A Few Thoughts On the Upcoming India-England Series

What I love more than a good Test match is a good Test series and the India-England series which starts this Thursday promises to be a cracking one. Two summers ago, with the same anticipated delight I looked forward to Australia’s tour of England, the series in which England won back the Ashes after the ignominy of the 2006-07 series. And last winter they lay to rest all doubts about their quest for Test supremacy when they beat Australia resoundingly in their own backyard. It is now common knowledge that the Aussies are a spent force. Now the eyes of the cricketing world are focused on the triumvirate of India, England and South Africa. In theory, India is the no.1 team but all the statistics worth your Wisden count for nothing on the playing field. For me, there isn’t a more tormenting dilemma than choosing between England and South Africa but India vs. England brings out the best and worst of the partisan in me. England would be my team even if I had to watch the Test matches in a room full of Shiv Sainiks.
Of course that doesn’t mean I haven’t entertained the romantic notion that must pervade every cricketing head right now, that of Sachin scoring his hundredth hundred on the hallowed turf of Lord’s in the opening Test which to a statistician’s delight is also the 2000th Test match in cricket’s history. Sachin’s highest score at Lord’s is a paltry 37 and one would certainly wish that the little master would remove this numerical anomaly in his otherwise stellar record. But cricket, like life, is seldom fair and respectful of our deeply cherished wishes. The great Don Bradman, needing to score only 4 runs in his final innings to establish a mind boggling career average of 100, was bowled out for a duck and his average remained an eternally exasperating (though still mind boggling) 99.94! But Sachin, of all people, would know better. When he walks out to bat wearing that all-too-familiar helmet, no one would know, as no one has ever known, what thoughts are wrought in that head and what emotions are played on that half hidden face barred behind the grill. Only time will tell whether it is the joy of celebration or the disappointment of failure.
And I think of Alastair Cook, England’s opening bat and hero of the last Ashes series. Cook is currently in the form of his life but the more he succeeds the more I fear for his failure. I dread the onset of the slump which must inevitably occur. Watching him play I revisit the same apprehensions and nervousness that preyed on my mind while watching my hero Brian Lara bat in his flamboyant brilliance. When Lara batted, he always looked like he would get out. Perhaps the vulnerability that I sensed had more to do with my own mind than with anything on that mercurial genius’ part. Cook is lot more staid and solid and has yet to scale the greatness similar to that of Lara but with his current form, he is very suitably placed to rewrite the record books, something which the great West Indian did so often with panache.
Then there are the little battles to look forward to. England skipper Andrew Strauss fighting his own demons to end his drought of runs, and Zaheer Khan, with his special appetite for left-handers, won’t make it too easy for him. Kevin Pietersen with his own albatross of dubious record against slow left-armers and Yuvraj and Harbhajan Singh with their own north Indian’s gift for getting under the skin of people, leave alone someone as highly strung as KP. Ishant Sharma, after the high of a good comeback in the Caribbeans, would strive for his best to make most of the helpful English conditions. Graeme Swann, the no.1 spinner in the world, against a battling line-up boasting of some of the best players of spin. And Stuart Broad, that petulant poster boy of English cricket, with critics calling for his head, would look to reach that peak of his trade with which he destroyed Australia at the Oval in the 2009 series, the reruns of which I have spent the better part of last week watching on Youtube.
And finally, prudence demands that we mention the recalcitrant English weather, capable of washing out any Test match without the slightest regard for its stature or importance and rudely reminding us that cricket, in the end, is just a game.

Complaints of a Common Voter

Bob Dylan sang, 'You don’t need a weather man to know which way the wind blows'. Well I thought otherwise, at a time when political winds seemed to be blowing hot and fast in our community. Unfortunately but understandably soon every Tenzin Tenzin with a facebook/phayul account started to look like a wind vane to me. Then I thought maybe that's not how it works after all. Maybe you choose your direction first and then find a suitable wind. And to avoid pointless name-callings, I may well declare this - I started out as bit of an optimist leaning towards LS but now I am more a pessimist leaning towards TNT. There was a brief TW period in between but that is rather irrelevant.

