Posts Tagged ‘Sports’

Cricket: India versus Sri Lanka: Bigger than the Super Bowl (and a lot of other things, too)

June 27, 2011

You think the Super Bowl is a big event?

At least half of the 300 million people in the USA tune in for the country’s biggest sporting event each year. There’s a two-week buildup to the championship game of America’s most popular sport; there’s no escaping the conversations in the days before the game. It’s the crown jewel of American sporting events. Everyone knows about it. And it happens every year.

But the spectacle is exclusively American. Unlike premier events in other major sports – such as basketball’s NBA Finals or tennis’ U.S. Open – no one but North Americans know or care about it. Half of the people who watch the Super Bowl would admit they only do so for its famous commercials and the halftime show. There’s a difference, see, between an event everyone knows about and one everyone cares about.

In India, not only does everyone know about the Cricket World Cup, everyone cares.

The only single-sport event that compares to the Cricket World Cup is soccer’s FIFA World Cup. In fact, the international football tournament eclipses cricket in both number of viewers and countries in which the tournament is relevant.

But there is no other country in the world with as many people that care about one particular sport as India.

And on 2 April, India was in the final of the sport’s premier event. In Mumbai.

This was certainly going to be a home game.

———

It’s an eight-hour match, but I planned to keep my eyes fixated on every ball bowled. My host family had recently bought a new HD TV, and everyone in the household, including me, was engrossed in the action.

Sri Lanka wins the opening coin toss and opts to bat first. Early on, things look good for India, and they keep Sri Lanka’s total low. But Sri Lanka picks up their strike rate towards the end of their innings, and as Sri Lanka’s Mahela Jayawardene finishes Sri Lanka’s innings with a stoic “6”, winning looks like it will be a difficult task for India.

Throughout the match, Franzi and Anaïs text me, asking for explanations of what’s going on. Neither is a cricket fan. That means something. When non-sports fans are so invested in the outcome of a match, there must be something significant about its result. Cricket is on almost everyday in India, but this is not an ordinary match. Everyone is watching – even the foreigners who know nothing of yorkers, dot balls and cover drives.

This game matters.

India’s innings begins. The team’s two opening batsmen – Virender Sehwag and Sachin Tendulkar, two of the world’s best cricketers – are out within the first few overs. It’s like if the Packers had lost both Aaron Rodgers and Donald Driver five minutes into the third quarter of the Super Bowl. Like the Spanish football team losing David Villa and Andrés Iniesta five minutes into the second half of the World Cup final.

Sri Lanka’s blond-dreadlocked fast bowler – Lasith Malinga – is responsible for Tendulkar’s wicket. I inform Franzi, but she’s already heard. “I really dislike this crazy hair mob guy for that!” she tells me.

For a good hour or so, an India win looks improbable. 1.2 billion people are stunned. For now, everything depends on Virat Kohli and Gautam Gambhir, and whether they can amass the rest of the 260-some runs required to win. As the overs pass, the required rate begins to increase ominously. Kohli performs well, but then his wicket is the third to be taken.

MS Dhoni enters as Kohli’s replacement.

At that moment, the game changes.

Dhoni is the face most synonymous with Indian cricket, the face you’re most likely to see in advertisements across the country. The wicket-keeper and captain, he is arguably the most important player on the field. Cricket’s team captains are like baseball’s extinct breed of player-managers, the ones held most responsible for their team’s performance. Dhoni has made some questionable decisions in the tournament so far, but he’s led India this far. Now he has the chance to lead his team to the round of one.

He’s given himself that chance.

See, Dhoni has put himself in early. Yuvraj Singh, who would later be named MVP of the tournament, is listed ahead of Dhoni in the order, but the captain wants to be on the field with the game on the line. It’s a legal move in cricket, and a bold one.

Dhoni proceeds to lead his team to the finish line.

First with Gambhir as his partner, then with Singh, the captain plays the best innings of his life in the most important game of his life. India’s required run rate – the best measure of the feasibility of India’s win – decreases. That’s good. Soon it’s on par with the completed run rate. And then India needs just a run to win with seven balls remaining. Dhoni’s on strike.

Dhoni hits the ball high in the Mumbai air. The fans anticipate the result long before the ball lands about 12 rows deep. An entire country rises together.

Six runs. India wins the World Cup.

Franzi texts me moments later.

“INDIA WON!!! 🙂 I FREAKING LOVE THIS COUNTRY!”

Me too.

