It's
a beautiful sunny morning – crisp and just chilly enough for me to need a
sweatshirt over my cotton jumper. I'm ready early, about 6.30 a.m., because I
don't want to keep my driver waiting. He's taking me to watch his church team
play cricket at India Gate and I can't wait.
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| [Photo by David Castor via Wikimedia Commons] |
Anthony
and I have been to IPL matches together and regularly discuss India's – and
England's – performance on the world stage. But I've never watched his team
play – and this is my last chance before I leave India for good and a new job
in the United States.
I've
packed my towel and a cushion so that I'll be comfortable sitting on the ground
and I have a book with me too, just in case I don't have the stamina for three
hours of play. Anthony arrives dressed in tracksuit and trainers instead of the
smart jeans and crisp shirt he usually wears when he's working and we set off
in my car for India Gate, where they plan to play.
India
Gate is a huge green area in the centre of New Delhi, the site of the memorial
to India’s unknown soldier. At its centre is the monument, a massive sandstone
arch designed by the British architect Edwin Lutyens and a legacy of empire
that has been, like so many other colonial hangovers, absorbed into modern
India’s culture. Around this arch fan out wedges of green grass and trees which
eventually are bounded by a four-lane roadway that is the hub – and sometimes
the congested heart – of political and business life in Delhi. It reminds me of
London’s Hyde Park, which plays host to cricket and football matches, live
music concerts and Speakers’ Corner, where anyone can stand on a soap box and
address the public.
At
this hour, at India Gate, there are only a few people around, joggers, someone
doing push-ups, and a few groups of men limbering up for games of cricket. Our
team gravitates towards a stretch of bare ground that we’ll use as the wicket,
near a couple of shady trees where rucksacks are dropped. A couple of the men
are wearing white cricket trousers but for the most part, they are in
tracksuits and trainers or jeans and t-shirts. Our stumps are in a variety of
sizes and our ancient bat is bent at the end. For these are not wealthy Indians
out for a day’s relaxation. These are Delhi’s workers – drivers, office
assistants, even some night-shift workers who have come here straight after
their shifts.
It’s
a special day in another way, too, as Anthony has a brand new bat, a birthday
gift from his wife, Georgina, and his children. Mark, his eldest son, is here
to play with the team and has the makings of a very talented fast bowler and a
handy batsman too. The bat is still in its plastic wrapping as Anthony and a
couple of team members use it for practice swings.
By
now, the sun is just starting to dry out the dew on the grass. The teams are
standing around, sizing up the opposition and talking tactics. There’s lots of
laughter too, as these men all know each other from the church. Several come up
to me and introduce themselves, shaking hands and thanking me for letting
Anthony come on previous Saturdays to play in the team. I laugh with them and
say it’s my pleasure, surprised that they would expect a boss to dictate hours
without thought for the employee’s commitments.
With
the opening banter and team hugs over, we are all anxious to get started. Some
of these guys have jobs that start in a couple of hours so they will have to
bat early. Anthony wins the toss for his team and decides to bat. He’s opening
batsman and will be using his new bat. As he’s limbering up at the crease, the
siren sounds. Wah-wah-wah-wah. We see a white police jeep trundling over the
dewy grass towards us. The loudspeaker is saying something in Hindi, too
complicated for my very basic understanding, but even I can get the drift.
Everyone is still as they listen to the message. Stop playing.
The
jeep pulls to a halt a couple of yards from us and we walk over to find out
what they want. The two policemen in the jeep are speaking in rapid Hindi and
Anthony is listening, his face telling me the news I don’t want to hear. I
catch a couple of words, some in Hindi and some in English. Not a playground.
Closed. And then they leave, their jeep slashing bright green tracks in the
dewy grass, to deliver the same damp message to another group of would-be
players nearby.
India
Gate used to be open to the public every day, attracting crowds of Indians,
many of them without access to any other large open spaces. Here they would go
boating, walking, romancing and of course play cricket, the national obsession.
But around December 2012, the area was closed off. In early March, we saw
people walking the paths of India Gate again and the ice-cream sellers and
balloon vendors coming back. The previous weekend, Anthony’s teams had played a
match unhindered.
New
Delhi police said that was a mistake.
"It's
not permitted, it is not a cricket ground," Deputy Commissioner of Police
in New Delhi S.B.S. Tyagi told me by telephone. "Three years ago, maybe, but
things have changed. We don’t allow any function, no gathering for political
purposes," he added.
