I have been on a hunt for the Betrayed Billion. Since Thursday morning, I have searched — on the streets, on rooftops, online, on my couch, under my couch. My abacus at the ready, I have looked and looked. Because these past two days I’ve been told, repeatedly and authoritatively, that a billion souls have been devastated and betrayed by the actions of three idiot men.
It’s strange, because life in my corner of Mumbai seems to carry on at about the usual rate of devastation. Yet, all I hear and read from our increasingly incestuous news channels and newspapers is that the national heart has been cleaved, a billion people un-moored from their sense of self because of this sudden renunciation of the standards of propriety, justice, fair play and financial probity that the Indian Premier League has always set.
To be betrayed means you had to have reposed a significant degree of faith. Since inception, the IPL has been anything but a receptacle of moral trust. I should know. I’ve spent most of my evenings these past five weeks watching the damned thing, ignoring the girlfriend’s protests, sometimes even catching two games at a time. For most people, even avid cricket fans, I suspect the IPL is something to turn to at a loose moment: there’s a limit to the number of times can you watch a seven-foot West Indian shatter the confidence of an emaciated medium-quick from Saurashtra.
Most of this nation, I think, sees this tournament for what it is: a giant carnival of capitalism, one that comes with a little cricket attached. We like the cricket, we like the cheerleaders — I personally have fallen deeply in love with presenter Rochelle Rao — we like the insane-asylum-inflections of some of the commentators, but we don’t take it all that seriously.
So why all this frothing and foaming since news dropped of spot-fixing? It seems to me that the ones who are so traumatised are either beneficiaries of the status quo or hopelessly inept, questioning only the surface, never the structure. Why are there hour-long prime time interviews with BCCI chief N. Srinivasan, in which he is asked a series of questions about these players, their families, the police and bookies but none of the angry phrasing and righteous spittle is directed at the fact that he owns a team in the league and also sits as president of the BCCI? Why is there no conflict of interest when his franchise captain (also the national team captain) owns one of the biggest sporting agencies in the country and stocks his teams with players from it?
Or, before getting on Sreesanth’s back, perhaps we can have a frank discussion about the ownership structures of most of the teams. If you ever manage to get your hands on one of these flowcharts, don’t let it pass you by. It is truly edifying, a wonderful muddle of offshore accounts and shell companies all joined together by twisting arrows, financial structures of such magnificent complexity that Bernie Madoff would smile.
What Sreesanth, Chandila and Chavan did was inexcusable. Ban them forever, if you must. But let us inject context into this conversation. Was I the only one discomfited by the shot played on loop all Thursday evening, of the Three Fixeteers being frog-marched into the police station, heads shrouded in black in the manner of accused terrorists?
It fit both the hysteria of the moment and the beheading-by-media that concurrently took place. Yet this is all misplaced furore. There is a serious problem with amplification in our electronic media. On television, any issue determined to be of national interest gets the same treatment. It reminds me of a mob in a particularly good episode of South Park. Helicopters! Rabble Rabble Rabble. Coal! Rabble Rabble Rabble. Rape! Rabble Rabble Rabble. Fixing! Rabble Rab….
If we discuss everything from terrorist attacks to pyjama cricket at the same decibel level — because that is what the paymasters demand — we end up equating them all. I, for one, was more bothered by a former air chief allegedly lowering specifications so that a Rs 3,600 crore contract could be awarded to a favoured company for 12 VVIP helicopters. I was even more bothered that VVIPs believed themselves very, very important enough to be deserving of Rs 300 crore helicopters bought with taxpayer money. Yet on television everything is accorded the same outrage.
As ever, the real problems will not be addressed. Dawood will be trotted out, convenient bogeyman that he is for all that ails India and Sanjay Dutt. Which is not to suggest he is not involved. He will have his finger in this pie as well, but are you surprised? He is a mobster and a determined enemy of this country. What about the conditions that allow him to thrive? Who is being bribed so that the illegal betting market in India—so big that a day’s betting would easily buy those 12 choppers for our VVIPs—continues to flourish?
When Sports Illustrated carried a comprehensive investigation into it a couple of years ago, it was ignored because too many vested interests were being shaken up. And perhaps also because the bookies interviewed in the piece suggested that one glorious recent moment, the semi-final victory over Pakistan in Chandigarh, a match when Sachin Tendulkar top scored after being dropped four times, was also fixed.
It’s obvious that there is no lack of information, but there is a lack of political will. So I will extend, then, a little sympathy for the devil. Sreesanth and the other two have been stupid, and they should suffer for it; the Keralite especially, because he has made a good living from the game. But imagine you have spent your life playing a game yet remained on the edges of its biggest bounties.
Imagine you are smack in the middle of a bloated, overdone tournament, and someone offers you half a crore to bowl one quickly-forgotten over a little awry. We go on about these players’ betrayal of their team, but politicians have sold the country for less.
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