Why the common Indian man prefers doggy style

The ongoing Test match between India and England began on an auspicious note. A priest sat cross-legged on the pitch, surrounded by a lota, a bottle of oil, split coconuts and other accoutrements of the priestly trade and chanted mantras, while coach Anil Kumble looked on benignly.

There was good reason for this unusual "pitch pravesh puja". It was the first time that Vizag was holding a Test match. It’s a newly laid pitch, which has behaved badly in the past.

A Ranji Trophy Group B game between Assam and Rajasthan folded up inside three days. Virat Kohli, we know, likes pitches that start turning early in the match. The first Test at Rajkot had too much grass. Virat grumbled. The prayers were answered on day two in Vizag. Indian spinners got immediate purchase; the ball was turning.

But it was on day two that something out of the ordinary occurred. Kohli and Pujara were tottering in the nervous nineties, when a dog wandered on to the field.

In the cricket India are 210-2 and they've called for tea because they couldn't get a dog off the pitch... pic.twitter.com/bm1Wd7Sksb

— Coral (@Coral) November 17, 2016

Commentator Nasser Husain said: "Maybe Cook should give him an over or two." The dog left the field briefly, then returned to make a little doo-doo on the manicured grass. Play was suspended. The umpires called for an early tea-break.

Watching this on TV, I couldn’t help feel a grudging admiration for the canine. This was no ordinary dog. I phoned my editor and said: We should interview this stubborn four-legged intruder. Who is he? Where did he come from? My editor agreed and I flew down to Vizag for a world exclusive. It was with great difficulty that I tracked the mongrel down. He was skulking on the beach front.

Let me say this at the outset: he wasn’t an easy interview subject, evasive and contradictory by turns.

I asked him who he was. He looked away, gently flopping his tail on a black rock. When I persisted, he said he was Donald Trump. I was taken aback.

I said but then what are you doing here, so far from the US of A? "Trump" told me: "I’ve run away to get some R & R after the hectic campaigning. Moreover, I don’t understand why Americans hate me so much. I don’t know why the NYT hates me so much. Traumatised Americans are seeing shrinks because of me. They are pulling down my name from buildings. They are emigrating to Canada. Why? Give me a chance at least."

I offered my deepest sympathy. Before I could probe him further, he’d changed his story. He said he was Yudhishtir’s dog. He said since he’d been denied entry into heaven, he had strayed onto the field.

I said, come on, we know you eventually did make it to swarga as Dharma. We know Indra changed his mind. Don’t lie to a veteran war reporter.

He went quiet for a while. Apropos of nothing he said: "I’m a left-liberal." Then he asked me: "Who did you vote for in the last election?" I said Modiji. He said who would you have voted for in America? I said: Donald.

He emitted a low growl, the next minute he was up and running, chasing me down the beach, his fangs bared: "You racist, you bigot, you xenophobe, you homophobe, you sexist, you chest-thumping nationalist jingoist, you communal divisive meanie."

I was scared witless. And yet I had to get my story. Journalists have been known to die in the line of duty. I said I’d just been joking, that I’d actually voted for the Congress.

This seemed to infuriate him further. He resumed barking his head off: "You pseudo-secularist, you jholawala JNU type, you fashionable leftie wimp, don’t you love Mother India, I’ll chase you to the Pakistan border and beyond."

I was utterly perplexed. I hid behind a palm tree and tried to negotiate with this strange creature spewing venom Left and Right. I called up my editor and said sorry ed, I don’t think I can do this story.

The editor said: "What rubbish. The only reason we sent you there was to get to the heart of the matter. Get the story. Period."

Meanwhile, the dog seemed to calm of his own accord. He said: "Don’t be afraid. You can step out from behind the palm. I promise I won’t bite."

He said: "Look, I’m just the common man. I am tired of life. Everyone claims to speak on my behalf: TV news anchors with fat pay cheques, Rahul Gandhi, Prime Minister Modi, Arvind Kejriwal...the list is endless. When I complain about pollution they take away my car. When I complain about corruption, they take away my money. I’ve stopped complaining only. Why should I be punished all the time like this? I miss RK Laxman. Only he understood me."

I said I empathised. Can I buy you a beer? He agreed. We went into a beachside shack and ordered Kingfisher Strong. We became mates.

I asked him: "But doggie, all this is fine, that you are the common man and all, but why disrupt a cricket match? How does that help?"

He said: "Brother, believe me that wasn’t my intention. I don’t know why you journos are making such a hullaballoo about it. I was only looking for an ATM."

Also read: Monsoon adventures of a dog terrified of water