———

I’d been rooting for India the whole time. I wanted them to win because they were my team, as much a part of my heart now as the Chicago Cubs have been for years. But I was also keen to see what the aftermath of an Indian victory would look like, and how it would compare to the celebration three days earlier after the Pakistan win.

It’s better.

Less than a minute after Dhoni’s six, I stick my head outside and just listen. The firecrackers are louder and last longer than the ones set off at Diwali. The horns I’m hearing are not car horns – the usual – but air horns squeezed for no reason but celebration. Music is being blared from so many portals I can’t discern a single song. So many people are shouting and screaming in the streets, it sounds a never-ending roar, as if all 33,000 fans in Mumbai’s Wankhede Stadium had been picked up and dropped blocks from our house.

“IN-DI-AAAA IN-DIA!!!”

My host family is watching the postgame show as intently as they watched the game. Tendulkar is being paraded around the field on his teammates shoulders, the only hole on his impressive cricket resume just having been filled. Players and coaches spray champagne, conduct interviews, and make laps around the field. The trophy is lifted into the air. I look into my host grandparents’ eyes, and they seem to be a little wet.

I go out into the street and watch the party. Standing atop a median on the corner of the intersection, I get a good view of Shankar Nagar square, grateful my height gives me an advantage over the many Indians around me. Normally one of Nagpur’s better-functioning intersections, the square has been absolutely overtaken by humanity. The scene is like the aftermath of the Pakistan win, but somehow more…complete. People aren’t holding back. Men are dancing everywhere to whatever tune is being played – in cars with open windows, standing atop motorcycles, or with both feet jumping on the ground. I pity whatever vehicles need to get through; drivers are bemoaning the fact they didn’t take a shortcut. Saket-dada disappears into the crowd somewhere, and doesn’t return until he calls for me to unlock the door at 2 a.m.

At home, we celebrate with ice cream for the second time in four nights. We watch the news, where news of celebrations similar to those in Nagpur are pouring in. The reporter in Delhi is shouting desperately above the hysterical crowd, which the videographer is having trouble shooting due to the crowd’s inability to stay still. It’s like this all over India. 1.2 billion people are rejoicing. To them, there is no better place in the world to be right now than India. And I have to agree. There is no better place to be.

As I say goodnight to my host dad that evening, I try to find some words to put the day in perspective.

“Once in a lifetime,” I tell him. “That’s all I can say.”

🙂

Cricket: India versus Pakistan: The aftermath of winning and losing

June 26, 2011

Continued… From 30 March, 2011

“India versus Pakistan. The greatest rivalry in the world of sports.”

I thought it rather haughty and cricket-centric of the local papers to proclaim this. After all, we have rivalries in America. The NBA has Lakers-Celtics. College basketball has Duke-North Carolina. Baseball has Yankees-Red Sox. I spent my childhood immersed in the rivalries of every sport, every season. These were prestigious rivalries, deep-rooted in their fans. I knew the fervor with which fans cheered their teams against the archenemy. I knew how much it meant for your favorite team to win those games. And I knew how much it hurt to lose.

Then I watched India and Pakistan play for a spot in the final of the Cricket World Cup.

I now firmly believe there is no rivalry in any sport, anywhere in the world, that means more than India-Pakistan cricket.

India was batting first. Sachin Tendulkar, perhaps the greatest cricketer of this generation, was on strike. Our living room TV had my host family in hypnosis. Every eyeball in the subcontinent was watching every minute of the matchup – at least if not, that’s the impression I got from the silence outside. After ten overs or so, I left home and went to watch the match with some friends in a public location. The streets were devoid of activity. No rickshaw bells or vegetable vendors. No mopeds or cars. No cows – even they seemed preoccupied with the match.

Nothing but coolers and the faint sounds of the match they were obscuring.

Everyone in India was watching. And there are 1.2 billion people in India.

It takes a lot to get India to shut up and shut itself in like this.

It’s not so much what the teams were playing for as the fact that they were playing at all. So the stakes only increased with a matchup against Sri Lanka (who had defeated New Zealand in the other semifinal) in the World Cup final on the line. In a matter of days, the loser might see their most hated rival spraying champagne, at the top of the cricket world. The fans of whichever South Asian team didn’t make the final would certainly become Sri Lanka fans, if only for the day.

It’s precisely this situation – how you feel after the rivalry game – that tells you what a rivalry really means.

Case in point: American football’s 2011 NFC Championship Game.

