Destined by Adminis-traitors

“In the air and OUT!!! Caught superbly at deep third man, diving low to his right, plucking the ball inches off the ground. Another reckless shot and another wicket gifted away by the tail enders as Karnataka are nine down, they are snatching defeat from the jaws of victory here.” honked the commentator unable to keep his disappointment down.

“Karnataka still need three runs to claim the all elusive Ranji Trophy, where as the thirty eight time champions, Mumbai need just one wicket to put the trophy back in their shelves.” reminded the second commentator, excitement and drama buzzed in the air at the Gangothri glades, Mysore cricket stadium, as the final match was gearing up to a nail biting finish in the last over of the day. People witnessing the thrilling match from all possible vantage points, stood up, gasping patiently for Karnataka’s last recognized batsman and the only centurion of the innings Vaman Reddy to seal the match with a authoritative shot and bring home the coveted trophy of the most prestigious domestic cricket tournament.

“Right, so Vaman will be on strike, the youngster has played out of his skin for his century but this is his real test, he is the only hope for his state now.” the first commentator said in anticipation, trying to build up the cacophony in the rather dull atmosphere, the domestic matches are played in.

“Will he be able to cope with the pressure situation and guide Karnataka to a well deserved victory?” asked the second commentator, more to himself in excitement than the audience, watching the close encounter unfold dramatically.

Last two balls of the match left, the bowler was trudging back to his mark solitarily as the captain came anxiously running in from the slip cordon trying to give the bowler some undesirable suggestions, waving his hands animatedly in a bid to set the field proactively and precisely for Vaman’s next shot. Vaman surveyed the field with keen eyes, scanning each fielder’s position thereby creating a mirror image of it in his mind. Vaman took his stance as every fielder including the captain marked their individual positions and settled down. The composure in bowler’s face by then had turned into apprehension as he started charging to the mark in a jittery manner.

“How did that miss the edge!!!?” the second commentator said as the ball thudded into the wicketkeepers gloves.

“What the non-striker is trying to do there?” the first commentator screamed as he jumped out of his wobbly seat, seeing the non-striker setting off for an improbable single, but common sense prevailed as Vaman turned it down, taking the onus on himself to strike the remaining three runs of the last ball of the over.

“It was a length delivery which moved away just a fraction to beat Vaman’s brandishing bat.” clarified the second commentator, trying to bring some tranquility back to the situation.

“Last ball left and still three runs needed, can Vaman do it for his state? It’s now or never!!!” the first commentator said in a seething manner, in view of the tight, droopy situation the game had winded, to his liking.

Vaman on the far end was preparing himself mentally for the last hurrah, talking to himself, gazing at the bowler in resolve, in an effort to outthink the bowler, who, in much the same way, composed and readied himself at the other end, after an intense discussion with the captain, clearly showing dissent at the field changes the captain had decided for him, without giving much weight-age to his inputs.

“Played uppishly, that is it, Game over!!!” the first commentator shouted in exhilaration.

Vaman leaped in the air punching his fists in glory, prior to which he came dancing down the track converting a yorker to full toss, the bat coming straight down to meet the ball with perfect timing, scorching the grass and speeding away to the cover boundary for four delightful runs. His teammates, who until then were unsteadily perched on the pavilion, stormed, racing down into the ground in total chaos and jubilation, forcefully pushing Vaman off his feet onto the turf, smothering him all over, enchantingly hugging him in the moment of unsolicited joy and victory, hailing their new born hero, signaling the rise of the phoenix from the ashes.

“Mumbai have been beaten fair and square here by one man, they are bitterly dejected, shock expression on their faces says it all, I feel sorry for the bowler…” the second commentator lamented.

“This is Vaman’s fifth century in the Ranji season, one he would remember for a long time to come, voices of his inclusion in the national test squad for the upcoming India-Australia test series is eminently doing the rounds, time has come to give this young man a chance to showcase his talent in the international arena.” the first commentator said with authority.