That LS was not the right man for the job became increasingly clear as I started to take a more serious interest in the matter. On the other hand, it was hard to remain ignorant of TNT’s impressive list of accomplishments for long. His talks too, without ‘the sound and the fury’ of LS’s, sounded more sincere and reassuring (to borrow a friend’s description). At the same time what did I make of the several allegations against him, such as of corruption? Now as a rule, whenever I hear of an allegation against someone holding an office, my first reaction is to suspect there must be some truth behind it. Maybe this is because we live in India where corruption is an all too familiar reality and also maybe because our own small community is not lacking in people guilty of such practices and yet walking among us with their heads held high (‘go ghyey-ghyey cheney drowa’). But alas, unlike our hosts, we don’t have a truly functioning judiciary and such cases are hardly settled. Their credibility never go beyond that of rumours and back room talks. So to come back to TNT, I must say that though he seems a decent enough man, I am prepared to suspend my judgment and hold on to some reservations regarding this point. This is also what I would like to see from some of us. We maybe genuinely appalled by the thought of LS becoming the next Kalon Tripa but this should not send us rushing, convinced and relieved at last, into the other two camps. At a time when our exile community is resounding with unprecedented debate and rhetoric, political and otherwise, it maybe hard to stay neutral and unaffected for long but need we dive headlong into the sea? In other words, can we support a particular candidate and yet maintain a certain level of skepticism and doubt? I don’t think it is necessary in a democracy to take sides and vehemently support one and oppose the other. More so in our own somewhat small community and for the people of our age. Our elders may take their incorrigible tendencies to grave but it should not be too difficult for us.

Also I wonder how much of all this may just be the consequences of LS setting our sluggish democracy into motion. I mean how many of us were this vocal and active a year or two ago? Our enthusiasm is recent but our ambiguities seem to have deeper roots.

I think I can safely say that there is hardly anyone among the younger generation who has a detailed knowledge of early exile politics. We may have read our (abridged) Shakappa in school and Tsering Shakya on our own but the fact that our 50 plus years of exile has not found one single chronicler must not be lost to us. Jamyang Norbu does write about it in his articles sometimes but they tend to be anecdotal, the kind that whets the appetite rather than satiating it. So although we could boast of not suffering from the prejudices of our elders, our ignorance in certain matters should be apparent to us. The least we can do is to acknowledge it.

This may not sit well with some but the Kalon Tripa election does indeed in the end seem like a case of going for the lesser evil. And if the worst comes to past, I just hope that some of us won’t be caught too far away from home base, that we may not find it too difficult to put up our hands rather than live in denial. Come Sunday, I do hope TNT turns out the winner but at the risk of sounding irreverent dare I say I can somewhat understand how Socrates must have felt when approached by Crito with a proposal of escaping from the prison. That the wise old Athenian chose to drink hemlock instead is more reflective of the tragedy of the situation than poor appraisal on his part.

Last Thoughts of trongen(1) Gyarama

I know I cannot run for long now. Last night I dreamt of the great Red Tamdrin and for a long time after I woke up I couldn’t find my tongue. It was as if my mind had been erased. Then in another dream I saw myself being chased by a great wolf and then after a while it was me who was chasing the wolf.

The king’s men have been after me for more than 3 months. I remember clearly it was on the 23rd day of the 4th moon that I came across that nomad family whom I robbed. It was not my intention to kill the man and I don’t know if he’s still alive. Anyway it doesn’t matter.

My late uncle Aga used to tell me about the sufferings of hell and even then it gave me the shivers. Some say hell is not a real place like this world but that’s nonsense. It must be real, it has to be. Otherwise it’s all a big lie. I could have easily followed Aga’s footsteps and become, if not anything better, the caretaker of Palgon Monastery. I have seen people take off their hats to that imposter Gonsam even though he knows nothing beyond the six syllables of Mani.

Ah, if I could, I would escape to Lhasa even if I had to ride for 20 days and nights without food and water but it’s too late. I will be either caught or I shall die in this waste like a poor wounded animal and the jackals shall eat me as I have eaten them so far. That’s also some hell. Uncle Aga asked me to come to Lhasa several times before he passed away and before I ran into trouble. I always used to reply that Lhasa was a place for pilgrims and that I had no business going there. What a fool I was! Now Lhasa looks like a heavenly abode I shall never reach either in this life or the next. The famous Barkhor, brimming with every kind of people, from the simple minded pilgrims to the murderous robbers in guise, how easily an insignificant wretch like me could have vanished in their midst.

