The Scoop Down to Fine Leg

Tuesday morning I am cold in bed, and though it feels as if I should be getting up , my room is still gray. The morning is overcast, and water stands in shallow puddles on the slate surface outside the door of my guest house. The rain seems to have banished the humidity--the obtuse houseguest--that lingers on too long after monsoon, and a gentle breeze blows coolly. I welcome the change, not because the heat of the previous fortnight has been withering--the temperature rarely crept much over 90 during the day, and evenings have been exceedingly pleasant--but for the simple fact of difference. Though I hope beyond geography and reason, there is no hint of autumn in the breeze.

I know already--have known--that among the fiercest blows of this year (along with no family and friends, no Cheer Cheer for Old Notre Dame (although there's nothing to cheer this year), no hot homemade applesauce, no costume party on Halloween, no Washington Post at my door every morning, no Christmas carols (no frosted sugar cookies or popcorn balls either), no Happy Hours, no New Yorker, no "Oh Indiana, we're all for you!" and no March Madness, no Opening Day and buy me some peanuts and crackerjack, no Easter candy, no bicycle rides, no moviegoing with a box of Junior Mints rattling beside me, no Simpsons!) will be the loss of the seasons as I have come to know them. I will miss autumm and spring the most, followed by winter, and least of all summer, which arrives almost without distinction but is not without its charms (lightning bugs, sunlit evenings, and lily-strewn roadsides all come to mind).

I will spare you any fulsome enumeration of my love for the others: it would serve no purpose, particularly here. It's a vain taxonomy of the fond and familiar anyway, perhaps summoned understandably in an alien setting such as this, but no less useless for the fact. India offers its own bracing and transcendent natural milieu, if only I will open myself to it. For example: Tuesday night the moon is nearly full and as clear and bright as I have ever seen it. It is pure white--bedsheet white--and throws up a golden corona of impossible thickness amid the clouds that demurely ply--never crossing--its path. I am suitably awed.

In the past few days, a pair of frissons to puncture the daily routine. On Sunday, the Chief Minister of Rajasthan (equivalent to the governor of a U.S. state) visits Seva Mandir to dedicate a new floor of its library. In welcoming, Udaipur's main roads are edged with double lines of chalk--one white and one a vivid pink (also, in a few places, I notice a third line of mint green). At Seva Mandir, garlands of marigolds are wound around, draped, and hung from every surface. (My mother grew marigolds when I was young, but I never cared for them--too monochromatic. The Indians have taken that uniformity and made it a strength; the garlands radiate a consecrating warmth and power.) On the floor of the library someone has created an astonishing representation of a flower (lotus?) blossom, a brilliantly hued vision of painstakingly sprinkled and sifted chalk a full meter in diameter (see image above). Chai and cookies are served on the grounds. The ceremony itself, perhaps not surprisingly, is perfunctory--a few speakers, lots of photo ops, and then it's over. Tuesday's morning rain disperses the power of the chalk lines, like the faded batter's box after a baseball game. The marigolds in the library are browning.

Monday after work, I ride with my roommate Arun and another coworker to his apartment to watch the International Cricket Council (ICC) World Twenty20 final between India and Pakistan. Cricket to Indians is like football to Americans, if football were America's only real source of pride on the international athletic stage: It is an obsession that matters. As in nuclear bombs, in cricket, Pakistan is India's chief rival; thus, the match counts for much nationally, internationally, and psychically. Cricket matches are notoriously long (test matches are played out over 3-5 days), and the Twenty20 format is a radically abbreviated version of the sport designed, like a picture Bible, to entrap the casual fan by flash and sheer pith. Twenty20 in comparison to test cricket is the equivalent of reducing a baseball game to a contest of two innings, except Twenty20 cricket matches are still more than three hours long, and there's enough scoring that the probability of a tie is virtually nil.

India bats first and manages a mere 157 runs in its twenty overs, a fact which creates much consternation among my viewing mates. India had hoped for 180 runs; conversely, Pakistan sought to hold them to 160. The mood is somber. Alas, after an interval of rest, the Pakistani batsman don't fare much better. Here is an account, by Dileep Premachandran of the website Cricinfo, of of the match's denouement:

"With Misbah on strike, Pakistan needed 13 from the final over. After a great deal of thought, Mahendra Singh Dhoni gambled on the inexperienced Joginder Sharma. When he started with a wide, Indian fans groaned, and the situation became even more desperate when Misbah pummelled a full toss miles over long-off for six. But with victory in his grasp, his judgement failed him. Moving across his stumps, he went for the scoop down to fine leg. He didn't connect cleanly, and millions on the subcontinent held their breath as Sreesanth came under the ball at short fine leg. When he held it, the stadium erupted."

Got it? In brief: India wins by a mere five runs, in what some regard as the greatest final in any form of World Cup cricket action ever. If live television coverage was any indication, fans all over the country were igniting fireworks in celebration. Like low-grade artillery, the cracks and pops of pyrotechnics could be heard across Udaipur for hours afterward. What to make of a country that seems to have fireworks at hand for any occasion?

Meanwhile, I've visited the field again, this time for two days and a night. More soon.