Autographs and photographs.....

This story belongs to the era when I was an adolescent. It’s not as if I am about to narrate a path breaking story which will redefine my past. I was tidying up my precious book shelf, just noting down the names of all the books that I have, so that I can keep a track when I lend them out; there are many busy personalities who have this uncanny habit of never returning the books they borrow. And I stumbled upon a small notepad (I could not think of any other name for the precious little thing). And like the protagonist of “”मुंगेरीलाल के हसीन सपने”, I went back to that lovely day in the month of November ’93 when yours truly was nothing but a teenage hormonal mess.

Those were the days when Hansie Cronje was alive; he was a hero, coexisting with the legend that came to be known as Kepler Wessels. Jonty Rhodes ruled supreme at the field, with his boyish good looks and unparalleled fielding. There was this man called Fanie de Villiers, and another giant named Jacques Kallis, who reigned supreme. 

Not meaning to sound like a fossil from some prehistoric period, I remember those days as the “days of yore” as Sri Lanka was not yet basking in the glory of their “opening pair onslaught” by the likes of Aravinda de Silva and Sanath Jayasuria. Arjuna Ranatunga, pot-belly and all, was agile and a capable skipper and our dear Muttiah Muralitharan was just another bowler in the fray.

In those days, match fixing was a term from Mars, and innocent souls (read fans) thought that Manoj Prabhakar and the likes managed to score 37 runs in ten overs as they needed to lay the foundation for a respectable score. The third umpire was in its infancy, power-play was alien and the T-20 format was yet to be conceived. 

And those were also the days when cricket players did not have mammoth security for their ‘protection’.

It was some day in November, 1993. I was dressed up for school. White shirt, grey skirt, a grey half-sleeved cardigan, white socks and black ballerina shoes. Yes, also red ribbons on my long pigtails. And as I scanned the newspaper (THE SENTINEL), I found that the South African and the Sri Lankan cricket teams were staying in the Hotel Brahmaputra Ashok of my hometown (Guwahati) and were scheduled to play the ODI at the Nehru Stadium the next day. A bulb in my brain was switched on, and with a person (I refuse to take his name here because I do not want him to grab the limelight) in tow for moral support, I gate crashed into the hotel’s lobby. The astounded manager was speechless when I told him that I wanted the autographs of all the players of both the teams. He was about to say something, when I saw a tall man with goggles…Oh my, my! Who was that? Leaving the manager and my ‘moral support’ behind, I rushed to the man and held out my “autograph book”. He looked ‘down’ at me, as I was a good two feet shorter, and scrawled some name on the azure page of the book. And he smiled, and mumbled “GOOD DAY” and went off!! I was confused; who was this? I racked my memory for the name of this man. Well, there was not much time to be wasted. I saw all of THEM, and I still have goose bumps when I remember those days, coming out, towards the breakfast area! And man, believe me, people look different in person. But I could not miss all the familiar faces. My knees became rubbery, and my legs threatened to give away. But I held my ground. 

I was an awkward teenager (aren’t we all?). I was hesitant to converse in English, and was apprehensive of the fact that if they asked me something in their accented English, whether I will understand or not…Today, a name rises like the Phoenix in my mind, NAMRATA GOSWAMI. She was a student doing her graduation from Cotton College, and I guess she was genetically programmed like me; she also came to the place while on her way to college, and was better equipped than me, with a camera! I think we took courage from each other, and we approached them all..And I managed to get their autographs, and Namrata Ba even managed to click photographs.

The way back to school (I needed to brag about this in front of the whole class) my mind was in a haze. Suddenly I remembered the name of tall man who gave me the first autograph – Mike Proctar…He was not a player (I iguess he was the coach, but I may be wrong) at that point of time, but I shared my birthday with him (and also with Nathan Astle of New Zealand, for the benefit of the uninitiated).

I felt like a queen bee when all my class-mates hovered around me. I told them the tales, some exaggerated, some accurate. I could see the envy in the faces of some, admiration in the eyes of others. 

But wait, why was Sunny smiling at me? She came near me and said, “You know Mayuri, Mulalitharan came for dinner to our place last night.” And guess what? She was speaking the truth, as I could see from the photographs that she had brought (Neighbours’ envy, owners pride!!).

Namrata Goswami vanished in the eddy of time. I never got the photographs. Somehow, the frayed pages of the aged autograph book reminded me of the game that cricket was….Like an epitaph, it stands to remind me of the game that made me forget the rest of the world in some remote past. Sunny, if you are reading this, I wish you would scan and upload the photos that you had..Do you still remember that day Sunny? How beautiful were those days! 

Adolescence, standing on the threshold of adulthood, gave many a memories. As I talk a walk through the silver lanes of nostalgia, I see them all – Hansie Cronje with his laugh lines, Ranatunga with his ready smile, Muralitharan with his white teeth….and Namrata Ba with her black camera..

“These fragments I have shored against my ruins” ………….Forever….