Jason rings me on Sunday morning at eight, his tone upbeat and raring to go. I am pulled out of my slumber following a late-night social gathering with my Indian friends that had begun because I had to return a screwdriver I had borrowed ages ago. It culminated into a “You must have dinner now that you’re here, and what do you mean you won’t stay for dessert?” kind of a night. Jason’s call reminds me of a classic problem that NRIs like me are still grappling with: Why must Sunday mornings begin this early? Why do you, Jason, love your outdoor treks and adventure sports and lawn-mowing so much that an extended siesta into a weekend morning must be placed on the guillotine? I know you hit the sack by 8pm on weekday nights, Jason, and, therefore, have this surplus energy. But for us, 8pm is when our curry has come to that ideal boil, 9pm is when our kids have finished testing our patience and are finally willing to be fed, and Forever pm is when we have wiped down the kitchen and have convinced the children that the Boogeyman will come knocking at our door if the lights are not out. Hence, a Sunday morning is our sacrosanct moment of the week, when our bodies and minds want to tune into nothing, least of all have a ready response to the question Jason is about to ask me:
“What plans for the day, Bhadresh?”
I have an unusual friendship with Jason that spans half a decade but comprises not more than 10 hangouts. Five of these have been at our annual Diwali parties, where Jason spiritedly turns up in designer kurtas and a matching tilak to boot. Then there have been a couple of dinners at his place, which I stopped going to after thoroughly embarrassing myself when he once offered me some more skewers before shutting his barbecue, to which I had replied: “Oh no, thanks, or I’ll have no room for dinner.” Jason had said: “This was the dinner, Bhadresh.” Today, Jason is inviting me to one of the sports bars in Melbourne so that we can watch the India-Australia World Cup game over a few drinks.
It is so much easier to slander someone back in India, I wonder fondly
Ten years ago, I would have jumped at the offer. Today, at 40, I pick my social commitments with discretion and reluctance. Do not get me wrong. I love Jason and I love drinks and I am not Indian enough if I do not love a game of cricket, but night-outs have a love-hate relationship with a FOMO-ing middle-aged man. My wife suggests I go: “At least you won’t have the FOMO and it’s not like you’re an Energiser Bunny if you sleep 10 hours.”
Hence, the sports bar it is. Like the rest of Melbourne, still recuperating from the Australian Football League (AFL) fever that gripped it through September, the crowd in this pub is serene and somewhat indifferent to the outcome of a league contest that always matters to the cricket fanatic in me. Jason finds us a table right at the feet of the giant plasma television. He orders the first round of drinks, at which point I suddenly wonder if he has a tacit expectation that I will support Australia. He did, after all, attend my family’s citizenship ceremony six months ago at the council hall and had congratulated me “on becoming Ozzie, mayte”.
Sorry, Jason, exceptions apply. And the first exception unfolds three sips into the first beer when Virat Kohli pulls off an artistic somersault to get rid of a stunned Mitchell Marsh. I erupt in joy, froth from the beer mug splashing in the empty air between me and the surprised customers seated beside us. Suddenly self-conscious of my unabashed expression, I look around the room, ready to be reprimanded for not being true to the soil I stand on and that I should “go back to…”. But not one eyebrow is raised. It is almost as though this pub has collectively acknowledged the athletic marvel that is Kohli. Or maybe they are not sure where I am from and where I should be sent back to. It is so much easier to slander someone back in India, I wonder fondly. I walk over to the bar and order us some nachos. Over the next two hours, as the wickets start to tumble in reverence towards the unplayable turn of the turf, my mind slips down a vortex of wondering if this is what an identity crisis feels like — an intense urge to cheer for the Men in Blue while feeling equal parts awkward about it.
“Nachos for Bad Rash!” the stewardess calls out, disrupting me from my reverie.
At the innings break, Jason tries his level best to stay cheerful. “How about Indian for dinner?” he asks. I know that he knows 199 is a paltry score to defend, but he wants me to know it does not matter to him and that he will still willingly risk a late-night acidity bout from Vindaloo. “I’ve heard of this place that serves great Chicken Karahi and Chapli Kebabs,” says Jason. I stop short of correcting him. The poor guy has already spent an evening and plenty of money on a lost cause. The least I can do is not tell him that Chicken Karahi is from… never mind.
This is a night worth staying up for, dear 40s
Virat Kohli, in tandem with K.L. Rahul, took Bhadresh back to his 20s
We return to the pub after a hurried dinner and reclaim our table, just in time to see Ishan Kishan play a shot with his footwork in Chepauk and his bat flailing around in Chinnaswamy. I keep from barfing until another two wickets go down, after which I tell Jason that while it has been a delightful evening thus far, my body and mind can take it no more and I need to tuck my old bones in bed. Jason says relax, and just then Kohli spoons one to mid-wicket and a determined Marsh is under it to exact the perfect revenge… Burp. Thank God for small mercies, but this is still my cue to bolt.
“I do want to tell you that after five years of knowing me, it would’ve been swell if you could tell the difference between Indian and Pakistani cuisine. But no hard feelings,” I courteously tell a nonplussed Jason as I walk out of the door.
I dare not tune into the score on my journey home, but when I tiptoe into the house, I succumb to the temptation of seeing just how bad it is, and whoa! Kohli and K.L. Rahul have slowly and steadily brought us back into the game and me back to my 20s, when sleepiness could go take a walk. I tuck into a blanket and bring the kettle of coffee to a boil. This is a night worth staying up for, dear 40s.
When I am convinced that it is indeed India’s night — and I am not until Rahul buckles with dismay as he hits the winning six depriving himself of a well-deserved century — I message Jason an apology because my remark was unnecessary and out of place, and that I hope his team can have a win the next time around.
“My team?!” he responds, before adding: “Mate! Five years into knowing me, I wish you at least knew I’m Kiwi by origin. And yes, I’m sure my team will meet yours in the finals. Wink, wink.”
The above is a semi-fictionalised account as part of a series that documents the experience of Bhadresh (a character drawn from the life of the author) watching the 2023 ICC Men’s Cricket World Cup in Australia.
Nishant Kaushik is the author of eight novels. His latest, Bhadresh Mhatre’s Slam Book, released in September 2022. He lives in Melbourne with his wife and two sons.
