A Summer of Boys

Back in our halcyon days of boyhood in the 1960’s, Suresh, my older brother then, who continues to happily exploit that status in the pecking order to this very day, brought up the idea of starting our own cricket club.

We were living in a 15-acre floral, sylvan setting called Ponnagaram Compound in Madurai, South India. It housed various officers’ quarters belonging to Madura Coats, a British textiles company. Our building of flats had a lift that was a novelty in those days. We would ride up and down for hours, much to the annoyance of the elders, mainly to impress visiting schoolmates. The compound also had a watchman at the entrance in khaki uniform, sporting a stiff baton and a stiffer waxed handlebar mustache with pointed tips that looked more comical than threatening. Nevertheless, rumor had it that no bumble bee would dare buzz around his face for fear of being harpooned.

Suresh must have read a few more books than us because he wanted to call it Pioneer Cricket Club. No one knew what pioneer meant but it sounded great so we all voted in its favor although Suresh's only vote was counted as unanimous since he was also the self-appointed captain of the team.

Looking back, I must admire Suresh for his optimism and tenacity in putting a team together with the motley crew he had. He was thirteen, I was eleven and our kid brother, Ranga, was nine.

This was a boy’s club with certain parameters. There was no specific upper age bracket; however, if a boy had a sprout of facial hair, he was automatically disqualified because the competing team would cry foul. Pimples were okay but a severe bout of acne would be deemed highly inappropriate. On the other hand, there was no restriction on how young one could be. The rule of thumb in vogue was that one should at least be as tall as a cricket bat and be able to lift it on the first attempt.

Suresh had the pressure of having eleven cricket players, at least two substitutes, and someone to keep score during the game. He had the three of us to start with. His next choice was his namesake, J. C. Suresh, whose initials were officially added into record books to avoid confusion. But J. C. could come on board only if his kid brother, Ramesh, was also included on the team as per his father’s mandate. While Ramesh barely cleared the height of a cricket bat, he could lift it one-handed so Suresh waved him in. Now we had five. Kalyan, who was Ranga’s age, lived a floor above us; and a new kid, Cheema, about my age, temporarily lived with his married brother two floors above. Suresh ushered them both in. The total now stood at seven.

There was one Mr. Nagarajan, residing on the ground floor, who had a platoon of six boys; however, only three boys were young enough to qualify. Vaidhi, slightly older than Suresh, was stocky, muscular and replete with mustache, chest hair and similar growth throughout his body that made it awkward. Nonetheless, he could shave all over and make the team—should we be in a pinch—so he was put on the substitute list. His younger brother, Thamba, was my age and made the team. Dheenan, an eight-year-old, was a timid kid who was afraid of his own shadow yet was recruited purely under nepotistic pressure. Unfortunately none of the three boys had played cricket before which was a concern.

The total now was nine, and a substitute. We needed two more players. There was Gopu who was nine, a fine prospect. But he had an overprotective mother who believed that balls and bats were invented by sadists whose main mission in life was to maim gentle boys like her son. She would only allow Gopu to watch cricket from the pavilion, not play it; but she did agree to let his name be on the roster provided we all begged. Gopu made the list.

The last one was hard to find. Suresh was hoping to enlist Giri who was the grandson of Governor V. V. Giri (who later became the President of India) but the family moved out. In came another family. They fortunately had a son albeit much older than us. He soon came to be called as “Songi” Mani. Songi was not a real Tamil word, the closest translation being “not very swift”. He was put on the substitute list as he was recovering from a prolific outbreak of pimples. Suresh also gave him the position as the team’s scorekeeper.

Despair was beginning to set in. We needed one more player. There was Jaya Singh but ineligible as he was already looking green around the cheek and chin areas having begun shaving right after kindergarten. We went to scout the new arrivals on the second floor, the Gurudat Raos. They had two sons—one was learning nursery rhymes and the other was graduating from diapers. It was futile. But they had a daughter, Meena, who was Gopu’s age and seemed athletic. When I suggested that she could be masqueraded as a boy to play for the team, I was scoffed at for being loony.

