Enchanted by chance

I am a journalist by chance, and it’s no surprise, because throughout, the courses my life have been decided more by chance than by choice. And no matter how much I want to avoid it, chance always tricks me by chance! Now it is one of these chanceful occasions of my life that I think is worth penning down.
Earlier this week, an AFC-AIFF team visited our local cricket stadium here. Now as with small towns like Cuttack, our association here was too overwhelmed to welcome their uparwalas. People ran helter-skelter, all were advised not to chew gutkha- and spit- when the big men were around, three big cars were suitably arranged for four people, not to speak of the lunch ordered that would serve at least two football teams. Nonetheless, ‘covering’ their inspection of the Barabati Stadium was an experience of a lifetime.
(See I am a person who is a proud rider an n-th hand two-stroke bike, that at times can fly like a seagull and also sleep like a snail, so for me every special moment has to be a lifetime and if that sounds frivolous so be it.)
Anyway, as with all our associations in India, the media persons were instructed to keep away from the visiting delegation and so did all except one -and by now you must have guessed that the better-than-Tintin-reporter is me! So I, having visited the barber the day before, very pompously joined the party that was inspecting every nook and corner of the stadium. And wow, what a place it is!
I have never seen the insides of a players’ dressing room before, not even of the VVIP and corporate boxes. My seven-month stint in Kolkata with The Statesman just before the 2011 World Cup allowed me to have a peek at the unfinished changing rooms at the Eden Gardens, but a fully functional locker room evoked only one feeling – I wish I were a cricketer man! Letting the delegation go on with its work, I sat on a sofa –leather-finished mind you- and also adjusted my looks standing in front of a huge mirror. My sheer childlike mannerisms embarrassed me, but who knows when the next time comes? At least for a few seconds I rolled in a sofa on which sat some great cricketers!
So thus went on my odyssey and the hangover was still there after I had filed a 500-word thrash. I had such an odd feeling and everything I saw around seemed appealing. Very much like your new crush at school or college where even if the girl says Keats was a Victorian poet you readily question Edward Albert’s sanity. (Now there’s no misogyny involved and I am a great fan of JK Rowling and Emile Bronte.) So very much in that aesthetically blessed state I stepped out of the stadium for refreshments.
Now our Barabati has a peculiar charm, at least I felt that way then. Outside it you have a gathering of vendors who would be selling you indigenously cooked ‘phoren’ dishes. If you are a connoisseur of roadside food, then, it is the place you ought to be. By the banks of the Mahanadi, for the river is a few paces away from the stadium, you can have a very sumptuous evening if you have 20 rupees in your pocket - provided a sandwich, a poached egg and a tea are all you want.
The cool river breeze then calls you and a lonely walk by the solitary banks of the Mahanadi takes you into a reverie. The black shining water, a silent dark sky, those passing clouds and an occasional star leave you in a daze and you wonder and wonder and wonder until the cell phone rings and your boss shouts, “Why didn’t you interview any of the AFC officials? I am sure they were not happy with the ground!”