#ShameOnMedia: Attack on Virat Kohli-Anushka Sharma was obnoxious
It was a star-speckled, balmy, night in Lahore in 2007, as the guests laughed, talked, sipped their drinks and nibbled on gourmet hors d'oeuvres. Slightly bored amidst faces I had seen socially for years, I spotted him, laughing and looking every bit the celebrity that he was. Being a sports enthusiast, and a Punjabi chatterbox, after being introduced to him by the host, we small-talked about this and that. Then being a typical Stardust-reading female, I commented on how cool his latest pictures with his girlfriend were. And then being a typical subcontinental busy body, I asked him if the rumors of his "commitment" to her were true.
Keeping a poker face, I heard him state: "Aisi ladkiyon se shaadi nahin karte."
Was I shocked? Did it upset me? But was it my place to pontificate to him on relationship ethics? Years passed, and I still remember his nonchalance, and matter-of-fact dismissal of his relationship with the woman who was "on his arm every evening."
He was an Indian cricket superstar, and she was a Bollywood starlet.
March 2015. Another lovely day, and millions of eyes fixed on those 13 men in the ground, two of them in blue. Blue seemed to be the mood, and bleak were the chances to reach the huge target posted by the opposite team. And when he was caught by the wicket keeper, the disappointment was heard wherever the blue supporters were watching the game. Team's score: 78. His: 1.
His heart broke at his single-run dismissal. Who knows. His team's hopes sank further. Who knows. However, one thing echoed louder than the sharpest explosion in a deep cave: India's heart broke. And in a matter of seconds the pain turned into anger, and resentment, and finger pointing. Was it about his fitness? Was it about his performance in the previous seven matches? Was it carelessness? Faces contorted, eyes scrunched up, words became incoherent, and the fingers pointed to a young woman in the Victor Trumper at the Sydney stadium. With her delicate fingers covering her anguished face, she saw him walk back to the pavilion. India blamed her for his failure to bat well.
Two days later, he returned home. Holding her hand tightly, his head held high, her other hand lying protectively on his arm, they walked through the airport amidst staring eyes, blatant curiosity, mocking looks and flashes of cameras. She is his pride, and he showed it. The quiet substance of a relationship that remains unaffected by the hollow judgments of those who watch them from a distance, and yet cross limits. We are together, and proudly so. The clasped hands said it all.
He is an Indian cricket superstar, and she is a Bollywood superstar.
Virat Kohli and Anushka Sharma. Both 26, both strikingly good-looking, both at the top of their professions, and both much in love. To me, they are like that young couple in the latest Cornetto mini cones ad who look adorable together, and just as I smile when I look at the billboard with the couple looking into one another's eyes, I smiled when I read Virat's tweet about Anushka's latest film, NH10. In an age where many are still secretive about their very public lives, here's a celebrity couple very much together and very much open about it. There's an endearing freshness to this manifestation of love, and there's nothing more to be said about it. In an ideal world.
The 2011 World Cup champion, India, enthralled their nation, and all cricket-lovers around the globe with their splendid seven consecutive wins in the 2015 World Cup. Back home, TV channels, in a cricket-crazed nation, where cricket superstars are regarded as demigods, and cricket sells more than souls, came up the simplistic yet over-optimistic hashtag, #WeWillNotGiveitBack.
And it was the media that coined the hashtag. It was the media that hyped every win. It was the media that initiated, enabled and sensationlised the outcome of the World Cup. It was the media that fed the audience the dream of another final win. It was the media that tagged the 2015 underdog Indian team as the team that would win the World cup. It was the media that ignored the fact that Australia was an overall better team. It was the media that asked the audience to tweet their favourite mascots. It was the media that hash-tagged the Indian team's performances, linking it to the hopes of millions of Indians, turning a sporting tournament into their TRP-driven circus.
And it was the media (one channel) that declared India was "shamed" in Sydney. The Indian team was a treat to watch in the World Cup, and although it upset me greatly to see the drubbing Pakistan team got at the hands of the Indians in the first match, there was no denying the splendour of the Indian performance. No captain has impressed me more in recent years than that humble, good-humoured, magnificent batsman from Jharkand: MS Dhoni. And I thought there was an electrifying dynamism to Kohli's game; here's to many more years of his brilliance. You expect your team to win. That's natural. You expect your team to win all matches it plays.
That's wishful thinking. You blame the field, the shoddy strokes, the dangerous bouncers, the great fielding, the partisan umpires, the Australian superior prowess. That's cricket-viewing. You seek mascots, offer manaats, blow prayers to dispel the "burri" nazar, chant duas, wish away the "panuati", and look for omens. That's your endorsement of primitive superstitions. You expect your best batsmen to score big in big games. That's being human. You blame Anushka for Virat's single run. That's regressive sexism, and the boorishness that has a few parallels in human vocabulary. You wish to see your favourite cricketers to be in top form. That's mature. You blame a woman for a batsman's abysmal performance. I seriously have no words for you.
The Virat-Anushka attacks have opened a Pandora's box. There is a blatant categorisation: wives and girlfriends. There is unrealistic pinning of hopes on a sporting event. It has all become one big race to win, to be the number one, to beat everyone. Lost is the real passion for a sport that is gentlemanly, and is all about the spirit of giving it your best, camaraderie and accepting defeat with grace. Where is the love for cricket, and what's this maniacal obsession permeating the cricket-promotion and viewing?
Perchance it is time to sit quietly, turning your TV and Twitter off, and look within. When did the world become so ruthless to those who attain fame and respect in their professions? When did being a celebrity become a crime? How did the TV anchors become the judge, jury and executioner of assumed public sensibilities? What made you turn people's tragedies, pain, failures and personal lives into hashtags? What made you the moral compass of your nation when your own code of ethics is darker than the lava of a dead volcano?
Who made you all - the handles on Twitter - so bitter toward those you don't even know, losing bits of your humanity with every vituperative word you post online?
To Anushka and her Virat...