It takes a crowd

Yesterday, I left the compound to have lunch at a friend's house in Siolim. It was the first time I met anyone in Goa who was interested in the IPL. The waiters where I'm staying keep tabs on what's going on; they dutifully ask me what I thought of the cricket every morning, and I see them huddled in front of a flickering blue screen when I walk back to my room after dinner, but they themselves don't have any great affiliations to any of the teams. It's football they love, not cricket.

V, my friend in Siolim, is a newspaperman turned photographer turned entrepreneur. He's lived in Goa for 12 years, and his latest project - a renovated old Goa house in the style of Geoffrey Bawa, sports flat-screen televisions in each of the bedrooms. It's been a while since I encountered a television screen I didn't have to squint at, and of course, it's only recently that I've been able to hear with both ears again, so yesterday was really a revelatory day of cricket for me. I watched the first half of the Chennai Super Kings and Delhi Daredevils game in full surround sound, nibbling on caramel custard and being able to look over to the person next to me for a reaction. And I have to say that the experience was far more enjoyable than squatting in front of a TV by myself with the volume on low, pouncing on the mute button whenever the advertisements come on.

The thing about the IPL is that it requires an audience. It needs a brotherhood, or a sisterhood, or a peoplehood. It's not like watching a movie, which is often better alone because the experience is intensified. With sport, a solitary watch is a lonely venture. You see the throngs in the stadium, you hear the chants and cheers, and part of you longs to be there and to feel those vibes of energy. When you are watching alone and you witness something wonderful - Matthew Hayden hitting a six or Lakshmipathy Balaji taking a wicket, for instance, the most you can do is give a little clap, or a short yelp of joy. It's really quite unsatisfactory, because what you really want to be doing is jumping up and down with the crowds, whistling, hugging a stranger.

There was no jumping up and down in V's house in Siolim but there was a continuous stream of commentary between him and me. Some of it was to do with cricket, the rest was meandering conversation, but ultimately it all came down to the play at hand. Even though our team, the Super Kings, eventually lost, the shared experience of watching made it somewhat less disappointing. I think that as human beings we're probably genetically wired to be able to deal with sensations of victory and defeat better when we are surrounded by people with similar emotions. It sometimes has disastrous consequences, like football riots, when the anger of loss is vented in very negative ways. But by and large this kinship created by watching and following a sport (especially a team sport) is a very powerful human response, and something that has the ability to bind the most disparate people from all over the world.

Today is my last day in Goa, and I'm more than a little dejected about it. No more waking up to the sound of the waves, no more sunset walks on the beach. No more squinting at the smallest TV in the world either. I've just sat down to breakfast, and Vishnu, one of the waiters, has breathlessly recounted the exciting finish to the Royals-Knight Riders match. He looked at me blankly, as if to say, "You mean to say you slept through the most exciting game of the season so far?" Ulp. I'm afraid I did. Perhaps I've underestimated the football lovers after all.