I am a fan of the Chicago Bears. Not quite a diehard fan – that’s a title I’d reserve for only the Chicago Cubs baseball team – but still a fan enough to follow the team from India. When it comes to American football, I’m a Bears fan, and I was satisfied to learn they’d made it to the final four of the sport’s annual tournament. A berth in the Super Bowl – the sport’s annual championship – was just a win away.

The Bears’ opponent? The Green Bay Packers.

What a win that would have to be.

Bears-Packers is another one of those rivalries that you grow up with as a kid in America. The teams share at least two of their sixteen contests every year, and each matchup means a little more than the other ones. Players give it a little extra when they see the other team’s jerseys across from them. And the fans, I think, root a little harder too.

India doesn’t care much for American football, so of course I had no chance of catching the game live. I logged into ESPN the day after the game with my heart pounding, and found the Super Bowl matchup set.

The Bears weren’t in it.

My heart sank. The Packers had won. America’s biggest sporting event would be played between my favorite team’s rival and a team to which I carried no allegiance – the Steelers. Green Bay had celebrated on our turf, in Chicago. And they would be playing for the biggest championship in the sport, not us.

So who did I root for in the Super Bowl?

The Packers.

Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m just not a big enough fan of the Bears. But there’s something about the Bears-Packers rivalry that goes beyond blind hatred. Fans root against the other team not because they want the other to do poorly, but because they want their own team to do well. When the two clash, the desire to win is intensified. The stakes increase because you want to say your team is better, not that the other team is worse. The rivalry has a subtle, unspoken, mutual respect. For the most part, it has peace.

Giving the Packers my fandom on loan was actually a way of validating the Bears’ loss, as if a Packers championship would make the Bears’ season worth a little more. The Bears’ season was unsalvageable at this point, and the Packers had ended it. That’s exactly why I rooted for the Packers. Why root against them? If you’re going to lose to anybody, you might as well lose to the best team in the sport. And when the Packers won the Super Bowl two weeks later, I felt a measure of redemption from the Bears’ loss. It provided closure.

Would I rather the Bears have been in their place? Of course. But I’m glad the Packers won the Super Bowl.

As India played Pakistan, I wondered which team I’d root for in the final if Pakistan were to win. By the same logic I’d applied to the Packers two months before, it would have to be Pakistan. But I can’t see anyone in India ever rooting for Pakistan, no matter the reason or the circumstances. In India, a Sri Lanka-Pakistan final would be overwhelmingly partisan towards Sri Lanka, geographical proximity of the island irrelevant. A Pakistan win in the final would be just as bad as its preceding loss.

I spent eight hours with my butt on the edge of my seat that day watching India and Pakistan play, wondering if I’d face that dilemma, and hoping I never would. I came home after India’s innings and watched them bowl, hoping the target they’d set would be enough for an India win.

It was.

India beat Pakistan.

Had you not known there was a cricket match going on that day, you might have thought one of India’s many festivals had been deemed to start three hours after sunset. Families, friends and strangers that had been cooped up watching the match all day came outside simultaneously. Firecrackers exploded. Car horns blared. Music and patriotic chants were sung in the streets. Vans became portable discotheques, and the streets became too crowded to navigate except by foot.

Pure, unadulterated jubilation.

I asked my host family what it’s like when India loses to Pakistan.

I’ll guess it’s good that I’ll never have to know.

🙂

To be continued…

Cricket: What’s more exciting than a World Cup match?

June 23, 2011

Continued… From 25 February, 2011

17 months ago, when I submitted my application for this exchange, my mom wrote that it would be my dream to go to a country on the verge of hosting a major international sporting event. True. But at the time, we were thinking of a different country, a different event, and a later year. Neither of us had cricket in mind.

Funny how these things work out even better than they’re planned.

The 2011 ICC Cricket World Cup took place in India, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh, and Nagpur’s state-of-the-art VCA Stadium played host to four of its matchups. With front row seats under seven dollars a ticket, a visit to one of its matchups was compulsory. No way would this sports writer miss the showcase event for the world’s second-most popular sport – especially when it’s just a rickshaw ride from home.

Three days before the North Tour, Anaïs, Brii, Franzi, Serenity and I travel 20 kilometers south of Nagpur to see Australia take on New Zealand. Jakob is already at the stadium, his driver having taken him in time for the 9:30 a.m. start time. Now the match is halfway over, and we’re walking around the complex looking for tickets. We take a peek at the playing field through a gap in the stands. Half of the seats are empty. That’s good news.