“Vaman, maga, barri illi (son please come over here) !!!” a distinct, weighty South Indian accented voice made it’s way to Vaman’s ears, amidst all the euphoria, making him look back curiously in confirmation that the voice he heard was indeed that of the person he had notably met and admired earlier. He was startled to see the chairman of selectors, Mr.  Chaitanya Swaminathan, standing in appreciation, in the aisle leading up to the players dressing room. With all humility and respect Vaman swiftly moved towards him, tucking his victorious bat in his left armpit, as the chief gave him a thumbs up on his super performance.

“Hege idhira (How are you), sir?” Vaman said, as he bent down to touch his feet, asking for his blessings to which Mr. Swaminathan duly obliged.

“I am fine. You played very well!!!” Mr. Swaminathan responded as he patted Vaman’s shoulder in appreciation.

“You have made my task tougher now for the forthcoming test series.” Mr. Swaminathan said, pacifying Vaman with a twinkle in his eye.

“Sir, I am happy that I have played well and made my team and state proud, the rest is on the administrators.” Vaman said, confidence and sense of excitement emanating from his voice.

“Ninu ondu bahumulya vajjra eh… (You are a priceless diamond), Go, Enjoy now!!! Hope for the best.” Mr. Swaminathan said with a smile and reassuring voice as he raised Vaman’s hopes for making it to the national team. The “vajjra” word uttered out with a typical south Indian tone, instantly striking a chord in him, which made the man of the match inhale a surplus quantity of air causing his chest to bulge out, feeling the pride and incalculable monetary associated with the word.

“Thumba danyavaadagalu (Thank you very much) sir, I will surely play harder and perform above your expectations.” Vaman said humbly and politely in an attempt to hide the pride and dazzle which had quietly illuminated in him.

“Nimmannu nodi santhoshavaythu (Nice to meet you.), sir.” Vaman said, soon they both departed in opposite directions after exchanging some more pleasantries.

It was a day to celebrate for Vaman, with his friends and teammates, more so, after having received accolades from his near and dear ones and a well deserved appreciation from the chief selector on his performance. It rocketed his confidence sky high as he was feeling on top of the world. At the same time, amidst all the victory chants, he vowed from within to play harder, much more than what he had done so far and bring glory to his nation.

A car screeched to a halt the next day near the cricket headquarters in Mumbai in between all the media glare, Mr. Swaminathan stepped out graciously to accompany the rest of the selectors to pick the Indian squad for the upcoming India-Australia test series. The selection panel usually comprises of five representatives from, east, west, north, central and south zones, an embodiment of democracy from outside but satanically biased from inside.  The rest of the selectors had already marked their presence, having a gala time, mocking the chief selector’s south centric antics, passing cheeky jokes on his tongue twisting bits and pieces hindi phrases, which usually took time to decipher given the staunch South Indian twist associated at the end of it. Mr. Swaminathan’s hindi speaking skills was of much amusement as it provided great entertainment to the rest of the people who interacted with him, outside his and neighboring South Indian states.

“Namskaram, gentlemen. Great to see you guys again.” Mr Swaminathan said, a mournful silence descended in the room, as he walked in and across the conference room diagonally, greeting his esteemed, diverse panel, shaking hands with them on the way through, to occupy the head chair, with his panel seated unequally on his left and right sides.

“An important series coming up eh…! I feel like a superstar of South today!!!” Mr. Swaminathan said, making a trademark Rajnikanth gesture, by creating a V shape with his right index and middle fingers, stylishly fitting his pen in between them by taking it out of his chest pocket and tossing it in the air, causing the pen to somersault. He got hold of the pen again, jamming it within the same fingers as it descended down, releasing the cap this time in the air, to make it land perfectly on the back of the pen, an act, he had perfected over time. He laughed erratically on his own antics as the other members were bemused, looking at each other with annoying faces, contemplating as to what reaction they should follow up to the south super star’s antics.

“Bhalo… errr… Good… Good…” the east zone selector said meekly, concealing his disgust, correcting himself in a hurry for speaking out his customary mother tongue, kind of extraterrestrial word to the chief’s hairy ears, trying to learn which, would have caused him to sink in a black hole and vice versa for others, who ran the risk of rupturing their taste buds in an effort to by heart the South Indian languages and it’s manicured pronunciations.