A good horse and a gun, that’s all a man needs to prove his worth. But my own karma mocked me so that I had to exchange one for the other on the very day I set out to measure my courage. The shey-gu(2) hadn’t concluded on my father’s passing away when I ran away with his favourite horse. A fine horse indeed it was, and as Ama often joked in half contempt, Aba loved it more than he loved us. A fine horse indeed, otherwise those shameless Hor-pa wouldn’t have stopped me and invited me into their tents. The gun, they said, had previously belonged to a Russian soldier but what did I know of guns? I don’t know why but I started asking them about Russia instead. For a moment I even thought that maybe they’d confess their ignorance about that country at some point and in their embarrassment, would give me the gun as a gift. But is the grey-tailed fox ever embarrassed to pounce on a hare in spring time? They laughed and said, you know what lies beyond the great, endless A-chen thang(3)? Beyond that great plain is the end of the world but in between is the land of Urusu(4) where the women are so strong that they choose their own husbands and even sleep with several of them at a time. Then they started laughing and patting me on the back. I would have left right away but for the gun which I couldn’t let go of. I had never seen anything like it before. And even now, in this darkness and suffering I cannot let go of it.

The first time I shot the gun I thought I had gone deaf. I dropped it and kept twitiching and poking my ears because the ringing sound wouldn’t stop. It kept on ringing high and low as if Drichu(5) itself was rushing by my ear. They said something was wrong with my ears, or head. Since then I have stopped thinking about it. The sound is still there. Sometimes I think there must be a tiny insect inside my head, at the back that never sleeps and makes this sound. Or maybe it’s nothing but my own mind that’s fooling me..


Oh this smell, this disgusting smell won’t go away. There must be a carrion somewhere. Vultures were circling in the sky all day long today. I kept looking at them but I hardly noticed how they vanished sometime near evening. They will be back tomorrow. The night air has made the stench all the more stronger and I can hardly sleep. I can’t understand why the rotting smell of some dead animal should trouble a man like me so much now. Shinje Chogyal(6) should know i have rode upon life and ley-gyundey(7) like my saddle and treated them as such. It didn’t smell like this in our house on Aba’s funeral though it should have. People say dead bodies rot and smell but on that day, it was just the smell of incense and sang that was everywhere in our house. Ama was caught up in work from daybreak and it almost seemed like Losar. But the incense smell, which I so liked usually, made me nauseous. It was then that I thought maybe I should run away from home. I went to see Aba’s body but it was covered with white cloth. Only his toes were sticking out and they looked whiter than the cloth.




1. rascal 2. Forty-nine days of ritual after death 3. A vast grass-plain in Hor 4. Russia 5. Yangze River 6. Yama, the lord of death 7. Law of karma

TPL Diary (IV)

Teams Meeting, 23 January


Jigme and I go for the team meeting since our captain D is not much of a speaker. As we joke, he is the captain only in terms of collecting money and going for the toss. The meeting throws up a curious mixture of people and I gather only cricket could dare summon such a motley crowd with scant regard to an age group criterion. Jigme’s premonition that we would witness some comedy comes true as an akhula, old enough to be our father, stands up and makes up with his garrulousness for what he may lack on the field in the coming days. We learn that he has not picked up a ball in two years (so he’s a bowler), only the love of cricket and participating in the first ever Tibetan Premier League has induced him to come out of (self imposed) retirement. He goes on and his talk is interspersed with digressions and devious bends and marked by that overall emptiness of substance which is unique to our elders, especially MPs and Kungolas. But I am more occupied with observing people around me. The members from the Dharamsala team (with whom we have our first match) are two 30 somethings who I suspect must be school teachers from Tcvs. One of them comes up with suggestion that we should make effort to organise cricket clubs in our respective places since we are all “cricket la nyogyoe” (mad about cricket). With that comment alone he earns my respect for the next saat janam. Apparently they have a club in Dhasa called the Gangseng Club, well how much of a gangseng they are on the field tomorrow we'll know but as far as I know, our spot in semis is as good as made. In fact, when we were first told that our match was actually with Dhasa and not with Tsopema, Jigme’s first words were, ‘ oh Dhasa yina da drey drey zho choki rey’ (if it's Dhasa we can thrash them good). Never the one to jump the gun, Jigme aptly summed up the prematch feeling of our team with those words.

