Day 13 of my Cricket tuition: I’m feeling a bit woozy from all the head-spinning developments regarding certain tragic events of this World Cup. Surely there is no better moment to focus on sweeter aspects of the game, specifically how an essay penned by my erstwhile intern Amar Shah showed up on ESPN the other day. I felt nothing but consummate delight when I followed the link which was submitted repeatedly to the bunker’s hotline; there in baby blue, with his gorgeous wife too, the boy whom I had been surprisingly fond of, even before we had ever met.
It was 2002 and Amar Shah was a student from the University of Florida. I was in a windowless office at Preston Gates, near the White House. I began receiving persistent instant messages from someone with a memorable, if young-sounding screen name. Typical questions about what his internship would be like and how he should prepare gave way to actual conversation and fellowship. Who was this kid? That first day of our program, I remember that though I was excited about finally meeting all of my interns, I was extra-curious about the one who would later jump up in a hyperactive and spontaneous moment mid-orientation and show off how he already knew not just our names, but our AIM screen names, as well. And I thought he had just been chatting with me. ;)
That summer, I held his hand as he crushed on the unattainable: a girl so stunning, she looked as if she had stepped out of a Moghul miniature. I fretted over him while he bounced around the Hill; I kept him company when he was the last of my baby birds to fly away, that tear-drenched August day. It was fitting that Amar’s would be the final flight to leave DC; it was a small comfort that I had a few extra hours to spend with someone I had grown so attached to, someone who since then has always made me proud.
It turns out that in an odd, small way I am AKKA to the world, as my horoscope spookily predicted I would be way back in 1989, in Seventeen magazine’s deluxe astrology section which was published in honor of that now-ancient new year. I fuss over everyone, I worry about them, I boss them around, I pinch their ears…but most of all, I love and never forget them, nor do I pass up an opportunity to brag about them as if I were their PR rep, as if they were my own.
Amarshah, I always knew you’d be huge. I just didn’t think you’d convince such a dime to marry you and grace your side while you did it. ;)
Cricket’s Yogi Berra, Navjot Singh Sidhu, once warned, “Wickets are like wives — you never know which way they will turn.”
Perhaps that’s why my wife Tejal threatened to take off the Indian cricket jersey she had reluctantly worn when she saw the line in front of the NAZ8 Cineplex. I had woken her up at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday to venture to Lakewood, near the city of Artesia, which is known as the “Little India” of Southern California. We were set to watch the India versus Bangladesh ICC World Cup match on the big screen with a movie theater full of wicket-crazy cricket nuts. By all accounts there was no better place in America where a cricket fan could go to experience the visceral feel of a real match. Plus, it was free. But now, with the sun still yet to rise, and a cold chill in the air, my wife crossed her arms and nudged me in the chest.
“We look like posers,” she said. “We’re the only ones wearing these shirts.”
She let me know that my brilliant plan of wearing the sky blue, Sahara-endorsed jerseys that I brought back from India was a stupid idea. Though the crowd was mostly Indian-centric, everyone was clad in coats, jeans and five o’clock shadows. Tejal also pointed out that she was the only girl.
When one of the men in line saw us approaching like a pair of twin Smurfs, he blithely commented that Tendulkar and Dravid had arrived, referring to the last names of legendary star Sachin Tendulkar and captain Rahul Dravid.
Any article which references the smurfs is genius. Read the rest at ESPN. I’ll just sit here like a properly chuffed elder sister, gloating about how fabulous Amar is while you do. He’s a little bit of perfect, isn’t he? :)
