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POST script
AUGUST 12, 2012

SEVEN SISTERS

NELit review

FIFTH WALL
UDDIPANA GOSWAMI
Literary Editor

Journey to Bhiwani Junction

SHAMYA DASGUPTA

For the love of the Games

HE 2012 London Olympic Games end today. For the first time in the history of the Olympic Games, women boxed their way to sporting glory. And a woman from the Northeast represented India in this first-ever event, just as she had been representing the country in so many other international sporting events. MC Mary Koms rise to the top has been a story of grit and determination in the face of poverty and untold tribulations and she has been at the top for many years now, having been world boxing champion for five years and won medals in every one of the six world championships. Her bronze in the Games that are concluding today is a triumph not just for her, but for all those in the margins. Doubly marginalised as a woman and as a Northeasterner, she has triumphed in a sport traditionally considered a male bastion. Where even privileged and celebrated sportswomen from mainland India often have to face sexism from their male counterparts and from the maledominated sports associations and decision making bodies, Mary Kom carries the added baggage of being from a region that is still largely alienated from the rest of India. Amitabh Bachchan tweeting about her as A Mother of two from Assam certainly points to the level of ignorance about and blatant disregard for the sentiments of the people of the Northeast in the mainland. Over and above that, training amidst immense poverty and a total lack of infrastructural support is only part of her struggle. Despite the fact that she carries the Indian flag wherever she goes and conquers, it must also be remembered that the socio-political turmoil in her home state of Manipur where resentment against the merger of the erstwhile princely state with the Indian Union is still quite alive has also posed impediments in her way. She is being celebrated today as the 38th most marketable sportsperson in the world by SportsPro, but her people back home are still fighting a long-standing, non-glamourous battle against militarisation on the one hand and militancy on the other and are not being heard. This issue of NELit review is dedicated to the indomitable spirit of Mary Kom and the nine other sportspersons from the region (including Sikkim) who made it to the biggest sporting event in the world Chekrovolu Swuro, Jayanta Talukdar, Laishram Bombayla Devi, Laishram Devendro Singh, N Soniya Chanu, Shiva Thapa, Somdev Devvarman, Tarundeep Rai, Kothajit Singh. But most of all, it is dedicated to the hope that the country which they represented will show a little bit of the sporting spirit which has been missing in its dealings with their homeland. T

HEN did Bhiwani Junction begin? Was it when, as an adolescent, I would hear tales of Cuba from my Communist father? Or, maybe, when I concluded, in my early teens, that Muhammad Ali was worth more of my time than even, gasp, Kapil Dev? Or later when, as a tennis enthusiast, I discovered that some of my AngloIndian tennis partners also trained as boxers? Couldnt have been that early, right? But, clearly, the interest in the sport of boxing had taken shape. Growing up in Calcutta meant watching substandard fights involving random boxers from the police or railways. It was more fun watching the selfstyled pros of the Armenian and Jewish circles in the city train at the few clubs that existed in the shahebi areas of the city. Very occasionally, only once actually, I saw Zoramthanga, a legend those days, fight. In Calcutta. I forget what tournament it was. Things got better only when I started working with Tehelka in 1999-2000. It was Olympic year, and I managed to make a trip to Patiala to meet the contingent, spending more time with the boxers than anyone else, for obvious reasons. That lot included Gurcharan Singh. Later, while writing on the Olympics for Tehelka, I saw, like so many other fans, Gurcharan tie his quarterfinal bout, but lose to his Ukrainian opponent Andrei Fedchuk on the basis of fewer punches thrown. I was gutted. Gurcharan, obviously, was gutted far worse, and thereafter he ran away to the US to become a professional boxer. Anyway, I met Gurcharan before the Olympics and then, before he defected to the US. It got even better when I shifted to The Indian Express in 2002, and got a chance to cover boxing tournaments, write on boxing as often as possible, cover womens boxing in great detail (probably the first newspaper to do so), and even write a very, very long research-based article for the International Journal of the History of Sport in 2005this was about how boxing was really brought to India by the British (even if there are mentions of princes training in the discipline in the Mahabharata), and how the Jews and Armenians and British spread the sport in India, with a huge dollop of help from locals like Baboo PN Mitter and PL Roy, later referred to as the Father of Indian Boxing. Anyway, a lot of my boxing reporting till 2006 or thereabouts added up to nothing much. Boxing was a peripheral sport in India then, womens boxing especially so, and my reports would be fitted in here and there in newspapers and later on TVwithout being taken too

LOOKING GLASS

BHIWANI JUNCTION The Untold Story of Boxing in India

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seriously. That changed in 2008. Call it fortuitous, but I was sent to cover the Beijing Olympics by Headlines Todaythe news channel I worked with at the time. Beijingwhere history was made. At the time, I had no idea about the book. Truth is that I moved away from boxing soon after the 2008 Olympics, focusing more and more on cricket and whatever else news channels wanted, and continue to want. Thankfully, I am very squirrelish when it comes to storing my published material. All of it stayed and really came in handy when, in late 2011, HarperCollins India got in touch with me to write a book on Indian boxing, and, in practical terms, Bhiwani Junction happened. Its a story that startsas far as my research revealsin February 1884 at a Calcutta carnival ground where dancing girls, prancing horses, sahebs and snivelling locals witnessed history and at least one gentleman, quite by chance, recorded it for posterity. It goes from Calcutta to Bombay to Madras to other important centres in undivided India, like Jessore and Karachi, before moving to post-independence Manipur and Punjab and Mizoram. It has now set-