Then there are the ubiquitous monks. Two of them are young and look like good cricketers but there's also a senior monk who’s rather silent. There are few more uncle types and I am starting to feel glad about attending this meeting. It feels wonderfully good to hear akhulas discuss the rules of t20 cricket for a change.
They bring out the Cup which is not that bad looking as most sports trophies tend to be. It is passed around and Karma, the Bir captain remarks,'' No, not me. I will lift it only after the finals."


Day 1, vs Dharamsala, 24 January

We do march-past and then stand in the sun. The opening ceremony programs take quite a while to take off and I am starting to feel like a schoolboy on Sports day. They have brought Tsering Gyurmey and the usual suspects to add some festive air to the event but we are hardly bothered.
Our match is in the afternoon. I watch some part of the opening match and think it better to get some rest before the match. Jigme and I go and sleep on the lawns.

We win the toss and choose to bat first. Rinchen and I are opening and I notice my legs are shaking slightly. The ball is swinging as well. It’s misery as I mistime a drive and am out to a good catch in the 4th over. but Jigme and Rinchen put on a good partnership and thanks to an abundance of extras we manage a respectable 107.

Gyurmey gives us the perfect start with a first ball wicket in the opening over. This is some feeling. And in the corner of my mind I feel sorry for the opener who’s the same decent guy who was there in the meeting. Dhasa plunge further into disarray as Gyurmey strikes again in the same over and I too do the same in my opening over. They are 4 down in the 6th over.

Then we nearly lose it with some poor back up bowling but Jigme is the star as he breaks the 6th wkt partnership and takes 2 wkts in 2 balls. We win by 7 runs.

We are sharing the ground floor of this community center with two other teams. I see two of the akhulas doing the prayers before sleeping – I told you, they could be our daddies. But then one of them gets a call and the ring tone goes ‘ oh baby baby, wooh, thought you’d always be mine!’ Well, our daddies? Not quite.

I suggest to Jigme that we should also do prayers and even prostations in unison just to horse around with those akhulas. We get a kick out of suggesting how they’d go ‘ now look at those Delhi students, they are just as good off the field as they were on it.’

Day 2, vs Tsopema, 25 January

The Bir match is at 8 am but Jigme and I have planned to go to watch Dobhi Ghat. The Bir team cheered good for us yesterday, I hope some of our guys do return the favour.
It turns out that the two morning matches are rather one sided and over in jiffy and we think we might be late. But when we get to the stadium, they have another performance going on. This time I quite enjoy hearing Chodak sing ‘Rinzin Wangmo’. This ex-army guy sings a Nepali song which rather baffles me, I mean if he didn’t know a good Tibetan song, he couldn’t have gone wrong with a nice Hindi song. Anyways we lose the toss and are bowling.

Since i bowled rather well in the first match, I am opening with Gyurmey. He bowls a decent first over. I bowl 2 wides. Then in my second over I bowl the opener with one that keeps low. Next comes this big monk who I recognize is the same silent one who was there at the meeting. By the noise they are making in their camp I gather he’s some kind of a hitter. He sure looks like one. I bowl a straight one that pitches perfectly and wraps on the pads. We all go up in this massive appeal - for us who are so used to playing without LBW rules, there is an added joy in seeing the umpire’s index finger go up as you appeal. It’s as if as your vocal chords start in excitement with a shout and then strain and go hoarse in appeal, the deliverance comes in slow steps from the other end and meets you halfway to put you in bliss. It's 2 in 2 for me and a hat-trick really seems on. I hardly remember seeing the batsman walk up and take his guard. In a daze I run up and bowl another straight one, just short of a decent yorker and it sneaks in like a thief, just kissing the pads and crashing on to the stumps! Oh boy, and before the tournament I was thinking perhaps I should just concentrate on my batting and give up bowling...

