Bob’s Banter
By Robert Clements
There was turmoil in the Mohan household the other evening. Not the ordinary turmoil of misplaced slippers or forgotten school fees, but a storm that could have flattened the neighbour’s papaya tree. For the Mohans had just discovered something shocking: their two sons had returned from playing cricket with the neighborhood bullies.
“Playing cricket with them?” thundered Mrs. Mohan, rolling pin still in hand from her half-made chapatis. “How could you? Don’t you remember they harassed your sister last year? Don’t you remember how they roughed up your father outside the ration shop?”
The elder son shuffled uneasily, but with the bravery of a batsman facing a bouncer without a helmet, he pulled out a wad of notes. “But Ma,” he said, proudly jingling the coins, “they paid us good money to play. Look, here’s the cash!”
“And Ma,” added the younger one, puffing out his chest with the righteousness of a saint defending the Ten Commandments, “we didn’t even shake their hands after the match!”
The transformation on Mrs. Mohan’s face was faster than India’s collapse in the last five overs of a World Cup semi-final. A smile spread across her lips, her anger evaporated like ghee on a hot tawa. She counted the money carefully, tucked it into her little waist purse, and declared: “Then it’s alright! Let them do what they want—but don’t you ever shake their hands after cricket!”
And there, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of the recent Indo-Pak cricket encounter. On the field, rivals for ninety overs. Off the field, business partners counting the revenue from sponsors, broadcasters, and ticket sales.
We, the fans, were Mrs. Mohan—angry about the fights, recalling the insults, repeating the old wounds—but beaming with joy because, after all, the money came home. And yes, we found moral comfort in the one fig leaf left: We didn’t shake hands.
The Sacred Non-Handshake
Ah, how noble! We can cheer together, share dressing rooms in the IPL, bat for each other’s franchises, and even exchange sly smiles at the toss. But extend a hand? Never! That would be betrayal of the nation, dishonour to the flag, and perhaps, worst of all, a trending hashtag.
It’s almost biblical in its purity—our new commandment: Thou shalt not extend thy hand across the border, except to collect the prize money.
Strange, isn’t it? Gandhi shook hands with the British even while demanding they quit India. Mandela shook hands with the very men who jailed him for 27 years. Reagan and Gorbachev shook hands while their missiles still pointed at each other. But we? We discovered the ultimate diplomatic weapon: folded arms and sweaty palms resolutely kept apart.
Of Families and Franchises
I sometimes wonder, do these players get their lessons in diplomacy from the Mohans themselves? “Yes beta, you can borrow sugar from the neighbour, but never wish them good morning.”
Our cricketers hit sixes, collect man-of-the-match awards, smile for the sponsors’ cameras, and then walk away pretending their hands have suddenly contracted arthritis. After all, handshakes are dangerous. You might catch germs. Or worse—peace.
Meanwhile, the same players fly back, slip into IPL jerseys, and suddenly discover their fingers are working fine again. Then, they shake hands, hug, and pose for selfies with the same “enemy” across the boundary. Why? Because there’s money on the table, and like Mrs. Mohan, we fans nod approvingly as long as the purse is getting fatter.
The Mother of All Hypocrisies
And how like Mrs. Mohan we are as a nation. We rail, we rant, we rage against the neighbour. “They did this, they did that, they can never be trusted.” But show us a game of cricket, sprinkle some cash, and suddenly our voices soften: “At least they didn’t shake hands!”
It’s the kind of moral victory we Indians love: symbolic, hollow, and completely useless. We’ll lose wickets like ninepins, we’ll drop catches like hot coal, but as long as the handshake is avoided, we walk away declaring ourselves victors in spirit.
Mrs. Mohan would be proud.
The Business of Rivalry
Make no mistake—this isn’t about cricket, it’s about commerce. The only match truly being played is on the balance sheets. Television rights skyrocket, sponsors beam, broadcasters raise advertising rates, and both cricket boards chuckle at their swelling bank accounts.
We, the emotional spectators, sit glued to the TV screens, thumping our chests, forwarding memes, and debating on WhatsApp groups. Meanwhile, the real game is happening in the boardrooms. There, hands are not only shaken but also firmly clasped as deals are signed and money exchanged.
If cricket is a religion in India, then its god isn’t bat or ball—it’s the banknote.
Imagine the UN With Our Rules
Sometimes I imagine what would happen if the United Nations adopted our cricketing philosophy. Picture this: nations at war, leaders glaring across tables. No treaties, no peace accords, no diplomatic ties—just a ceremonial declaration: “We will continue to fight, but don’t worry, Ma, we won’t shake hands.”
Wars would drag on, bullets would fly, but hands? Firmly pocketed. And the world would clap at such spine-tingling moral discipline.
The Only Score That Matters
So, what did we really learn from this match? That cricket is no longer just a sport; it is the theatre where our hypocrisies are played out. It is where nationalism is packaged, sold, and consumed like popcorn.
And as long as the crowd roars, the advertisers pay, and the money flows, everyone goes home happy. Everyone, except perhaps the game of cricket itself.
Maybe next time, instead of staring at the scoreboard, we should take a peek at the balance sheets. Because in this game, Ma, the only ones shaking hands are the ones whose hands are shaking as they count the money…!
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