Party-pooper

Much water has flown under the bridge since the last time my fingers clattered on the keyboard. India – some might add predictably – has gone ahead and won the cricket World Cup. It becomes hard to call it a 'World' cup, when it's the all too familiar eight teams that reach the quarters every four years. Fleetingly, in the manic euphoria that succeeded it, one could sense that there was something amiss. It seemed forced, ritualistic and despite the alcohol flowing, devoid of spirit. I felt as if the ‘World’ cup was won so that Indians could also come out in the streets and scream and sloganeer and get hormonal, and not the other way round.

It lacked spontaneity, a sudden surge of the self. It seemed orchestrated, not the victory, but the celebrations. The victory was very satisfactory and it was an exercise in professionalism and one can’t take away anything from the cricket team. However, one could sense that the Indian team was playing as if it was beholden to the entire nation and more than the title of champions; people were giddy about the prospect of a nation-wide euphoria, once the cricket was done with. Call it the IPL rub off. The party is always on.

There are certain privileges that an underdog has and a soul-purging celebration is one of them. Even in defeat, their emotions are more sincere. Top-dogs can only salivate or get rabid. The quest for glory is only between equals; otherwise it’s always the underdog that wins the day.