The wedding of Indian men’s cricket captain Virat Kohli and actor Anushka Sharma in Italy earlier this week was greeted in traditional and social media with much alacrity, with their tasteful wedding photographs going viral online. It also reminded many of ‘Tiger’ Pataudi and Sharmila Tagore’s fairy tale wedding in 1969. There have been other such romantic unions as well — Mohammad Azharuddin and Sangeeta Bijlani, Harbajan Singh and Geeta Basra, and more recently Zaheer Khan and Sagarika Ghatge. Though cricket and cinema are arguably the two lodestars of Indian popular imagination, few films have been made on the sport.
Of course, at the top of the list of cricket films is Lagaan (2001), a classic of the historical, sport and romantic drama, shot with an epic canvas, which lost out narrowly in the Oscar race. Since then, others have followed: M S Dhoni: The Untold Story (2016), Azhar (2016), and Sachin: A Billion Dreams (2017). Not all of them are equally good. Two smaller films — Ferrari ki Sawaari (2012) and Iqbal (2005) — were better made, exploring the dreams of the common man often so intricately woven with the game of kings. They, however, did not really set the box office ringing.
A possible reason why cricket has failed to make it to the silver screen more frequently is how notoriously difficult the sport is to shoot. Imagine trying to recreate a match, such the 2001 Calcutta Test between India and Australia, which remains etched in the memory of fans. How do you expect to recreate Harbajan’s hat-trick in the first innings, the exploits of Laxman and Dravid on Day Four, and even the now over-shadowed batting of Steve Waugh with Jason Gillespie and Glenn McGrath? But back in the 1970s, when it was even more difficult to shoot a cricket match, two films — Chhoti si Baat (1975) and Gol Maal (1979) — used India’s obsession with the sport, especially star batsman Sunil Gavaskar, in a telling manner.
Before we look at the films, however, it might be interesting to take a look at India’s cricket history a bit. We had started playing Tests in 1932, but managed to win our first match only 20 years later. Even then, our record — at home and away — was hardly anything to write home about. The 1983 World Cup was still more than a decade away. Then, in 1971, a 21-year-old burst on to the scene, opening the batting for India then touring West Indies, and playing the fearsome Caribbean pace attack with aplomb. Though Sunny’s subsequent tour of England was mostly a disappointment, he had batted his way into the hearts and imaginations of Indian cricket fans. Soon enough, Sunny would start making cameos in films, without even appearing in them.
In Basu Chatterjee’s Chhoti si Baat (1975), the bashful accountant Arun (Amol Palekar), with his all-consuming crush on Prabha (Vidya Sinha), encounters an insurmountable hurdle at work. At the Jackson-Tolaram company, all employees — from the peon to the junior officer to managers — care only for cricket even as the cost of their careers. Almost everyone is carrying a radio and listening to the match commentary. The peon doesn’t greet Arun; his junior snubs him; and his manager questions him about a colleague who has been missing work. “He must be at the cricket match,” says the manager. But as soon as Arun exits his cabin, he pulls out a radio and starts listening to the game.
Cricket — and by extension sports and games — becomes a metaphor for the kind of young men who are successful in their work and in life. Arun’s competitor for Prabha’s affections, Nagesh (Ashrani), is a champion at table tennis and chess. A desperate Arun seeks the help of Colonel Julius Nagendranath Wilfred Singh (Ashok Kumar) — a mentor for hapless young men in love, but also for superstars such as Amitabh Bachchan. Colonel Singh teaches Arun to play the part of the desirable young man — he might not be able to defeat Nagesh fair and square, but does acquire a few tricks to make the playing field more level. Even though the audience is likely to root for the born-again Arun, who wins the affection of Prabha through his swagger, one cannot help but wonder: How much of this new persona is Arun? Is he only playing at it, or has he actually transformed?
Another film, where playing — with all its connotations of performance — is at the centre of the narrative is Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Gol Maal (1979). Gavaskar is spoken of by protagonist, Ramprasad Sharma (Palekar), and also another character. In the iconic interview scene, Bhavan Shankar (Utpal Dutt) is confronted by a candidate who cares less about accountancy and more about sports. “I am writing a book on Indian cricketers,” he says, adding: “Sunny — Sunil Gavaskar — was my classmate.” This candidate’s attempt to impress a prospective employer through his knowledge of sports is doomed from the start — the scene gains comic power because the audience has already been told that Bhavan Shankar thinks young people who concentrate on their work, and not sports and other such distractions. Ramprasad, duly trained by his Doctor Mama, pretends to be completely ignorant of cricket or football, though we know he is a sports lover: He pretends to hear Pele’s name as that of Dr Rele, a famous economist. While this performance lands him the job, it also entangles Ramprasad in a skein from which there is no easy deliverance.
The idea of performance in sports and films (another major leitmotif in Chhoti si Baat and Gol Maal) is somewhat akin to performance in the corporate sector, where the protagonists of both films are employed. In both spheres, good performance — measured through set standards and scores — is rewarded. Failure to meet these standards is ridiculed; those failing are often not the objects of our empathy. Success in professional life is also closely linked to success in personal life. A hesitant Arun — or a sanskari Ramprasad — is unlikely to win the girl either. But even as we cheer the transformed protagonists of these films, we are left wondering: What emotional price must they pay for their success? And, what of those who can’t play this game?