I was flying when Sachin Tendulkar made his 100th 100.

I sneaked up to the airhostess – is the captain a cricket enthusiast, can you ask him to let us know when Sachin makes his 100? Think I was still speaking to her when she got on to the intercom, mumbled something into it, and then whispered to me, with that dumb, distant airhostess smile – yes, he’ll let you know, if he finds out…

From the moment Gambhir was dismissed, I could almost smell a Sachin hundred. I could, like him, also smell the Bangladeshi bowling.

At the airport, I was watching Sachin bat on a TV perched between a baggage conveyor belt – only, no baggage there. And I thought to myself, exactly that.  

Sachin played on this TV, with no baggage.

Then in the departure lounge, another DD cricket telecast – gotta say this new Goa government is very sorted out. By the time I was boarding, Sachin was still batting.

By the time we took off, Sachin was still batting. By the time the pilot made his first announcement, I nearly jumped out of my seat. He digressed; altitude, distance, cruising – but of course, this was all a build up, nonchalant pilot was gonna round it up with, some good news folks, Sachin Tendulkar is flying on his 100^th 100 cruising at…didn’t happen.

Was that a sign that he had not scored it? No way any pilot would announce Sachin’s not-scoring-the-100, unless it’s Captain Chappell.  

Thirty minutes later, another announcement. I felt the seatbelt dig into me as my stomach and chest collectively swelled in anticipation. Gotta, gotta…

Nothing. I half dozed off. Think I half dreamt. Of the captain making that announcement, and everyone going loco B-grade Hollywood passenger reaction WOOOO SACHIN!

I wanted a reaction. It struck me our altitude was in the ballpark of Sachin’s runs, 35,000 no mean feat.  

I had the aisle seat, and some of the unoccupied middle seat – some flights you take, you really get to fly, with a single fancy. This was, I could stretch, I had extra leg room, reclining emergency seats.

I was tempted to check scores midair, to check with the airhostess, make her check with the captain, again. 

And I was until the last game, as sick of the 100^th 100s pursuit as you or him or helpless hounded airhostesses. Guess I just wanted closure. And it didn’t kill me that I didn’t get to watch it – I just needed to know.

That I did. We landed, he landed. 114. The guy in front of me, types in cricket. I tell him, he’s made it.

He shuts the search.

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Dhoni, give the paparazzi some privacy.

I was there when MS and his missus dipped and splashed in the Arabian Sea. But like Brutus, I am an honorable man. Me and my zoom lens looked the other way. But my photographer friends, not so lucky, they were being wooed by MS and his missus – there was no chase or challenge to this. This was out in the public domain. Some parents even sent their mobile camera equipped kids into the sea – surely these pictures will surface soon, as will the videos, in Palika Bazaar, where else.

But this is nothing. Appears before the sea, MS and his missus were quite keen to splash in the water logged ground. But the excellent drainage proved to be their undoing. I laughed with a fellow scribe – “haha the ground's not good enough for MS and his men haha nor is it good enough for MS and his missus haha”. When MS heard what I said, he wasn’t amused. He challenged me to try and splash in the ground. I agreed it wasn’t easy. Of course.

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Rain, rain, don't go away.

John Hastings claims he hasn’t seen rains like this. Well, I have. Most of the week, that’s how it’s been in Goa, raining nuts, with some old score to settle with beach bums.

On Friday night I waited for four hours to board my flight out of Goa. Before that though, the flight had to land from Delhi. And for about an hour no flights landed. From Gate No. 2A to the bus was barely a few feet away – there was a canopy in place, ground staff with umbrellas, me in my running shoes. In a few seconds, I was dripping wet – it was Holi, buckets of water being hurled from all directions. The wind was wet, the rain was wet and I was wet. It was probably a good time for Wet, Wet, Wet to reunite.

Anything but cricket, buster. If Friday’s rain wasn’t rain enough, it went on to rain on Saturday. And that’s when John Hastings said, “My God I’ve never seen rain like this before”. As for the one-dayer, no matter what happens, it’ll be just another one-dayer. Which is why I say, if the game is scrapped, telecast the rain instead – Live Rain from Margao, Goa. That will be a first.

Play a truncated rain effected match – you could even brand the one-dayers as Rain Dears. Too dangerous, how about underarm bowling only, call it the Chappell Trophy. Anyone for a tennis ball, wouldn’t that be nice? At least all those spectators who line up, Fenied, will see some cricket.

Commentators can revel in informing us that the “outfield is wet”, “there is some moisture in the pitch”, “the ball will skid on to the bat” and “the ball will get wet and hard to grip for the spinners”.

For a change, one-day cricket will be funny. Staying with the same train of thought I propose one dayers in the Thar desert. After Teri maa ki, Bhajji will give us “Teri sookhi…”.

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A kinda cricket detox

8 days in Goa, and though I dragged my laptop dance along, I didn’t quite get jiggy with it. I did spy some cricket. There were random bursts when least expected, like you or me being picked to play for the Royals.

On the premises – Shastri’s wife. No Shastri jokes, this was his wife. Then there was Bhajji. What can I say, we didn’t run into each other, our holidays were spared. Then came a corpo herd in the Volvo – and they were playing in the park, corpo games in the dark – this was freaked out, because there wasn’t enough light to play, but they had commentary – “that’s gone across the boundary for four”. Surely something to do with sales targets.

Then Martin’s Corner – where Agarkar appeared, thankfully only on the photographs. And Thank You Sachin! For eating here too and being photographed. How the staff shamelessly posed with him, even I grew wary of them.

Palacio de Deao – the Portuguese blast house from the past, where a nutty Goan family restored an 18th century home with a chamber pot in place. And as I steered through this time machine, I walked into a room, with a tottery four poster bed, and three stumps by its side. I froze. Yeah, the couple had kids. They played cricket.

I wanted to speak with the 18th century kid, photograph the stumps, I had my camera, but I did none of that. I just stood and stared at the stumps. Wow, what stumps. So damn outta context. What is context? What is cricket? Where am I? Who am I? Jesus Jones.

And a few days later I watched Raina and Kohli do the Aussies like I was knocking the sea god's offerings at Zeebop. If you’re off cricket, there gotta be a reason for it. Get stuffed.

Also read: Nohit Sharma's Guide to Goa

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