Our grandmother prevailed on us in recruiting the last player. He was an extraordinarily puny seven-year-old called Jeevan, meaning “life”. He had been born prematurely and kept in an incubator. Apparently he was so tiny at birth that the doctor had to use a magnifying glass to slap his bottom. Our grandmother who had a soft corner for Jeevan and a shrill tongue for us forced him on the team.

Pioneer Cricket Club now had ten players, the eleventh in the pavilion, two substitutes and a substitute scorekeeper. Circulars about our team were dispatched. Soon we were asked to play against a team from Sokki Kulam, the name meaning “Intoxicating Pond”. We had three weeks to prepare for our first match.

As we began our practice session, we had an audience of girls rooting for their brothers: Sandhya, the kid sister of J. C. and Ramesh; Uma and Viji, the sisters of Kalyan; and a plethora of older sisters of Jeevan namely Pappu, Sheela, Kutty and Rani.

During practice, it became obvious that Suresh and J. C. were the best at the game making them captain and vice captain. Ranga, my kid brother, was the best fielder with a natural flair to catch and throw the ball with great accuracy. Kalyan, Cheema and I were all quite knowledgeable about cricket and did fine. The biggest surprise was Ramesh, the little brother of J. C., who turned out to be an exceptional batsman for his size.

As for the Nagarajan offspring, Vaidhi came to play wearing a lungi, a silken sheet wrapped around the waist. Boys typically did not wear that. At batting practice, the lungi kept falling off his midriff causing exposure. The audience of girls screamed and fled. Vaidhi was immediately placed on the “reserve” list.

Thamba, his younger sibling, was a very powerful kid with no control over his strength. When he bowled, the ball was hurled at a tremendous pace in every direction except where the stumps were. When he batted, he swung furiously at every ball and missed. All the flailing caused J. C., the wicket keeper, to refer to him as kattan, meaning “wild man,” which provoked a scuffle. The entire team had to intervene to stop the circus.

Dheenan, the youngest of the clan, was altogether different. He did not want to stand in front of the wicket because the ball was coming towards it that could hurt him so he took his stance three feet away and simply waved his bat. He would not budge despite our protests.

Little Jeevan was the opposite. He was very fragile, yet wanted to stand in front of the wicket and bat. We were afraid to bowl to him thinking that a mere brush of the ball might put him in a coma. Consequently, we wanted him to wear leg pads and other protective gear. But when we donned those on him, he simply keeled over from the weight and could not move. Gopu wanted to play badly but his mother had sent a servant to keep an eye on him. Hence he stayed on the sidelines for moral support along with his dog Kukoosh.

The two weeks of practice sessions went off well. We had a makeshift cricket field. To the right was Jeevan’s house and diagonally across was the Watt House. To the left some distance away was our building of flats where the ground floor was occupied by Mrs. Herbert, a very pious lady who kept a wary eye on Vaidhi whom she regarded as a menace to decent society. Despite our handwritten letters of apology, none of the girls showed up. We were told that they had come to regard the cumulative species of boys as crude vermin.

Two incidents are worth reporting. One had to do with Thamba hitting a ball way off into the Watt House. He sent his little brother, Dheenan, to squeeze through the fence and retrieve it. Unbeknownst to us, Mrs. Watt had been raising a ferocious goose in the backyard so when Dheenan trespassed, he got goosed repeatedly in several tender spots necessitating him to be placed on the “injured reserve” list.

Another incident involved a nest of red-vented bulbuls. When I went to look for a ball in the shrubbery, I discovered that we had accidentally knocked off a nest containing three skinny, helpless fledglings. The parent birds had deserted them. I took them home and was nursing them with boiled lentils and mashed fruits six times a day, keeping them cozy in a shoebox in the balcony. The entire team would visit periodically to check on the fast-growing chicks.

These incidents were minor and did not affect our practice sessions. However, as the last few days drew close to the match, fate would play a mischievous trick on us.

Summer in South India is very hot. What we did not know was that dogs during summer develop something called heat. Earlier I had mentioned Kukoosh, Gopu’s dog. He was a handsome, pudgy golden retriever who had no social life. Our cricket field had placed him in the proximity of Jeevan’s house that had a female Labrador by name Remy. We had thus unwittingly opened the doors to Kukoosh's social life. The aftermath cost the entire team many a sleepless night.