But there’s also some bad news. The men at the ticket counter are refusing to sell us tickets. At least, I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be a ticket counter. Not that it resembles one. The booth is a 100-meter walk through weeds and dirt from the fence outside the stadium, and I’ve seen outhouses larger and less shabby than this quickly constructed piece of plywood. There’s only two men inside – one is on his phone, and the other is more interested in his lunch than in talking to the five of us.

The match is halfway over, but this is a One Day International, not a college basketball game. ODIs regularly last around eight hours, and there are still four hours or so remaining. “Halftime”, so to speak, has just arrived. Even these four hours would stretch the attention span of the four fans in my company who know nothing of strike rate, yorkers or cover drives, but we’ve gone through a lot to get here. All of us are anxious to get in the stadium.

Franzi plays the pathos card. The man eating lunch waves off our pleas for tickets, giving us a lazy excuse about internet booking. We tell him about our rickshaw accident. We explain we’re exchange students. Some of us try to force out tears. Either he doesn’t understand us, he doesn’t care about us, or (most likely) both. Desperate, we lie, saying we’d flown from abroad for the sole purpose of watching this match.

The man continues to eat his samosas.

There appears to be no other option for buying tickets but this shabby small booth, save the idea of pawning overpriced seats from hawkers outside the stadium. So we don’t relent, and we continue to wrestle with this man’s lunch for his attention. After a ten-minute wait, the samosas have been swallowed and he directs us to the other man in the booth. This man has been on his cell phone since we got there, and he hands it to us as we walk towards the stadium. It seems we’re having a conversation mostly for the sake of talking – the man on the other end of the phone is saying nothing important, conversing with us simply for his own pleasure. But we can’t complain, and so we play along. He has our tickets, after all. After some time, they’re given to us.

As we walk, a great roar arises from the crowd. Hundreds of people are shouting at the top of their lungs, creating that overwhelming combination roar that usually signifies an extraordinary achievement. We can’t even hear ourselves talk. What’s happened? A wicket? A six? Did a New Zealand fielder just make a fantastic diving catch?

No. We’ve just walked past a queue of a couple hundred young Indian men, each wild-eyed and hoarse with the excitement of shouting towards us. The only thing keeping them from running at us is their queue and the uniformed police officers at the front of it.

The five of us walk past the men about four times.

Their reaction is the same each time.

Certainly we’re not the only foreigners in Nagpur for the match. People have come from all around the world to support their teams, and many of them have white skin like us. A macho brown-bearded Australia fan is wearing his country’s flag as a shirt. A group of paunchy old English fans stand idle outside a gate. I even see a foreigner wearing what is unmistakably a Chicago Cubs spring training baseball cap. I doubt anyone else in the stadium recognizes the hat for what it is.

But it’s me and my four Sheila‘s that are attracting the most attention. Or maybe they think the girls are the game’s cheerleaders.

Inside the stadium it’s not much better. We ascend the stairs to our section at field level. We have nice seats, and since the stadium is half empty, there are several seats in the lower rows to choose from. From behind our section, we stand and take in the view. It’s a nice new stadium. There’s a lot to see in front of us – namely, a cricket match.

Then in the span of about five seconds, each head in the section before us swivels backwards.

At least 1,000 eyes are simultaneously locked on us.

I’m dumbfounded. This is a cricket match, not a Miss World pageant. I point at the field and shout. “The foreigners are over there! Those foreigners are famous! Why aren’t you looking at them?” Australia is batting as I speak, and they have one of the best sides in the world.

Apparently the 1,000 accompanying ears to those 1,000 eyes take my question as a rhetorical one, because the attention on us never ceases.

We find seats that allow us to conceal our conspicuity. For a while, anyhow. We choose a patch of empty seats and sit ourselves as far from our paparazzi as possible. But the chairs around us always continue to fill, as the Indians a section or two away never seem satisfied with their original seats for some reason. Every half an hour or so, we move to an empty part of the section in pursuit of peace. But our sought solitude never lasts long.

Once we sit by a fence perpendicular to the field’s boundary. As we focus our attention on the match, dozens of young Indian men slowly gather on the other side, standing and watching us like we’re the purple polar bear exhibit at the zoo. After sitting through this for about twenty minutes, a policeman comes up the aisle to disperse them, brandishing his stick at these men with vigor. Some of the swings he took at the ground were more ferocious than those of the batsmen down on the pitch.

We end up sitting in about five different seats over the course of the match. It’s like a bizarre human version of whack-a-mole. We’re the moles. And the young Indian men around us are trying to whack us.