But our bowling is poor after that, and fielding poorer. There are over-throws, misfields and we are looking like a bunch of fools. Near the end, we do accomplish a breakthrough but still they manage to set us a challenging target of 109.
We had heard all along from others how they have good bowlers. When I go in to bat after the loss of two early wickets, I am determined to try my luck and bat freely. But I can hardly find any boundaries though I like the sound of my shots. I am scoring mainly in singles and doubles. With Rinchen and then with Kunleg, I have good partnerships but soon panic sets in. Gyurmey comes in and takes his guard on the off stump! I could have burst out laughing right there if it wasn’t for the sorry situation we were finding ourselves in. Well, it only gets worse after that and I find myself in the unenviable situation of being not out and running out of overs. We lose by some 12 runs.

After the match, back in our room we are sort of trying to sleep when this monk from Tsopema team comes in. He’s the same one who put the brakes on us with his quick leg breaks and turned the match. He is polite and compliments us for how we gave them a hard time. I try my best to ignore him but Jigme is more than happy to indulge in useless post-match analysis. All I can think of now is going back to Delhi. I think of Martin Sheen, '' When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle. ''

TPL Diary (III)

On the bus to Chandigarh, 22 January 2011

There is something about the jat dialect that is pleasing to my ears, maybe its boisterousness, its unmistakeable hubris. So I am listening attentively to the exchanges between the driver and the conductor and a pappoo who’s obviously taking a free ride and trying his best to blend in. I like the driver. He’s a big, handsome man with a bigger humour that at first looks out of place to me. But soon I realise it cannot be any other way. I like how he calls the conductor ‘parichalak’. They keep getting into loud arguments since the conductor apparently has wound-up nerves. Each time it ends with the driver breaking out into large guffaws and asking his mate ‘not to take tension’. The pappoo is astute enough not to take sides. He joins in the driver’s laughters and also helps in the conductor’s shouts at the slow moving passengers.

I am also listening to a few selected songs that make for good listening on the road. After many trials I have settled on a few favourites. On top is ‘Airbag’ which is ideal when you are on the expressway between Delhi and Chandigarh. The menacing traffic, imposing flyovers and the overall miserableness of landscape that passes by make perfect backdrop for the track. Few other Radiohead tracks that work well are ‘Idioteque’, ‘ National Anthem’ and ‘Let Down’. Joy Division’s ‘Isolation’, ‘Digital’ or even ‘Love will tear us apart’ are along the same lines. On a more cheerful note, you have Stereophonics’ ‘Dakota’ which sort of works in any situation. (Personally, whenever I start from Delhi (or Baijnath) on bus, cheerfulness is not the most dominant of feelings. I find it easier to be morose and just stare out of the window. Hence, the above choice of songs)
Being on the road also gives you a chance to try out tracks that you may not have the patience for otherwise. That’s why I always include some jazz and classical music in my playlist. That’s how I came to like Miles Davis’ 30-minute plus fusion epic ‘Prelude’ (to what? I have asked often).

We pass Ambala Cantt. and I see this great line of army tanks along the railway track. Then there is another pool of them near a lake where some children are playing ‘gilli danda’. Then another and I almost jump out of my window! I can’t imagine what must be keeping those kids from climbing onto those tanks!

Near Chandigarh, a couple of youngsters get in and immediately I sense a showdown between them and the conductor. The poor man’s nearly at the end of his tether and the last thing he wants now is nonsense from a bunch of wiseass cool dudes. As always it’s hard to remember what sparked it, but yeah we do have a row. My sympathies naturally lie with the conductor who from nowhere booms, ‘Talk in Hindi, I am also para likha! Don’t argument with me in front of sawaari’.

With that memorable quote in my head, I get down at Sector 17 ISBT.

