Diary of a cricket widow

Note: This article is not written by me but I came across it while reading TOI

Television is my rival in love and marriage

IPL has turned many men into addicts

    I became a widow at 22. My husband was alive and well and sitting right next to me, munching on a packet of chips. But he did not respond to my voice and when I looked into his eyes, I saw a rectangular shape glittering with tiny men dressed in white. The terrible cricket disease that he caught in his teens had taken him away from me in the prime of his — and my—life. 

First, it was just a mild attack of one-day matches, then came the more serious Test match fever and then the final blow was the dreaded IPL, which finally carried him off, leaving me bereft and alone. Though his body is still with me, his heart and soul belong to the cricket goddess. He eats, breathes and dreams cricket. At night, when he cannot sleep he counts the runs Sachin made in the last match. Our daughter (yes we did manage somehow to have one, perhaps it was during the monsoon) is called Sachina and the first word she spoke was “out”, raising her chubby, little finger to the sky. 

My father gifted a 42-inch TV as part of my dowry and little did I know that it would become a hated rival for my husband’s love and affection. A woman with the same chest measurements would have been a better sautan. At least she would not be with us day and night, bedazzling, teasing and tormenting my poor husband. 

Sometimes, my husband would get so hysterical watching a match that I feared for my life. He would rush to the TV shaking his fist at some poor man in a hat, shouting: “He was not out..., you b…” Or he would yell: “Get him ... Get him …Oh NO No No you idiot...you dropped it…” 

   

 It continues this way. The other day he picked up a book and threw it at the TV, shouting terrrible abuses at some men talking about the match and now my neighbours think he is a wife-beater and give me sympathetic looks when I go out. A concerned friend asked if I would like to lodge a complaint against him.Who is there to complain to? Is there is society for prevention of cruelty to cricket widows? 

    Fed up with this lonely life I decided to learn about the game. “Start with the 20-20 matches. They are great fun. They finish quickly and the players are all so good-looking,” said a friend who is cricket crazy too. She often says odd things like “Duckworth-Lewis and leg bye” for no reason at all. If I ring her up during a match she refuses to talk to me. “It’s a crucial moment. Just a single needed,” she says, “pray for us.” 

    So the next time my husband was frozen in front of the TV. I passed him the diet namkeen and asked. “Will the same man hit the ball now?” 

    My husband did not reply. I tried again. “Why is the other man not hitting the ball? Is he the enemy side? Silence. 

    “Oh look Pretty Zinta has changed her hair colour again,” I said waving my hand to point out this interesting tit bit. 

    “DON’T BLOCK MY VIEW…” 

    He shouted and then a tortured cry echoed all over the room. 

    “SH…Missed the shot. SIT DOWN . Replay, quiet, the replay.” 

    I see no end to this sorrow. Is there life beyond IPL? Maybe I can divorce him and remarry while I am still young. Perhaps I could marry a famous cricketer. A goodlooking fellow with rippling muscles and nice curly hair. He will not talk, sleep and live cricket. He will just play it and make lots and lots of money. If you have to be a cricket widow, why not marry a rich one. No? 

Courtesy: Bulbul Sharma, writer and artist