A TV cameraman on the field spots us while we’re sitting about ten rows back, his camera unabashedly aimed towards us. It’s apparent he wants our fair and lovely skin on television. For once, we actually don’t mind. But whenever the red light is about to turn on, the Indians in the first three rows stand up and block us from his view. This happens several times. The cameraman throws up his hands and shakes his head, exasperated. It seems the Indians in our section want to keep us a secret.

Too late. The secret’s out. Official pictures of us later end up on the internet. Friends of ours tell us we’ve ended up on TV. The world now knows we’ve been to a cricket match.

It’s a shame the match itself wasn’t too exciting, else the fans might have paid more attention to the players on the field than on us. New Zealand batted first, and the low target they set was an easy one for Australia to chase. Without too many exciting plays, we sat in the sun and watched most of the match in anticipation of a relatively easy Australia win. Australia was definitely the Goliath in this matchup. Their squad hadn’t lost a World Cup match since 1999, and they’d won three World Cups in a row.

But India played the 3-time defending champs a month later, and came out on top in a gritty quarterfinal win. A new champion would be crowned this year. Only New Zealand, India, and two other South Asian teams remained.

But most importantly, the win sent India to the semifinals of the Cricket World Cup.

Against Pakistan.

🙂

To be continued

Cricket: A new kind of fandom

February 23, 2011

Ask anyone who’s known me since the age of eight to associate one word with me, and there’s a good change “baseball” would be the first in their mind.

It’s understandable. There’s no denying my obsession with baseball and the Chicago Cubs, which began in 2001 when Sammy Sosa‘s home run hops convinced me to board the bandwagon for both. Ten years later, I have no plans to leave either one. I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit playing fantasy baseball in recent years, and it’s possible I’ve used Bleed Cubbie Blue as a timepass more than any other website. I’ve bored a number of friends with my baseball lectures on Gmail Chat (intentionally, I have to admit). That said, without my knowledge of the sport, I probably wouldn’t have won the 2010 Illinois state sports writing championship.

Then I came to India, and fell in love with a different bat and ball sport.

For seven months I’ve lived in the land where balls are bowled, not pitched. Where a ball hit over the boundary is a “6” not a home run. Where games have just one or two innings, but take between three hours and five days to play.

Cricket is king in India, and no other sport even comes close. There’s not a country in the world with more cricket fans than India. Field hockey is actually the country’s national sport, but cricket’s popularity transcends any other. Badminton, basketball and soccer have sizable followings in India, but none is even a tenth that of cricket.

Admittedly, people here pay baseball its due when I tell them what country I’m from. Pride glimmers in me every time people are quick to acknowledge the sport – usually before basketball and (American) football. At least to the outside world, baseball is still America’s national pastime, and when discussing America’s landmarks, I always put Wrigley Field up there with The Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore and The Golden Gate Bridge.

But cricket isn’t baseball.

I found myself on the learning curve for a sport for the first time in about a decade upon my arrival in India. This time, Sports Illustrated for Kids didn’t offer me much help. In the primal stages of my sports fandom I’d been eased into several games simultaneously. I acquired at least a baseline knowledge for baseball, basketball, football, hockey, golf, tennis, NASCAR and soccer, choosing to further pursue the sports in which I gained the most interest. In time, I became reasonably literate in other sports – swimming, volleyball, softball, lacrosse, track and field, cross country, field hockey. In July, I could probably have even gone on a tangent about billiards if you asked me.

But not cricket.

Before I got the news I was coming to India, I knew precisely three things about cricket: that it was played with a bat and a ball, that they used these things called wickets, and that it had something to do with tea.

I expected to learn about cricket while in India, but that didn’t keep what I learned from surprising me. The learning curve wasn’t so much steep as it was congested and full of detours. In America, baseball is packaged nicely into 30 teams belonging to 28 cities, thanks to the omnipotence of its preeminent league – MLB. You root for the team with familial ties in a familiar location, so the Chicago Cubs were a natural fit. Same for the NFL, the NBA and the NHL. You root for one club, and root against its opponent from some other North American city. It’s just how America does sports.

I ran into trouble when I applied that Western thinking to cricket. So Nagpur doesn’t have a franchise in the Indian Premier League (IPL)? Fine. I’ll just root for whatever team my host family roots for. So which one is it? The Mumbai Indians? The Deccan Chargers? The Bangalore Royal Challengers?

