Why do you read?

I usually associate free time with logging on to the internet to find something to read. I derive immense pleasure from labouring through a lengthy essay or feature, ruminating on its import, talking to someone about the contents of the piece, which often leads to a healthy debate, eventually allowing me to concretise my thoughts.

I have a few standard web sites I visit and often I stumble upon a few pieces through my facebook and twitter streams. I don't know when and how I developed this habit - maybe journalists subconsciously think reading is good, maybe this was one of the ways I got better as a cricket writer - and it gradually turned from habit to addiction.

A friend, who has been observing this trait of mine, recently asked me a perplexing question. "Why do you read?" This I was unprepared for. I had grown up surrounded by books and was always admonished for "not reading enough". I often look back on my school days and wish I had read more instead of spending my free time overdosing on cricket.

A few days ago I had answered a related question - what makes a good piece? Since I had thought of that one in far more detail, it wasn't too difficult to answer: something that either provokes new thought or something that moves. If a writer satisfies either of these, I feel I've spent my time productively.

But this was a far more complex question, philosophical almost. And I could only resort to cliche - "to shape my thoughts and opinion", "to become a better writer", "to be globally aware" - but struggled to nail it.

After grappling for a few hours, I finally realised I was complicating matters. I liked reading for the same reason I liked movies - I loved stories. I kept tab of the news because, as a journalist, I feel I have to. But what I really enjoyed was reading stories - finely crafted narratives that held my attention. Nothing more, nothing less.

And on that note, here's the wonderful story of Olga Gurshin, the first student from the Soviet Union to take a four-year course in the U.S. At the end of it, I was as happy with my reading addiction as with my answer to the intriguing question.

Innocent adults

How many ever times I watch Majid Majidi's Children of Heaven, there's always something new that provokes thought. Today, in what was possibly my fourth screening, I focussed on Zahra, the little girl with an angelic smile and a wonderfully-expressive face.

Through her, Majidi shows us how several poor children are forced to grow up in a hurry - washing dishes, baby-sitting the new-born, assisting in the kitchen - but continue to retain a large part of their innocence.

Zahra, a six year old, leads the life of a working professional - attending school in the morning and handling household chores for the rest of the day. There isn't a single shot of her playing with her friends or being pampered, activities that are a norm in more privileged six-year-olds' lives.

Yet there's a unsullied innocence about her, the kind that hasn't succumbed to the cynicism and world-weariness - traits that a 35-year old with her background, schedule and challenges would have been expected to have.

Zahra shows us the kinds of challenges that many children face - we understand how the frustration of losing a shoe can really mess with daily rhythms. We understand that poor children can take nothing for granted and yet, deep down, they cannot afford to give up hope.

A dream job that often isn't

I just read Tom Swick's fine piece on the evolving role of a travel writer. Here's one part that struck a chord:

These books have done a great deal to romanticize the profession. (Tell people that you are paid to travel and write about it and you’ll be greeted by exclamations of envy.) ... “Travel writer” may be the one title everyone wants except the people who have it

.

I can see where Swick is coming from. "Cricket writing" is a highly romanticized profession too. People gawk when told about one traveling the world to cover cricket.

That's way off the mark. Several leading cricket writers spend close to 250 days of the year away from home. Even the ones who are assigned individual tours, are out for 50 days at a stretch. It's an immense burden on their family lives and several end up with extremely unhealthy lifestyles (it's difficult to be on tour and stay away from a drink or seven).

Most cricket writers go through tournaments under a lot of stress. One needs to file three or four stories every day and it often requires preparation, burrowing instincts and last-minute flexibility. Persistence is vital - whether it's calling a former cricketer for an interview, or lounging around in the team hotel lobby for a stray quote or diary entry.

The additional occupational hazard is the daily press conference - often a stream of cliches that add little value. Each one of these is like a repeat of the previous - with players being highly guarded about team compositions, injury updates and team assessments. Every game is "crucial"; every opposition "cannot be taken lightly".

A handful of writers may well bypass all these irritants - you can work for a monthly magazine, you can skip the press conferences, you can write and not report - but what even they can't do is change the way they watch the game.

We all began as cricket fans before becoming professional cricket writers. Being in the profession, though, takes away a lot of the fizz. Of course, we are taught to be objective (to the point of being cynical) and stay away from flag-waving zealotry but what really rocks the boat is the gradual understanding of the players, the system the politics and the shenanigans.

You begin to understand that X was picked over Y not necessarily because he was better but because he was from a certain zone or because he was backed by a certain agent or because he was the distant cousin of Z. You also realize how players (some of whom you might have idolized before you entered the inner circle) can be egotistic pricks and manipulative Machiavellis.

At a more basic level, you are constantly searching for narratives to write on. The multiple aspects of the game that you earlier noticed give way to a more thematic observation - trying to weave a story through a common thread. Of course there was a wonderfully athletic catch at midwicket but how does an appreciation of that play fit into the day's story? You are forced to focus and not simply ramble along - which is basically what fans do when they watch a game together.

At some point, when all these influences come together, you start watching games through a different prism. It's no more the innocent past-time that made you jump up and shriek or kick the floor in anger or sulk all day. It's now the sport that you are detached from (though in reality, you're very close to the epicenter).

You begin to view it as a job - I've actually felt really frustrated when a cricketer died on a Sunday, simply because it meant more work - and ask yourself - just like Swick says of travel writers - what am I doing here? And over time, you gradually forget why you got here in the first place.