TPL Diary (II)

Sunday 16 Jan 2011

We are late again today and this time we are not so lucky. The ground is already taken, occupied by not two but at least six teams engaged in at least three different games. It’s hard to imagine how this is humanly possible but the games are going on, sure as the sun is shining, like cogs in a big awkward machine seemingly on the verge of collapse. The bowler of game A is running right across the pitch being played on by game B. After each ball, he goes back and waits for the other bowler to bowl and then starts. The fielders are so all over the place that the poor batsmen must think he has no chance of finding a gap anywhere! The way I see it, this is nothing but another manifestation of a uniquely (north) Indian way of going about things. They call it ‘jugaad’, as in ‘Kuch nahin ho raha hai yaar, kuch jugaad karo’ (Nothing’s happening, do some jugaad). In any other culture I suppose we could replace the word jugaad by jadoo (magic/miracle). But jugaad is more down to earth, in fact there is definitely something crooked and street smart about it. It is the way of getting your job done by compromise, adjustment and improvisation or help from here and there when all your traditional avenues are closed. I guess in India where the machinery of governance is very often ill functioning, it’s only natural that such a philosophy of work should come up. In Delhi, you see it everywhere, in classes and offices, in bus or on the road. Once I was lucky enough to witness this huge traffic jam at a chowk. As the traffic constable was naturally absent, those stuck had taken upon themselves to manage the traffic and prevent further chaos. Make no mistake, this was not due to some heightened sense of civic duty from the public, just that each one wanted to get out of that mess as quickly as possible. So from tractor drivers to car owners, each one got down and virtually donned the traffic constable’s cap, did his share of hand waving and whistling and then drove off.

‘Well gap!’ shouted someone in praise of a shot played through the gap and I nearly fell down laughing. This was better than ‘ Well shot!’.

Finally, near 11 am we get our turn but before noon most of us are tired. Maybe it was because of the too much waiting in the sun that did it but we are through. We are sort of lingering on the field, each one waiting for somebody else to call off the practice. I don’t want to do it but then I see Jigme suddenly sneak away without a word. He’s going off for a date with his gal, so I am told. I can't believe that guy! How did that song go? –

And so and now I'm sorry I missed you
I had a secret meeting in the basement of my brain
It went the dull and wicked ordinary way
It went the dull and wicked ordinary way..

TPL Diary (I)

11 January 2011- So it’s really on now and we’re in it for good. When I first saw the posters in MT and Kunchok came up with the suggestion of participating nearly a month ago I had mildly laughed at it. A cricket tournament calling itself the Tibetan Premier League? Ha! Looking back I see it was nothing but my own aversion to quick decision-making and new ventures. It doesn’t look like such a crazy idea now. Within 5 minutes of discussion we had forged a skeleton team and when he called me the next day about the entry fee I knew it was time to get serious.

During my two weeks break at home, I played in a match against Bir. We won a nailbiter but my own contribution was meager. I wasn’t surprised since I hadn’t played a proper match in almost 2 years. Facing the opening bowler, I was only too aware of the uncertainty and the discomfort that seemed to permeate my body. It was nothing but fear. I was thinking about the ways the leather ball would hit my body when I should have been thinking about the ways it would hit my bat.
Well, I have almost a week and a half to clear up my head now.

15 January 2011, Rohini District Park-They don’t have a team at the Youth Hostel so we are playing among ourselves. It takes a while for the whole team to show up but time is not a bother- it’s Saturday and we have the whole ground to ourselves. We pair up into five teams with each team getting a maximum of 4 overs to bat and with everyone else fielding. At the end of two rounds I reckon we were out on the field for almost 20-25 overs which is not bad for a practice. I bowl 5 overs and nearly switch to bowling harmless off spinners near the end out of exhaustion. But I am happier with my batting. Mentally I was much more relaxed maybe because it was practice. I need to make up my mind about my selection of shots though. I made a mess of a few juicy full tosses, stuck in confusion about whether to drive them or heave them and ended up playing an ugly nothing shot. So I decide I’d be better off driving them which is more suited to my approach and cut out completely the good old heave from the equation.

I wonder why I am so weak on the leg side since most people tend to be stronger on their leg side. I can think of a possible combination of reasons – my left handedness and a peculiar rule during my school. We used to play on this basket court along the one side of which ran our school boundary. Since it was tough job fetching the ball whenever it was hit over the boundary, we made such shots illegal. So you were out if you hit the ball over the boudary. To most (right handers), the boundary was on their off side which meant they couldn’t play any cuts or attempt at any expansive off drives. For me (and Rinchen who’s also playing), we had to play mostly on our off side or straight. Leg side shots were a big no-no and i guess i continue to carry this mental block about the leg side. So anything outside the off stump, my eyes they kind of light up and anything on the leg side, i get myself tied in a knot.