Standing room was tight in the dusty TV shop on the last day of the Chennai Test Match. An Indian victory was imminent and the local men were undivided in their attention on their cricketing heroes. That is, until Deb and I squeezed into the shop creating a painful dilemma as to whether to stare at the screen or this western woman who had just walked in the room. It may have been one of India’s finest cricketing moments, but here was a real live white woman with real live breasts to stare at. Hell, even a quick grope may not be out of the question.
Sensing the tentacles slithering closer (and no doubt sympathising with these poor men for the difficult position she had put them in), Deb chose to wait on the street.
Everyone’s attention returned to the television and as India scored the winning run the room exploded onto the footpath. There was mayhem on the streets, but then there is always mayhem on the streets. India was still India, but now it had tasted sweet victory against Australia’s cricketing giants.
I felt a pang of national pride. It was high time I went to the cricket to give my support to the battling Aussies. It’s what the Don would have wanted.
Deb and I took an overnight train to arrive in Bangalore on the morning of the first match of the One Day International Series. We had an early start as the locals like to get up before dawn to brush their teeth and scrape their tongues and choke themselves with bent metal rods (don’t ask me?). Ahhhh – the sweet sound of hacking Indians in the morning.
Bangalore, once famous for being India’s garden city, is now its IT city. It boasts a surging software industry, a cosmopolitan, sometimes western feel and prices to match. I was told that there were many different classes of seats for the cricket, but that I would need some one to two thousand rupees to get anything.
I paced around the stadium in the covert, yet obvious (and desperate) way that one does when looking for a scalper. Eventually, I negotiated four hundred rupees for what I really, really hoped was a ticket. One only. Deb, who might as well as streak at the cricket as go to watch it, decided to sit this one out. I was now just an Aussie, Aussie, Aussie without an Oi, Oi, Oi.
As I lined up outside Chinnaswamy stadium I felt rumblings which had the makings of an almighty roar. I was already intimidated. My concern grew on the way in as I was frisked and fondled more than I ever had been in my life. I think the ice cream guy even patted me down. At least a dozen different Indians must have felt me up. Ordinarily, only two a day do that. Three if you count pickpockets.
I entered the stadium gingerly some four hours before the toss. Already, the overeager crowd was tearing around the stands competing for who had created the longest Indian Flag or best banner. ‘Windia v Losstralia’ stands out in my mind, but a tiger eating a kangaroo (I wonder if this has ever actually happened) was the prominent theme. The police were there in full force to watch the cricket. Ironically, they looked like Australian soldiers with in their khaki uniforms with the left flaps of their hats turned up. They were a nasty sight wielding their bamboo sticks, but were nothing compared with the Pepsi Police.
The Pepsi Police moved through the stands with the efficiency of a bomb squad disposing of any of their competitors’ promotional material that had made its way into the stadium. Pepsi virtually owns the stadium as it does half of Indian cricket. The stadiums only sell Pepsi water because, in India, it’s easier to make drinking water from Pepsi than from water.
Seeing Pepsi’s original red, white and blue colour scheme made me yearn for my country’s own unique flag and I strained to find one to shelter under. There was not one within cooee, so I sat on the concrete and waited for my inevitable new best friends (with the hope that we would at least share a common language).
After two hours passed, a group of Australians appeared in the more expensive seats. They rolled in like tractor tyres wearing fluorescent yellow shirts and bum bags. The Indian throng with me noticed the Aussies too and ferocious taunts emanated from the seething mass of green and saffron.
The stadium was jammed full just before the match started. I had been squeezed in amongst a group of lads who were concerned for my safety. I appreciated the gesture. I had been nervously eyeing the netting above our seats. I was fully aware that if the Australian players felt too threatened by the crowd the nets would be lowered with the unfortunate side effect that I would be the only digger left within the crowd’s reach.
Match time. India won the toss and chose to bat. The crowd rose to its feet and screamed in rapture as the players ran out to start the game. They then proceeded to unload onto the Aussie fielders with all manner of Pepsi projectiles. The crowd was confident. Not so the Aussies. McGrath set the tone for the whole game when he hesitated to release his very first bowl. Tendulkar (who I was frequently reminded is the best batsman in the world today) was sinking the Aussies single-handedly until Laxman extended this courtesy to him and forced him to be run out.
The irate crowd chucked more rubbish onto the ground expressing its disgust with Tendulkar’s exit. Or it could have just been because the field seemed as good a place as any to throw lunchtime leftovers. Unfortunately, as the pitch is too sacred even for cows (which everyone knows have a special stomach for digesting plastic), these holy beasts could not be employed in their usual unholy task of waste disposal. The rubbish was piling up on the outfield. My Damoclesian instincts kicked in and I looked up. The nets were falling…
As the nets hit the ground I felt a deathly shudder ripple through the stadium. I was trapped. I felt like a kangaroo locked in with my natural enemy, a tiger. Only an Indian victory could save me now. I huddled closer to the group which had adopted me and, holding hands, we watched the match unfold.
India was splendid. With every boundary, the crowd leapt to their feet and danced hip thrusting jives together. The Indian team piled on the runs making 316, its highest ever one day score against Australia.
Dinner Break. Chinnaswamy stadium has now ‘progressed’ to having live music and remarkably untalented dancing girls performing during the break. Both appeared just as curiously odd and inappropriate on the field as they do in the west. Though, I did not dare to leave my concrete slab during for one second. I was no longer concerned about the crowd, which had been adequately placated and were happily throwing around rubbish again, but I was again concerned about my ticket. I had learned (thorough the great Indian tradition of price comparing) that my ticket was for a cheaper section than the one that I was in. How there could be a lesser section I could not imagine, but it seemed that I, a mere one hundred and fifty rupee rogue, had snuck into the two hundred rupee zone. This would be sure to cause problems. Worse yet, the Pepsi hologram had rubbed off of my ticket and the Pepsi Police were always lurking about.
Waiting for the break to pass was like a million visits to Grandma’s. I was bombarded with insistent offerings of food and more food and I ate and ate until I felt completely Warne out.
As the resumption of the match drew near, the crowd whipped itself up into a Mexican Wave. This wave, being driven by Indians, was so fast that it was more a case of sitting down as the trough of the wave came through. Eventually, it crashed to make a booming announcement of the arrival of the Indian fielders. I leapt to my feet to cheer on the Aussie batsmen. They opened well and commanded a good run rate, but, as they had in the Test series, struggled to keep their wickets. The crowd drummed a menacing beat with their Pepsi empties as they danced their way through the Australian top order.
It seemed to be all over when Hayden was out for 99. Celebrations erupted throughout the stadium. I received such heartfelt sympathies from those around me that I actually started to forget my own safety concerns and felt a little bad that the Aussies were going down. And down they went. In the forty fourth over the last Australian wicket?fell and the crowd swept the batsmen away with their almighty roars. The stadium was alight. Not figuratively speaking; the stadium was literally alight! The crowd were so pleased with their victory that they had set fire to the stadium. Pepsi plastic burns so well.
Time to leave. IT city or not, when one is in a burning stadium in a third world country, it is time to leave. I exchanged hasty, but affectionate, farewells with my protectors and providers and hotfooted it out of the stadium. Australia did not win the day, but at least this Australian would live to see a few more of them.