BLAME it on the disturbed political, economic and social situation in the Northeast, and what could have been Indias strongest sporting centre of excellence lags behind, surviving on the largesse of the armed forces, which employs young from the region for their sporting prowess. Thankfully
tled in Haryana, where it seems to have found a place it can call home. A home that some praise, others criticise, and only a few, if any, are indifferent to. More than half the Indian boxing contingent today is made up of Haryanvis. Boxing clubs have mushroomed across the state. The chief of the sport in the country, for over a decade now, has been a politician from Haryana, the state that has become synonymous with Indian boxing. Thats the general picture. If you want to be more specific, you need to drive westwards from New Delhi along National Highway 10 to a place called Bhiwani. A district with over 400 villages that, until the mid-2000s, was known only to followers of regional Haryana politics as the hometown of the states best-known chief minister, Bansi Lal, one of Indira Gandhis closest confidantes, especially during the years of the Emergency. The thing that immediately comes to mind now when you hear the name Bhiwani is boxing. The pivot around which Bhiwani Junction moves it had to be this way and no other is the 2008 Beijing Olympic Games, where I missed not one bout featuring any of the five Indians in the fray. Five quickly became three after Dinesh Kumar and Anthresh Lalit Lakra bowed out in the first round. The other threeVijender Singh (middleweight), Akhil Kumar (bantamweight) and Jitender Kumar (flyweight)went all the way to the quarter-finals. Vijender became the only one to reach the semi-finals, thus automatically winning the bronze. And what a huge catalyst that turned out to be. For followers and obsessives of boxing, this was the moment. That day, when a smiling Vijender walked out of the rather aptly named Workers Indoor Arena with the tricolour tied around his neck like a cape, we could not have guessed at the shape of things to come. High fives were exchanged, as were sweaty hugs; photographs were taken, and the occasion was celebrated as well as possible under the circumstances (given that Beijing is not accommodating of revelry at the best of times, and ribaldry, never). We were certain already

SHAMYA DASGUPTA Harper Sport, 2012 ` 250, 200 pages Paperback/Non-fiction

that big money and big awards would head Vijenders way, but we had no clue what boxing would become in the years that followedfrom being a sport only a handful of enthusiasts rooted for to one that is shaping the dreams of a community that is looking at the sport to become the mainstay of Indian Olympic Games in the years to come. All along, Manipur, and the rest of the Northeast, has played a role far less significant than what it should have. Maybe not in womens boxing, where MC Mary Kom and, to a lesser extent, Sarita Devi, have been giants, but certainly in mens boxing. Blame it on the disturbed political, economic and social situation in the region, and what could have been Indias strongest sporting centre of excellence lags behind, surviving on the largesse of the armed forces, which employs young from the region for their sporting prowess. Thankfully. All these stories, and more, come together in my story about Indian boxing. Its not a definitive history of the sport. It isnt a biography of Vijender or Bhiwani either. Over an above everything, I would think, its an appreciation of all that is good, bad, ugly and beautiful about boxing in India, written by a fan masquerading as a journalist. Bhiwani is at its core. It doesnt need to be. Maybe Manipur will be the next junction. The story will change then. Or, maybe not. Maybe Haryana and Manipur can live together as the two boxing centres of excellence. All the better for India then. T

Spinning yarns and cricketing tales

ND this is Fardeep Singh, the great Indian cricketer, Sir Richard said, introducing the third person - a stocky Indian, complete with navy blue turban, beard, and a gurus piercing jet-black eyes. He stood up and bowed. Good evening, Jeremy, his breath was heavy with garlic. Im sorry, I said. I have to say that I dont know anything about cricket, I really dont. Youll have to count me out. But Im sure it must be a very good game. Oh, do not worry, said Fardeep, wobbling his head. There is no problem here. Many people, they think cricket is boring because nothing ever seems to happen. But it does. Cricket is like a still pool - with the life bubbling under the surface. He narrowed his eyes and waggled his fingers horizontally in front of him like something swimming. You are a manager so you probably like chess, yes? But does anything happen in chess? No. It seems very still like cricket. The pieces stand on the board and do not move. But the mind moves. The mind is very active. It must think so many different things on so many different levels. Then when something does happen, it happens in a terrifyingly short flash of time. His eyes glinted as he flung his arms wide in delight, holding the pose to us all. But I cant do it. I dont know anything about cricket, I reiterated. Never mind, I can teach you what to do, said Fardeep. There is no problem here. Too many people think that it is the sport of a few. It is not. It is for all. When they realise that it is part of their culture, their history, then they will embrace it with open arms. Watch now. I will show you something special now. I will show you the three deliveries of the great Jadugar Singh from many years ago. He reached out for some leftover kebab and bhaji, and squeezed it together in his hand. What do you mean Jadugar Singh? That doesnt seem a proper Sikh name, said Claire, raising an eyebrow. Oh, do not worry. This was long before then, long before the Sikhs prop-

iNKPOT
CHAPTER 1
EXTRACT

GUILE AND SPIN (A cricket novel)

