Rasta Maan in the House

Off comes the bandana. It’s time for him to let his dreads down,all four-and-a-half feet of them,which have remained untouched for over two decades. It’s not just the grass on the wicket that he knows well,I realise,as we head to the Rasta temple — a small ghetto close to the ground — where fellow Rastafarians meet for beers and an evening smoke.

Here he is no longer a curator with famous friends. He is just another thirsty Rasta Maan sharing a few laughs and a couple of joints. I accompany him on his two-hour walk back home,and he tells me about the medicinal benefits of marijuana and quotes effortlessly from Bob Marley,like his other countrymen. When I meet him the next morning at the Kensington Oval,a brief handshake is all I get. He is back at work and pleased at the sight of Ravi Rampaul and Fidel Edwards utilising the juice in the wicket,which he prepared,to full advantage.

He is only one of the many characters I meet at cricket grounds across the West Indies. Jabez is just 15 and no Rastafarian. He loiters around Sabina Park selling weed and asking Indian and the West Indian players for spare tickets,which he will sell to spectators on match-days. He readily puts his hand around any cricketer,and once he gets a few Jamaican dollars,he wishes them well for the match. Even the generally stern Rahul Dravid cannot help but smile as Jabez says,“Maan,Dravid,you are gonna score a century tomorrow man.”

But rarely has the Indian team been subjected to the kind of humourous taunts that they receive at Sabina Park,during a practice session. VVS Laxman is the batsman in the first net. He faces Pragyan Ojha,known for his leg-spin and rather unorthodox technique. He doesn’t turn the ball much but does enough to beat the veteran’s bat. The rowdy bunch cheer,“That’s it,boy. Yeah boy,he ain’t picking you boy,” each time the youngster bowls to Laxman,who manages to see the funny side of it.

The stadiums in the Caribbean are not filled to capacity as they used to be. Limited-overs cricket still attracts a fair crowd. But with the decline of West Indian cricket,gone are the days of full houses,with people even hanging from trees bordering the stadiums.

But the optimism of the fans hasn’t waned yet. Those who do turn up are either armed with bugles and conch-shells or powerful vocal chords. The old folks in particular still carry their trusty and ancient-looking transistors to the stadium. Though unlike in the past,they end up shaking their heads in disgust more often than cheering in delight.

But still if there is one part of the world where cricket can be covered better from the stands compared to the press-box — most of which are well-maintained and spacious — then it is here in the West Indies. Being a jur-na-list,does have its benefits unlike in India. Entry is free to most stands,except the designated party stands.

And each stadium in the West Indies is equipped with one. The Trini Posse Stand at the Queens Park Oval in Trinidad is among the most popular. The seats are used mainly as pedestals for making merry. Here,regardless of the action in the middle,the limin never stops. Though the DJ,a gigantic man,switches off the music whenever a ball is to be bowled. The cheerleaders or the Carib girls,as they are called,remain the cynosure of all. “How do you dance through the day in this humidity?” I ask one. “Can’t you see,I am not wearing much to feel the heat,” she replies,while posing for men brandishing their cellphone cameras.

The Mound is the party stand at Sabina Park. It covers one side of the stadium and is designed like a beach house on the sea front. It even holds a giant jacuzzi near the boundary,where bikini clad female fans provide suitable distractions to fans and players alike. Once you have paid the 4,000 Jamaican dollars to enter the Mound,alcohol is free. And the dire effects of excessive drinking are on full display.

While the young abandon their inhibitions in the party stands,the seniors generally prefer the comfort of the club-houses,which are a major feature of Caribbean venues. Here you are bound to get a history lesson or two about the glorious past of West Indies cricket. You also never know who you might bump into. At the Queens Park Club,I met Lance Gibbs,who spent the next six hours guzzling down beers and chatting about his career and the present state of West Indies cricket. I also met Curtly Ambrose,Courtney Walsh,Charlie Davis,Andy Roberts and Joel Garner at club-houses across the Caribbean.

The cheaper stands see more families or old-timers,who can’t help but lament about the state of West Indian cricket. Chris Gayle dominated most conversations here.

In the past,each stadium in the West Indies used to have an exclusive and characteristic cheerleader,supporting the home team. Those mascots have now retired. But every group still ends up with someone who leads their singing,either through loud abuses or through songs. At Sabina Park,I sat alongside a group in their sixties and sung the chorus “Keep on doing what you are doing Sammy”. The rest of the verses,in Jamaican Patois,I couldn’t decipher. At Kensington Oval,one evidently fuming fan kept hurling abuses towards the West Indian dressing room despite the hosts having saved the Test.

The mood in the stands across the Caribbean is one of sombreness rather than ecstasy. Even I have sat,just like them,holding my head following a soft dismissal of a West Indian batsman. But the Caribbean flavour and the uninhibited way of life is unmistakable even now.

“They embrace you as their own if you are good to them,” I was told by a middle-aged man donning a Rasta hat and smelling very much of local rum. And like our own Rasta Maan loves to say,“Cricket continues to be one binding force that keeps us together. And whether the team does well or not,that will never change.”