Kukoosh and Remy started sniffing each other and soon took over our cricket field for their romantic endeavors. The only other dog was Tiger, in the servants’ quarters, behind our playing field. He was a diminutive version of a dog, referred to as dariyal, meaning “midget”. He was snow white and hopped all over full of energy like a ping pong ball.

If ever an honorific gentleman’s title were granted for dogs, Kukoosh would have been knighted. He was the best behaved dog we had ever seen. While he could have killed Tiger with a single bite, he looked upon him more as pestilence than competition. Somehow we also felt sorry for this underdog of a dog that salivated in the perimeter hoping against all hope. Mrs. Herbert, who was an expert at surveillance, wasted no time in informing all the parents of this unwelcome happenstance. The upshot was that we were ordered to remain indoors while the dogs had their private moments.

What complicated matters even more was an insurgence of street dogs from as far away as China. The watchman had his hands full chasing them away. The elders were to give us the green signal when the coast was clear but no such signal came. Occasionally we would hear the pleasing voice of Vaidhi from downstairs loudly proclaiming, “Jolly time for the dogs is over!” which meant that we were free to play. However, Mrs. Herbert took exception to Vaidhi’s boisterous announcements that prompted another parents’ meeting. We were told to stay put. While we did not mind Kukoosh, Remy and a few other dogs having a jolly time, we did harbor extreme regret that they chose our cricket field for their cheap thrills, holding us hostage for days on end. The Sokki Kulam boys had all the extra time to practice.

All was not lost, however. The time indoors gave the boys a chance to do other fun things together. One interesting activity was to show a film. Our aunt had presented us with a film projector which was from the Stone Age. Unfortunately the lens had broken and the light inside had burnt out. So we had to reflect sunlight using a mirror onto a light bulb filled with water to a roll of film which was hand-cranked for movement, and the resulting black and white movie was shown on the wall in a darkened room. It lasted only a few minutes and there was no sound. Yet we put on the same show time and again because it required a team effort and we had nothing better to do.

Another activity was posing for the camera. We had a box camera which could have been the first prototype of Kodak. Of course, it had no film. It was fun taking turns to look through this gadget and click, while the other boys elbowed each other to get into the frame and make the ugliest face imaginable.

The fledglings in the balcony were now sporting a fine coat of feathers and would mock-fly beating their wings which brought us great joy. They were also beginning to chirp which made us proud. What had filled us with guilt, when we originally found them, was now replaced by a sense of foster parenthood we relished.

Also, during this period of “hostage crisis”, Songi Mani kept us entertained. I had written a poem which Suresh was reading when Songi showed up. He immediately wanted to write one and locked himself in our bathroom with pen and paper. We would bang on the door every so often to see his poetry but he asked for more time. Finally, he emerged with this:

I saw a bull
Eating pul

Pul means grass in Tamil. We were in stitches because it had taken him that long to write this. Songi was really our term of affection for his silliness. Suffice it to say that we kept ourselves in good spirits albeit fate was playing havoc with our practice sessions during the final days.

On the morning of the match, all of us assembled clad in white and took a bus to Sokki Kulam. Vaidhi was clean-shaven; and his long-sleeve shirt and pants hid his hirsute condition. Songi Mani was totally devoid of pimples. Dheenan had recovered from goose bites. Jeevan kept an emergency dose of vitamins in his pocket. Gopu, who was embarrassed by the Kukoosh episode, had to be cajoled by us to come along.

Upon arrival, we realized that we were to play on a regular cricket field owned by the Race Course. It had all the amenities. We felt somewhat overwhelmed. However, when we saw the other team, we did not feel overmatched. They had a couple of Jeevans and Dheenans in their midst as well.

Suresh and J. C. went to work on the strategies. They determined the batting order, the bowling order and the field positions. Although we won the coin toss, Suresh elected for us to field rather than bat which turned out to be a wise move.

When we took the field, Suresh and J.C. were the opening bowlers. Since J. C. was officially the wicket keeper, Thamba filled in during J. C’s bowling. We had the best fielders in key positions. Songi Mani was aptly in Silly Point. Jeevan and Dheenan were two long wicket keepers, the safest position for them and a first in cricket history. Gopu kept score while Vaidhi yelled out words of encouragement from the pavilion.

