One more IPL. The WWF of cricket, except that it’s not fixed (hopefully). The equivalent of a soccer game reduced to five penalty kicks for each side. But what the hell, it’s good timepass. The first time around, I was initially a sceptic, but was converted in just a few days. Above all, it solves that very important—in fact fundamental-to-life question: What do I watch on TV tonight? Relationships have broken up over this dispute. IPL is the cricket that women with zero interest in the game, women who view their partners’ obsession with cricket as a serious character flaw, women who think they are competing with cricket for their loved men’s love—yes, IPL, even they can see and enjoy, or at least feel mildly indulgent about the goggle-eyed cheering and cursing fool who’s sitting next to her. Yuvraj Singh hitting six sixes off six balls—that, anyone can get. No rocket science. You don’t have to endure your man’s paeans to the perfect forward defensive push of Rahul Dravid, or explanations of elbows high, bat and pad together, head still, and the difference between long leg and deep fine leg and all that crap.

IPL. W.G. Grace must be spinning in his grave. Could that imperious gentleman with the bushiest beard in history have ever imagined that such crassness could be imposed on this noble game? Neville Cardus, if he had been alive, would surely have gone looking for a firm ceiling fan and a sturdy rope. Though I think a Ranjitsinghji or a Keith Miller would have enjoyed it. This is cricket stripped of all frills, down to a gut-level gully-level game that all Indian men have played as boys. The rules are so simple that an infant can get it. This is cricket for the non-thinking man, cricket shorn of all history, indeed cocking a snook at all history. This is cricket for the bad boys, the backbenchers.

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