It's not cricket

As I picked up the car keys, I made the mistake of telling my wife that I was going to the neighbourhood liquor shop for some beer.

- K.C. VERMA

“Why? Don’t you already have enough?” she asked in a disapproving tone.

“Well, I do have a few cans, but this evening there are two IPL matches, and I have invited Gopu to come over. It’s more fun to watch with a friend.”

“That no-good Gopu? He's going to guzzle our beer?”

“So, all of a sudden it’s our beer, eh?” I mocked. “Gopu is a good friend; I will have you know.”

But I spoke too soon—because that day Gopu almost put himself on my list of unfriendlies. Had he been a Facebook friend, I would have certainly unfriended him.

Gopu came by in the afternoon and we settled down before the TV to watch a lot of glorious cricketing action. The first match was between two teams—one wearing red and the other blue. The batsmen were in form, the beer was cold, the atmosphere in the stadium was electric, two friends were sitting in companionable silence. What more could one ask for?

Then the missus came and flopped down by my side. She joined the affable silence, but it was too good to last.

“Why are there so many advertisements?” she asked after a while. “They are plastered all over. The players’ caps, shirts, sleeves, gloves, trousers and even their shoes! There are advertisements around the boundary, the rope, the stumps and also on the grass. This is not cricket! There are ads even on the side and bottom panels of the TV screen.”