As the match progressed, Suresh was effective as a fast bowler. But he had a slight quirk in his bowling motion that caused the other team to protest by saying he was throwing, not bowling. The umpire found the complaint totally false. That tactic on their part only fueled our fighting spirit.

After the first hour, Suresh had four wickets and the score stood at 45. But when Thamba bowled, he gave away 10 runs in one over with his wild bowling and no balls. He, however, did have an intimidating effect since the two batsmen were bowled out by J. C. in the very next over. Jeevan and Dheenan turned out to be excellent partners in fielding. Jeevan was extremely fast, partly due to his constitution and partly because he was wind-aided. He could cover a lot of ground and pass the ball to Dheenan who had a strong throwing arm. They were an awesome twosome. We brought in medium pace bowlers, Cheema and Songi, who kept the scoring down and got one more wicket. Ranga, Kalyan and I were spin bowlers. After giving up some runs, we managed to get two more wickets.

When the puniest kid showed up as their last batsman, Thamba was sent to bowl. The kid was so terrified that as soon as Thamba began his run up to bowl, he intentionally hit the wicket with his bat to be immediately called out by the umpire. While this caused the team to be “all out” for 84, the kid was praised for his survival instinct in a moment of impending peril.

During the break, both Gopu and Vaidhi gave us motivational points. We, as a team, felt uplifted. When the match started again, J. C. and I went as opening batsmen. We held up well against their pace. J. C. scored 31 runs before he got out. After Cheema came on, I was out with 29 runs. Kalyan went and they had a partnership of 20 more runs before they got out. We had scored 80 runs with just four players out. We needed only 5 more runs to win. The batting order was now changed to have Thamba and Ramesh in the final act. At the first opportunity Thamba hit four runs which tied the game. It was the end of that over.

Suddenly time began to move slowly. The anticipation was killing us. Ramesh looked tiny in the face of an oncoming pace bowler who took his time polishing the cricket ball on his thigh in an intimidating gesture. When he finally released the ball, Ramesh took a step back and cut it. It spun past slip, all the way down. We all stood in jubilant disbelief as Ramesh and Thamba finished their run to smile back at us.

None of us could remember the bus ride all the way back. Euphoria had taken over. This motley crew had won its very first game against all odds. However, we realized that we had won not because we had the best players but because we had the best team. We supported each other and somehow found ways to have fun together. We would have felt the same way had we lost as well.

The following day, the bulbuls were ready to fly away. With a heavy heart, we opened the shoebox. They fluttered over to the railing on the balcony. All three birds looked at us and the trees across from us. One by one, they took off. We felt happy for them, yet miserable inside.

But the misery did not last long. They all returned within an hour begging for food. The nursing ritual was back in full swing. They would fly away and come back for meals. That lasted a few days. Thereafter they had learned to fend for themselves. They would drop by just to say hello but wanted no part of the lentils. Insects must be tastier!

Soon we were asked to play against several other teams. Summer was ending and schools were reopening in a month. We felt redeemed being approached by the same teams that did not respond to our circulars initially.

As we continued to practice, things began to unravel. Thamba was diagnosed with typhoid. Gopu had jaundice. Cheema had burnt his leg badly against the exhaust pipe of a motorbike. Ranga was heading out of state to Rishi Valley School.

We sent the last circular announcing that Pioneer Cricket Club was officially closed. It was a treacherous morning for our team members. But we were only closing down the club, not our friendship.

Three months went by. We were all busy with school and homework. On a Sunday we heard from Jeevan that Remy had delivered a litter of puppies so we went to visit. Jeevan’s father showed us the six puppies. He was proud of the five brown chubby ones but grimaced at the tiny white runt. We boys looked at each other and chuckled. While we were happy that Kukoosh had passed on his gentlemanly lineage, we were delighted that the midget Tiger had beaten the odds to sire one just like him with high hopes.

As we were walking back, the trees were ripe with songbirds. Among them were three bulbuls we had given our hearts to.

The End