Thursday 2nd October 2008

“We’ll have to teach you the rules of cricket,” says the Editor-in-Chief, “and then you’ll know what civilisation is really about.” The familiar Indian joke is visited upon the six of us young journalists as we begin our new job at a national newspaper in Delhi. I think these words fail to persuade my five colleagues, all of whom were American and under the age of thirty. We had spent the last 48 hours without any internet access, or promise of an Indian SIM card. Worse: this morning our cook had made us pasta for breakfast.

“Is cricket a bit like baseball?” asks Malena, a wide-eyed Nigerian American possessed of the kind of boundless, foundationless enthusiasm that makes her presence essential at such times. The Editor-in-Chief does not grace her question with an answer. He slowly tips his head towards his assistant and says, “We must teach them.”

The Editor is possessed of the attributes that all editors have, and no doubt are born with – calmless, ruthlessness, and an time-bomb scorn which doesn’t detonate until the bemused reciprocant is firmly outside the door. His bulk (which I would imagine has been acquired over a number of years) produces the sweaty validation of his power, which manifests itself in that other common editorial trait: the ability to believe that newsrooms are non-hierarchical, whilst at the same time planting himself firmly at the top. He delivers all the appropriate lines. “All newsrooms are democracies,” he says, effortlessly paraphrasing Evelyn Waugh, “up to a point.” He grins. His assistants to the left and right do not, but slip off their sandals and examine their toes with their fingers. At the appropriate time, they are primed for laughter. The Chief’s comments are always accompanied by a shaking of the head.

“Why you taking three days for orientation?” he demands of us, as if we had organised our own schedule. Human Resources had planned a very American itinerary that included an insight into the business, a trip to the plant, and a review of the paper’s history, which, conducted in our own branded polo shirts, would in New York be dubbed “brand awareness”. It would also include (spicy vegetarian) hamburgers for lunch and an all-day drip-feed of coffee. Right on schedule, a man enters with a tray dotted with small cups of milky, sweet tea.

“You are wasting your time with this ‘orientation’,” says the Editor, waving his glasses. The assistant editors sit forward nervously. He leans back in his chair. He is clearly not going to make any changes himself. Before him is spread the day’s rival newspapers, completely uncreased and bleach-white. “But what is to be done?” he asks, gesturing toward them.

Human Resources had given us a briefing the day before, in which they explained that they were on a recruitment drive. “Our job is to look for the talent,” the head of department explained, twirling the corner of a ringmaster moustache. The newspaper had been visiting university campuses recruiting reporters. I thought of the fact that, even with a masters degree in journalism, I had been offering my free services in drooling submission to one British national newspaper for two years without whisper of a contract. Like my American colleagues, I had come to India for a job because there were none at home. And these people knew it. They had beaten us at cricket for years. Now they were bowling effortlessly at new wickets.

“We do not need to teach her the rules of cricket,” laughs one of the assistants, pointing my way, “she is British.” I had just admitted to one of my colleagues in the lift that I thought cricket was an elitist sport I’d deliberately evaded understanding. Now, on demand I look up, smile, and titter gently. It was either join the friendly head-shaking or become its victim. “Did you know,” said the other assitant editor, contributing his rupees’ worth, “that the Americans actually played cricket before the Indians did?” The others nod knowingly. “The Australians and the Americans, they all played before we became the best.”

India’s world cricket game is increasingly being played in her favour. We sat in the office that day, not as peace corps visitors offering benevolent biceps to dig a well but as potential immigrants looking for jobs that were too scarce back home. The tables had most certainly turned.

Yesterday, the very same newspaper published a piece on its comment pages that followed the life of one Californian woman. She was, it reported, part of a growing number of American former homeowners who were forced to live in their cars. Her house had been repossessed; now she was left to drive around all day on overpriced tanks of gas until the parking lots opened, at which time she would drive in, pet her dog on the head, and reach into the glove box for the pot of yogurt that constituted her evening meal. She kept her gym membership open because it was the only place she could go for a shower.

The Editor leans back on his chair and surveys his young, non-Indian interns. Today is Eid ul-Fitr, the last day of Ramadan. All over the city, people are celebrating in the streets, making their way to feasts and dancing. It also happens to be the public holiday marking Gandhi’s birthday, and there are lavish displays of government charity, including education programmes, public ceremonies, and even free health checks for citizens. The tortoise is catching up with the hare.

“We’ll organise a match,” said the Editor, standing to suggest that his short time was now at the most limited of premiums. When all is said and done, it’s all cricket.