Stuart Larner Cricket International, 2012 3.96, 315 pages Kindle edition/E-book
fried onion that he was firming between his fingers. Fardeep flicked the hardened ball of food against his palm so that it gripped and spun vertically up his hand to the end of his fingers where he caught it. Claire squealed with delight. He looked to each of us in turn for our reactions before he leaned forward to make himself heard above a loud peak of conversation from the table behind. These three deliveries, he taught them to his son before he died, and so they were passed on down the generations. Then my father taught them to me. They are the most revered of all the secret deliveries of the spinners of the Parthan

erly got started, and long before the English think they brought cricket to India. He was bowling long before your Battle of Hastings, dismissed Fardeep as he squeezed the food hard into a ball, soaking the oil off onto a napkin. Closing his eyes, he touched the ball to his brow below the bottom of his turban, as if he was making a magical spell, loudly sucking on some of the beard around his bottom lip. I wondered whether it was a joke, or a new way of

saying grace, as he started to rolled the ball in between his hands to firm it up. Jadugar Singh was a great cricketer and one of the first spin bowlers in early Indian cricket. He could bowl a ball whose spin would hypnotise a tiger in mid-pounce. I looked at the others at our table in turn. They were all studying Fardeep intently. None dared to speak, all of us as malleable in his presence as though we were that ball of kebab and

Rajas. Few people have heard of these, and even fewer can bowl them. Sounds like they were the original Kings of Spin, Claire said. There was suddenly a striking silence from the table behind indicating they were listening in. First there is the scorpion. It will appear to drop just before it pitches and then shoot forward to sting you with its tail, he said, holding a knife in his down-turned left hand like a small bat. Oh, scorpions! I dont like scorpions. Theyre not very nice. Not very nice at all. Theyre poisonous too. She grimaced. A cascade of metal sitar notes fell opportunely from the loudspeakers as if to announce his presentation. Fortuitous, or perhaps he recognised the track and knew the music well. With a complex twist of his right wrist, he tossed the ball onto his plate and it accelerated after the bounce so quickly and sharply towards him that he hardly had time to parry it with his knife. See. You must be on your guard. See. It will shoot like a spear along the ground. So you must play forward and use your bat like a shield. Like this, see. He motioned with his knife again as I imagined all great cricketers do when they are talking about dangerous kebabs at the dinner table. I heard someone behind me say, Did yuh cop that?" Fardeep looked over to see the interest from the other table, and sensed a growing audience. Holding the ball up for all to see under the wall-lamp, he rolled it in his fingers with large gestures as the tabla rhythm picked up louder and faster. I need to get this ball really smooth so you will see there are no tricks, he announced. It is all spin. Feeling that I might be blocking Fardeeps view of the table behind, I made myself smaller in my chair. Claire leant forward to whisper urgently to me. Hey, dont do that! Youll only encourage them, and they dont need it. Second, there is the crab. It will roll sideways and change direction. So you must watch it with your bat and you

must handle it carefully when it is near. Crabs? I dont like crabs. I got nipped on the toe once by a crab in a rockpool in Scarborough when I was young. She grimaced. Yes, and if you do not watch it carefully it will nip you again, Fardeep laughed. Your bat must be like a net when you guide the crab away. You see it will be trying to get under my bat now. Watch. He gripped the kebab in a slightly different manner and tossed it onto the plate, and the kebab spun on its own axis. As he prodded it with his knife it ran away from him, circling all the way round the edge of the plate to return to his knife. There was a murmur of Oi mate, cool! from behind as Fardeeps kebab bounced around in response to his prodding. Next, he waved the ball in the air at both tables. Third, and most dangerous of all, there is the cobra. It will bounce and then spit at you. You must be like a mongoose if you want to play the cobra. You must be ready and when it strikes then you must have your bat up high to strike back. Oh, I certainly dont like snakes, Claire said. Theyre horrible. Especially poisonous ones, the ones they charm. But I like mongooses. Or do you call them mongeese? I think theyre cute, like meerkats. Raising his knife high he flicked the kebab hard onto the plate. As it bounced up into the air he struck it with perfect timing across the room. It hit the wall with a splat. Good shot! came from the table behind. I turned and caught the eye of one of the lads. He had a fat face and bulky shoulders and was raising a glass of lager in his fist. His eyes lit up as he chirped Heehaw! Cop that! Go for it, mate! He had a long scar on his right cheek that changed into a curl as he laughed. The waiter hurried across to clear our table. He immediately took the kebab dish saying, You like food, sir? Sir Richard and I muttered in agreement and gave our order. T NElit review has not made any editorial changes to the extract