Eventually, I learned I’d been focusing my fandom onto a fledgling two-year-old league that used the newest, shortest and most controversial of cricket’s three main formats – T20. None of its teams had regional fanbases akin to those of American teams, and most here have chosen to root for teams with the most Indian players rather than those with geographical proximity.

The IPL is young, and has tremendous potential for growth. But real cricket fans root for their country’s team, not their city’s.

Team India is one of, if not the best cricket teams in the world. In any format, really, but Test Matches and One Day Internationals (ODIs) will get the most people to watch. There might not be anything that unites the 1.1 billion people in India better than its cricket team. For 12 months a year, up to 12 hours a day, you’ll find TVs across India tuned to cricket. Trying to find an Indian who’s not a cricket fan is like trying to find an American rooting against their country in the Olympics: they exist, but very few are willing to openly admit it.

Now the Olympics of cricket have come to South Asia. To Nagpur itself.

The Cricket World Cup is underway. And I’m going.

🙂

To be continued…

The Nagpur International Marathon: Why I woke up at 5:55 on a Sunday

February 1, 2011

The list of things that can get me out of bed at 5:55 a.m. is a short one.

Were the Chicago Cubs baseball team to play in the World Series 12 time zones away, I’d wake up early for that. Once in a lifetime experiences like sunrises on houseboats are also effective motivators to pull off the covers before dawn. And cats jumping through my window, as I discovered last week, can be very effective alarm clocks.

Add Sunday’s Nagpur International Marathon to that list.

The shade of sky outside matched my still dilated pupils as the alarm on my watch went off just before six a.m. Save Jojo and Diana, our two dobermans, no one in the house was yet awake, and going on the texts I exchanged with Anaïs, no one else was awake in her house either. I walked up to the roof and watched Nagpur wake up as the contrast in the sky slowly increased. The air was unusually still, and the early morning cold was a refreshing contrast to the afternoon heat. It was a time of day I wish my consciousness occupied more often.

Nonetheless, I had very little time to spare as I rode off towards the marathon’s start with only a general idea of my destination in mind. On a normal day, the trip would have taken about 15 minutes, but the detours I was forced to make did little to expedite my journey. By the time the time I spotted Anaïs, Franzi, Jakob, Mr. Khatri and their matching yellow T-shirts an hour after my departure, the marathon had long since begun.

This was the third time in three years a marathon was being held in my city of residence. Champaign-Urbana has hosted the Illinois Marathon the last two years, and my classmates have been active in each as participants and volunteers. I wasn’t able to attend the annual mega-event last year, as the day doubled as National College Decision Day, tripled as the day of an important Rotary conference, and quadrupled as my Senior Prom. But I did bike the 26.2-mile course for fun.

Some things about marathons are just different in India.

I think it’s safe to say the Illinois Marathon will never have race-side performances like those we were a part of Sunday morning. A group of middle-aged men in yellow T-shirts and baseball caps stood in a group by the course and cheered – or, should I say, laughed – the runners on. Somehow the four of us ended up in the middle of the Nagpur Laughter Club, spurred to join them in exorcising, exercising, exhilarating laughter yoga.

Amidst the laughter yogis was a group of sari-clad teenage girls performing a traditional dance of their own, who somehow managed to pull off stunts and dance in rhythm while stealing not-so-covert glances at the four foreigners in front of them. We were forced to join them with stunning suddenness, musically accompanying them with either metal shakers or the clapping of our hands. It was just another one of those moments that exchange students seem to have so often in India – the kind of moment that makes you think: “How did I end up here?”

But while such moments occur with regularity, my reactions to them are no longer the same.

Since arriving in India, unusual events have been occurring unannounced and unexpectedly on a regular basis. While life here crawls along persistently, interesting things continue to pop up on short notice every few days. This pattern of traveling with scant preparation has been a constant throughout the year. At first I was frustrated by India’s unique approach to time – trips to temples, cross-town visits to family members and Rotary events early in the year caught me off-guard, and thus I found it harder to enjoy them.

Until I got used to them.

As we were instructed at July’s Rotary conference, the best answer to give when asked if you want to do something is usually “yes”. Because if the answer is “no,” the next question will just be “Why not?” Arguments against doing something often take more effort than the event itself – causing one’s laziness to backfire. If you say no, the experience is lost, and you can do nothing but ask, “What if?”

That’s why I was awake at 5:55 Sunday morning, despite having slept only three and a half hours that night. That’s why I spent an hour on my bike that morning to see the marathon with my friends. I was only going to say yes.

And why not?

🙂

Click to enlarge