pawar ruled over the agricultural livelihood of 750 million Indians and the affairs of the International Cricket Council. It was not a very hot day, one of the last of spring. But as I was flunkeyed into the minister's presence, I felt a trickle of sweat under my armpits. Pawar would not be the first Indian minister I had interviewed. Yet he was unusually imposing. He was a pachyderm of Indian politics, one of the biggest of the regional satraps who, over the past two decades, have come to dominate it. Few Indian politicians could match his reputation for ruthlessness in the exercise of power.
Pawar was the unrivalled boss of Mumbai, from where he had ruled his
native state of Maharashtra during three separate terms as chief
minister. He was a master of Indian elections. In a 44-year career, he
had won 14 consecutive votes to India's and Maharashtra's parliaments.
In recent years, he had not even bothered to campaign. He had been
India's defence minister, agriculture minister and, in 1991, had nearly
become prime minister in one of only two Congress Party governments not
ruled, directly or behind the scenes, by a member of the Nehru-Gandhi
family. Pawar had served under Indira, Rajiv and Sonia Gandhi, either as
a member of Congress or, more recently, as the head of his own
Nationalist Congress Party, a coalition partner of Congress in both
Maharashtra and Delhi.
He was a far more effective and clever politician than any of the
latter-day Gandhis. If he had a weakness, it was only his reluctance to
prostrate himself before them in the manner Congress required of its
acolytes. He had twice been forced out of the party, most recently in
1999, when he was expelled after expressing a view that, having been
born in Italy, Sonia Gandhi should not be India's prime minister. But
even after this outrage Congress needed Pawar. There was no more
formidable or enduring Indian politician. It was also said none was
richer. He was rumoured to own stakes in many companies and a vast land
bank in his home city of Pune. Almost any new tower block that went up
on Mumbai's coastline was said to be his. He strongly refuted these
rumours.
As I entered his office, Pawar was sitting behind an austere desk
wearing a grey safari suit. He pointed me to a chair, unsmiling but
courteous, and asked if I would take tea and how he could help. He was
hard to understand. This was partly because his English was accident
prone, but mainly because cancer had left half his face paralysed. He
had therefore to squeeze his speech out of the right side of his mouth.
(When he said 'Test matches' I at first thought he was saying 'chess
matches'.) He was also the first Indian politician I had ever heard say
'thank you' to the peon who brought his tea.
'Mr Pawar, what brought you to cricket?'
He cogitated, sipping his tea, then said softly, 'I like game.'
'Anything else?'
Pawar appeared to reflect. 'It keeps my association with younger generation.'
'And I suppose that helps you politically?'
'No,' Pawar said firmly, with a look of benevolence on his semifrozen features. 'We don't bring party and political there, but we get happiness. You see, person who is continuously in the political field also wants some changes, no?'
'You find cricket relaxing, then?'
'Yes. Away from your day-to-day political things if you spend some time on ground with sports players, you forget about other things.'
I saw his point. Cricket is relaxing. No doubt kabaddi and kho kho, traditional Indian games that Pawar also presided over, are relaxing too. But I still didn't see why Pawar needed to control them.
After a long pause he concentrated his features into a frown. Something important was coming. 'I'll tell you frankly, sir. There are three kinds of section in the society which I have observed being ICC president. First take the English. An Englishman prefers Tests. He doesn't like Twenty20 or one-dayers so much as Tests. I personally come into the category of an Englishman. An Englishman gives a lot of attention, gives a lot of time, to Tests because that is the real game, where you can see the calibre, the capacity of the players. So Englishmen like Tests. Me too. But there are other sections of the society. Some like one-dayers. Others like Twenty20 for some evening entertainment. In India all three classes are there. To watch five days of cricket is one thing and to watch three hours is another.'
I thought I probably agreed with this. But surely there was no need for such an exceptionally busy Indian politician to take charge of world cricket in order to discover it...
Imagine if British MPs took over the running of the Football Association? Or if American politicians surged into basketball? There would be uproar. In India, the takeover was not unnoticed, but there had been little resistance to it...
Yet Indian politicians' annexation of cricket is a comparatively recent phenomenon, as sudden as the entry of the native princes into the game in the early 20th century. The princes were attracted to the prestige the Raj gave to cricket. Contemporary politicians are drawn by its modern equivalents, money and fame, the keys to electoral success. By 2010 India's state cricket associations were each receiving over $5 million a year in cash handouts from the BCCI. It would be remarkable if some of this cash did not end up in campaign war chests. Yet this is probably not the main reason Indian politicians love cricket. Rather, it is the stupendous opportunity it provides for showing off...
But why would Pawar bother himself with cricket? I still didn't get it. He had no obvious shortage of money or fame.
'How do you find time for cricket?' I asked him.
Pawar replied patiently. 'I take half an hour a day on telephone or internet for ICC work. That's easy enough. And when I was BCCI president, one full day in a month, mostly on telephone, giving instructions.'...
Having achieved almost everything he had set his mind to, Pawar told me he was almost through with politics, cricket and otherwise. 'This year, as of today, I will complete 44 years without single day's break,' he said. 'How long should one work? I don't want to work. I am trying to disassociate myself from these political things and concentrate on sports, cultural activities, reading.'