“I am going to read out the probable names, then I am sure we can discuss on them.” the chairman said with authority, reading out the fifteen names in one go without letting anyone to interfere in between. The selectors fell quiet after listening to the names from the chief’s mouth; the room was submerged in an uneasy silence like the lull prevailing before the unknown storm, as everyone had a serious look of disagreement and dissatisfaction on their faces.

“Mr. Chaitanya, pehle dus to thik hai, lekin ye baki paanch kaun hai… uh? How are they? (The first ten are fine, but who are the rest five?)” the selector from central zone said in his scrappy english, conveying his resentment over the de facto selection of the last five names.

“They play no in IPL, inko kabhi dekha nahi to kaise khilayenge, How play them? (They never played in IPL and we have never seen them playing then how can we play them?)” the central zone selector said, opposing and coaxing others into the argument by thrusting his biased views on the table.

“When I had asked all of you to come and see the Ranji matches, phir aap garaj se kaise nahi aaye? (why you guys did not even bother to show up? Illa (No), this is not going to work. I have included players on performance be it whichever state or zone.” Mr. Swaminathan said in defiance in his south toned hindi, causing a murmur among the rest of the selectors.

“Usko bolo ki kaam ho jayega, baar baar phone na kare, main abhi gilli danda ke meeting mein aaya hoon, baad mein call karo. (Tell him that his work will be done, ask him to call later, I am in a meeting now.)” the president of the association entered the room as he hang up the call on his cell phone. The murmurs had gone away as all eyes were locked on the president’s autocratic conversation.

“Anna, mere khiladi ka kya hua? (What happened to my player?)” the president said in an intimidating tone.

“Sir, we are discussing the list here, selection of players will be based only on performance.” Mr. Swaminathan said, as he tried to oppose the president.

“Thik hai, dekhenge. (Sure, we will see later)” the president said, turning to the rest of the selectors for further enquiry on selection.

“Sir, inhone hamare zone ke players liye hi nahi is series mein! (He did not include players from our zone for this series!)” the selector from north zone said.

“Swaminathan ji this is absurd, we have to follow the quota understanding we have set amongst ourselves! How can you do this?” the president said, shedding off his hindi, in seriousness of the matter, shouting at Mr. Swaminathan on top of his voice now.

“Mr. President, maine sabse zyada matches dekhe hain, aur jo logone perform kiye hai unko hi liya hai, Yeh koi mamuli series nahin he, ki kissi ko bhi select kar le! (I have seen most of the matches and those who have performed have been included regardless of quota. This is not a minor series that we can select whosoever we want!)” Mr Swaminathan said in revolt.

“Eta chol be na… ye hum hone nahi denga, yaarki hoche naki… chagal nahi hai hum!!! (This ain’t going to work, don’t fool around, we are not silent goats!!!)” the east selector spat out viciously, degrading himself yet again in true Bengal style by his choice of obscene words.

“Mr. Swami, we cannot select players this way, we have taken some responsibility and we need to fulfill it.” the President said, as he and the west selector stressed on the “responsibility” and “fulfill” words in unison.

“So you want to select your players, go ahead and select them, gampa (leader of fools)” Mr. Swaminathan said in disgust as he tore the paper and hurled the pieces in the President’s direction.

“I resign from this post. Go select your gully cricketers!” Mr. Swaminathan roared as he banged his fists on the table in frustration and walked out of the room belligerently.

The same day the selected players list was out, the media on receiving it first hand, hovered around the office premises, getting hold of the outgoing chairman in the process, probing him, posing uncomfortable questions over the non-selection of deserving players.

“Sir, What about Samay? Why was he not selected?” one reported asked.

“Why didn’t you select Vaman? Please give a justification sir” the other reporter pleaded.

“No comments. Please. It is the best possible squad we could have selected.” Mr. Swaminathan said firmly, wading his way through the sea of cameras and reporters, disguising his emotions in public as he jumped into the back seat of his car and directed his driver to speed away to the airport.

“Vaman have your food, son” Vaman’s mother yelled, as he was glued to the television, surfing the news channels, keenly anticipating his selection in the national squad for the future test series.

“Just a minute, Amma!!! they are about to show the names on TV.” Vaman shouted back as one of the news channel started displaying the list of selected players, wildly contemplating on their inclusion amongst their expert panel of ex-cricketers.

