A Game of Cricket, A Friendship Remembered

“History never repeats itself, but it does often rhyme,” Mark Twain may have once said. I was reminded of this when watching the very end of a game of cricket earlier this month. While the game and its outcome will be forgotten in a few days, it dredged up bittersweet memories, reminded me of friendships, and finally helped me comprehend a recent (and very personal) loss.

Many people might not know, but India is hosting the Cricket World Cup, an event that occurs every four years. I won’t blame you if you don’t – cricket is no football (the real one).

Cricket these days is played in three formats: the classical, the newest, and something in between. The first one can last five days. The newest one lasts as long as a baseball game, though less. And the one in the middle takes about eight hours. Not surprisingly, it is called One Day Cricket. On the eve of the 2019 tournament, I made a small observation about the growing irrelevance of the ODI format of the game:

During the eighties, nineties, and the aughts, one-day games looked pretty exciting — after all, we had not become addicted to our cell phones. The dopamine rush wasn’t yet a global affliction. Sports, you see, is a reflection of society and its time. We all like to think the game is above us, but the game is us. ….Fast forward to today, and we have a whole new rhythm to our world. We move at the speed of the network, and as such, we don’t have the patience for slower games. …. It is why the NBA is so popular around the world. It is a sport of our times. And there is another sport of our times — it is called T20 Cricket. Test Cricket is poetry. T20 is rap. Not better, just different, and more reflective of our reality. ODI, on the other hand, is disco — its time has come and gone.

Over the past four years, nothing has changed my mind. Even the best brains in the game of cricket have come to see one-day cricket as an anachronism.

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And a lot has to do with the easy ability to stream cricket games anytime, anywhere. Today, you can watch cricket quite easily. ESPN+ and Willow stream games all year long.

Twenty years ago, that wasn’t the case. It was very difficult to see cricket games anywhere. On rare occasions, if you could find a live game, it was a pay-per-view offering, and even that was only available in some cities. And usually, it was a game between India and Pakistan. The broadband and streaming revolution changed all that. Today, digital rights are as big (if not bigger) a business as terrestrial television rights.

In 2003, South Africa hosted the World Cup. At that time, I lived in New York City in a high-rise building. I shared an apartment with one of my best friends. We knew that one of the satellite companies was going to broadcast the entire tournament, and it would cost a few hundred dollars. The big challenge was how we could get the games on our television. Two decades ago, satellite dishes were massive — and needed to be placed on the roof and oriented in a specific direction to get a clear line of sight to the satellite. Our building wouldn’t permit that.

After doing a lot of research — Google at that time was very good at helping find obscure but really useful information — we ended up acquiring a diminutive satellite dish that would do the job. We also signed up for the satellite service and got the set-top box we needed to decode the signals and view them on the television. We were lucky that we faced the right direction. We MacGyvered a hack that allowed us to keep the “dish” hanging out of a window to watch the game. Of course, we would often lose the signal and had to spend a lot of time rearranging the dish to lock into the satellite signal.

Because we lived in a high-rise, the winds tended to knock the dish out of position, and we would lose the signal. While not cheap, and not easy or smooth, this patched-up solution worked. The games were very early in the morning – starting at 2 a.m. This was in February and March — still peak winter in New York. The open window let in a lot of cold air, and we watched the games shivering, despite the heat in the apartment.

The next thing to do was invite a few fellow cricket fanatics.

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While there was a steady and shifting cast of characters who showed up for the games, there were two who were as hardcore fans as they come. Both of them had become friends because of an organization I had helped start, the South Asian Journalist Association. Tunku Vardarjan is a well-known editor and political journalist, but he is also a wonderful cricket writer.

The other cricket fanatic was Anil Kumar, who was not a journalist and worked for a nonprofit organization. When I met Anil, I was in my early thirties. He was in his fifties. The only thing we had in common — we had gone to the same college, St. Stephen’s College in Delhi. He graduated the year before I was born. Anil, of course, was more erudite about the English language and the ways of the world and an old-school gentleman, in more ways than one. I had (and still don’t have) any of those qualities.

He could be bawdy and could be rowdy. He encouraged me to speak my mind — not just write about it. Anil was clear about the importance of formal dressing — though it was the only thing he and I disagreed about. He always wore a blazer and a tie. He was immaculately turned out, no matter what the occasion. He took me under his wing — and while we didn’t meet as often, whenever we did, it was with a lot of affection.

And he loved cricket. He had spent time in England, was a member of the MCC, and had tickets to Lord’s. We both loved talking about cricket, especially over greasy Indian food —- he always paid.

Our occasional meetings became more regular because, in 2003, I invited him to come watch the World Cup 2003 games at my place. And he came every day and watched every single game. On March 1, 2003, India and Pakistan squared off against each other in Durban. India won then, much like they did in 2023. However, during the course of that up-and-down and seemingly nerve-wracking game, Anil went from someone I knew and saw occasionally to a close, personal friend.

A few weeks after the World Cup ended, I left for San Francisco. But whenever I was in New York — and I was there frequently enough — I would spend time with Anil and his wife. I would go to his home. I would spend a lot of time with him, picking his brain on things more than just cricket. He understood the loneliness of an immigrant. He knew the right amount of Hindi and had the right amount of social context. He got my jokes. And he got my angst. He was a big brother without being one.

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On September 30, the morning after my birthday, I got a call from a friend in New York who let me know Anil had passed away. In all honesty, I didn’t know how to process the news. Maybe because it didn’t surprise me. I saw him in May this year, and I am glad I did. We spent enough time together to actually see him smiling, walking, and still joking — despite all the medical complications.

Over the years, his large lifestyle and South Asian genetics had created cardiac and other medical complications. He had multiple surgeries, and the pandemic wasn’t too kind to him either. He was getting another surgery when he died on the operating table. Or maybe I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him. Or maybe I was waiting for the right time to acknowledge that, in the end, every game ends. And that moment came yesterday when India and Pakistan squared off one more time. It was as if life had come full circle.

India won. Anil would have loved that.

Just like he did two decades ago. He would be whooping and clapping. All the memories, all the tears, all the laughs, all those little jokes suddenly came into focus. I was finally able to acknowledge — once again, I had lost a friend who helped shape so much of me and my life.

When I reflect on our friendship, I can’t help but smile and acknowledge his parting gift. Thank you, Anil, for showing me that the game is not about the start or about the finish. It is about playing. And it is about those who are playing along with you. Anil, enjoy the pavilion up in the heavens. Save a seat for me!

October 15, 2023. San Francisco