Yet Pawar was-that very day-rumoured on the Delhi grapevine to be plotting to bring down the government (of which he was, of course, a member) in a final bid to become prime minister. I wondered how Mumbai's big man felt about having such a spicy reputation. 'In retirement, will you, er, also be spending much time on your business activities?'
Pawar hardly moderated his kindly tone. 'I have no business interests at all, except some agriculture,' he said. 'My family, yes. My younger brother now he is retired but his son is looking after one major newspaper, with 1.8 million circulation... so my family also is there ... but I am only person in the family who doesn't have association with business.'
Cricket has become subcontinent's biggest entertainment.
This book, written by a self-confessed "cricket tragic", is an enchanting as well as enchanted passage through an India that has turned what was once an English summer game into a multi-million dollar national entertainment in which the players are not just those boys in white but grandees from politics and business, impoverished romantics from shanty towns, princes, parasites and other captivating game-changers.
James Astill.
EXCERPTS
The Pawar And The Glory
To see the ruler of world cricket, I naturally headed for Krishi Bhavan, the home of India's agriculture ministry. A big cuboid building, mixing Mughal red-stone colours with 1950s brutalism, it was, like most New Delhi ministry buildings, hard to enter and harder to navigate. After leaving my details in three ledgers, passing through two metal detectors and wandering the building's mazy corridors I arrived, a minute before my appointment was due to begin, at room 120. It was from here that Sharad Pawar ruled over the agricultural livelihood of 750 million Indians and the affairs of the International Cricket Council. It was not a very hot day, one of the last of spring. But as I was flunkeyed into the minister's presence, I felt a trickle of sweat under my armpits. Pawar would not be the first Indian minister I had interviewed. Yet he was unusually imposing. He was a pachyderm of Indian politics, one of the biggest of the regional satraps who, over the past two decades, have come to dominate it. Few Indian politicians could match his reputation for ruthlessness in the exercise of power.
Sharad Pawar at Wankhede Stadium, Mumbai.
The Great Tamasha.
He cogitated, sipping his tea, then said softly, 'I like game.'
'Anything else?'
Pawar appeared to reflect. 'It keeps my association with younger generation.'
'And I suppose that helps you politically?'
'No,' Pawar said firmly, with a look of benevolence on his semifrozen features. 'We don't bring party and political there, but we get happiness. You see, person who is continuously in the political field also wants some changes, no?'
'You find cricket relaxing, then?'
'Yes. Away from your day-to-day political things if you spend some time on ground with sports players, you forget about other things.'
I saw his point. Cricket is relaxing. No doubt kabaddi and kho kho, traditional Indian games that Pawar also presided over, are relaxing too. But I still didn't see why Pawar needed to control them.
After a long pause he concentrated his features into a frown. Something important was coming. 'I'll tell you frankly, sir. There are three kinds of section in the society which I have observed being ICC president. First take the English. An Englishman prefers Tests. He doesn't like Twenty20 or one-dayers so much as Tests. I personally come into the category of an Englishman. An Englishman gives a lot of attention, gives a lot of time, to Tests because that is the real game, where you can see the calibre, the capacity of the players. So Englishmen like Tests. Me too. But there are other sections of the society. Some like one-dayers. Others like Twenty20 for some evening entertainment. In India all three classes are there. To watch five days of cricket is one thing and to watch three hours is another.'
I thought I probably agreed with this. But surely there was no need for such an exceptionally busy Indian politician to take charge of world cricket in order to discover it...
Imagine if British MPs took over the running of the Football Association? Or if American politicians surged into basketball? There would be uproar. In India, the takeover was not unnoticed, but there had been little resistance to it...
Yet Indian politicians' annexation of cricket is a comparatively recent phenomenon, as sudden as the entry of the native princes into the game in the early 20th century. The princes were attracted to the prestige the Raj gave to cricket. Contemporary politicians are drawn by its modern equivalents, money and fame, the keys to electoral success. By 2010 India's state cricket associations were each receiving over $5 million a year in cash handouts from the BCCI. It would be remarkable if some of this cash did not end up in campaign war chests. Yet this is probably not the main reason Indian politicians love cricket. Rather, it is the stupendous opportunity it provides for showing off...
But why would Pawar bother himself with cricket? I still didn't get it. He had no obvious shortage of money or fame.
'How do you find time for cricket?' I asked him.
Pawar replied patiently. 'I take half an hour a day on telephone or internet for ICC work. That's easy enough. And when I was BCCI president, one full day in a month, mostly on telephone, giving instructions.'...
Having achieved almost everything he had set his mind to, Pawar told me he was almost through with politics, cricket and otherwise. 'This year, as of today, I will complete 44 years without single day's break,' he said. 'How long should one work? I don't want to work. I am trying to disassociate myself from these political things and concentrate on sports, cultural activities, reading.'
Yet Pawar was-that very day-rumoured on the Delhi grapevine to be plotting to bring down the government (of which he was, of course, a member) in a final bid to become prime minister. I wondered how Mumbai's big man felt about having such a spicy reputation. 'In retirement, will you, er, also be spending much time on your business activities?'
Pawar hardly moderated his kindly tone. 'I have no business interests at all, except some agriculture,' he said. 'My family, yes. My younger brother now he is retired but his son is looking after one major newspaper, with 1.8 million circulation... so my family also is there ... but I am only person in the family who doesn't have association with business.'
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