“One… two… three…….”  Vaman began verifying in a suppressed tone, as his eyes lit up examining the crucial list, expecting his name to feature at the end of it.

“This is impossible. It cannot be true.” Vaman said in a hushed tone, a quiver in his voice now.

He scanned the names again, rapidly as the channel, at their presenter’s behest, would make it vanish anytime soon, but his name was nowhere to figure in the prejudiced list. His heart now beating uncontrollably faster, he picked up the TV remote with his shuddery fingers and changed to another channel, believing that the previous one may not be showing the correct list or might have simply neglected to mention his, not so famed name, in a hurry, unintentionally. He came close to the screen this time, repeating the names in his mind, with his index finger touching the monitor, as soon as his shaky fingers reached the bottom of the list, his heart sank into coldness as a paralytic chill went down his spine. The fact that he was not selected to represent India despite performing consistently well dawned on him. He felt heavy from within like a labor burdened with sack of grains; his face went pale, his hands and feet cold as a sense of numbness and panic strangled him from all sides, making him ponder about his future playing the game he so dearly loved and embraced, in lieu of earning his livelihood. The world around him suddenly fell apart, everything looked strange and demeaning. All the euphoric emotions, chants of heroism, success, victory, he had experienced merely a day before seemed a distant memory.

The deafening ring of the telephone jarred Vaman out of his precarious thoughts. He steadied himself for a second and calmly moved towards the phone, to receive the unknown call. He picked up the receiver and said “hello” in a cracked, grief stricken voice.

“Hello” was the response from the other end in a subtle tone.

“Mr. Swaminathan!” Vaman exclaimed in joy which immediately turned into anger and hatred as he instantly recognized the man’s voice, whom he believed was responsible for his present misfortunes. Vaman’s mind was inundated with questions desperately wanting to interrogate and seek answers from the man he so dearly relied upon, on the basis of his valuable and consistent performances in the domestic circuit.

As he was about to enquire Mr. Swaminathan on the selection horror, he heard a weeping voice from the other end.

“Where is this moaning coming from?” he asked in his mind curiously.

He held the receiver tightly in his hand gluing it as close to his ears as possible. On analyzing and ratifying that the voice was indeed that of Mr. Swaminathan, a sense of warm heartedness engrossed him, deriving an unconditional apology from within, for no fault of his, instructing his mind to shed off all negative selection thoughts and try and rectify the situation at hand.

“Vaman, please forgive me my son!” Mr. Swaminathan said, as he broke out in tears recollecting his inability, under extreme pressure from regionally biased administrators, to select talented, performing players in spite of being an esteemed national chief selector.

“I could not keep my promise…” Mr. Swaminathan said, clipping his sentence in between as he choked inconsolably figuring out an explanation for his incapability and incompetency to fulfill his commitments.

“It is fine sir, I understand your position…” Vaman said assertively, shunting the plethora of questions, his mind was occupied with.

The long uninterrupted beep of the dial tone signified the end of the remorseful conversation as Vaman with a heavy heart tried comforting Mr. Swaminathan in pretence.

“I am not hungry, amma” Vaman said angrily as he proceeded towards his room and banged the door shut. In a fit of rage, despair and animosity he scraped, tore all the cricket related posters, collections, certificates… adoring his room walls, tables and showcases until then.

The night was pitch dark, resembling the darkness in which Vaman’s life had plunged into, he lay lifelessly on his bed with his eyes closed, remembering his enthusiastic and promising cricket career, so far, right from his childhood days. The knocks that he played, the bat that he raised every time, he reached a landmark, his friends and their light hearted banters on and off the field, his favorite gloves, the jubilation, when he was selected for the Karnataka Ranji team and above all, the endless sacrifices made by his family, supporting and nurturing him, so as to enable their son to receive world class training in an effort to develop him as a great renowned cricketer, they so desperately hoped and needed to end their woes. All this and much more in vain, a tear rolled down from the corner of his right eye, as Vaman resolutely drew an end to the future famed international cricketer, he always envisioned him with. A sad abrupt end to a long promising career, cut short by regional bias, resulting in the death of the sportsman in him.