I was sitting in my office. It was a hot afternoon. The fan was running slowly and making strange sounds like an old typewriter. Files were lying on my desk like tired witnesses waiting to be called. I was doing my legal work with full seriousness. Suddenly, I needed one file. It was an important file. Without that file, my case notes were half-cooked like hotel biryani.
So I called my clerk. “Dayanand!” I shouted. “Bring the blue file from the cabinet!”
But nobody came.
I waited one minute. Then two minutes. Then five. Still no sign of Dayanand.
“Where is this fellow?” I said to myself.
Then I got up. Slowly. Like a judge rising from his chair. I went to the back room. And what did I see?
There was Dayanand, hiding behind the almirah, watching IPL on his mobile phone. He had removed his slippers. He was sitting like a king in a courtroom, with eyes wide open and mouth half open. It looked like he was watching a spiritual video, but no—it was cricket. Not just any cricket. It was the final over of an IPL match.
“Dayanand!” I shouted.
He jumped like he got electric shock.
“Sir! Sir! Just six balls left! Please Sir! Just final over!”
I looked at his phone screen. On one side, the batsman was standing. On the other side, the cheerleaders were dancing like they were in some filmi item song. Music was playing. Lights were flashing. Half-naked foreign girls were jumping after every six. It was more like a dance bar than a cricket ground.
“Dayanand,” I said seriously, “you can watch all this drama after bringing my file. First do your duty. You are not cheerleader. You are file-leader.”
But he held his ears and begged. “Sir please! Just final over! My team is winning! Only 12 runs needed!”
I took pity on him. What to do? “Okay,” I said. “Watch this film—I mean match. But after that, come with file. Or I will file complaint against you.”
He saluted me like I was Captain Dhoni.
Fifteen minutes later, Dayanand walked in like a hero. He was smiling from ear to ear. He had the file in one hand and a glow on his face like a man who just won a land dispute.
“Sir!” he shouted happily. “My team won! Bravo hit two sixes! What a shot! Uff!”
“Very nice,” I said dryly. “Now sit down and do your real match—with files and affidavits.”
But he was still in IPL mood.
“Sir, why you don’t watch IPL? It is full entertainment. Music, dance, sixer, drama, everything! Foreign players, desi players, all are playing together. It is not cricket. It is cinema!”
I didn’t answer him. But I was thinking.
In old days, cricket was for country. We shouted for India. We waved Indian flags. We felt proud when Tendulkar scored a century. Now? Now we don’t know whom to support. Mumbai team has West Indian captain. Delhi team has Australian opener. Chennai team has South African coach. Hyderabad team has England bowler.
So who is the “us” and who is the “them”?
And above all, what is this business with cheerleaders dancing in short clothes after every six? They are not Indian dancers. They don’t know cricket. But they are dancing like it is wedding sangeet. Some of them look confused between four and six. But they dance anyway.
There is music, there is lights, there is dance. But where is the nation? Where is the pride? Where is the feeling of standing up when the national anthem plays?
Dayanand was still smiling and watching highlights on his phone.
I looked at him.
And I realized—maybe this is the new India. An India where cricket is not about country. It is about franchise. It is about sponsors. It is about sixes, selfies, and short skirts.
But deep inside, I missed the old India.
The one where winning the match meant beating Pakistan, not buying Glenn Maxwell for 16 crores.
So I quietly opened my file.
And Dayanand quietly opened YouTube.
And both of us returned to our modern duties.
Author: Ajay Amitabh Suman, Advocate, Delhi High Court and a Regular Writer on Contemporary Issues
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