Loud noises in the house at seven in the morning, reminiscent of a cow being sick. I look around, irritated. It’s that horrible ringtone on Ankit’s mobile phone. The one he refuses to change despite all entreaties because it is so distinctive and cannot be mistaken for anyone else’s.  This time, however, the joke’s on him. He hasn’t a hope in hell that I won’t recognise the sound, or trace it to the pocket of his school uniform trousers.

I command, “Leave your phone at home!”

He entreats, “But mom…”

“No buts, Ankit! You only got the phone so that you could  stay in touch with home when you’re out with friends or at tennis and music classes. And anyway, students aren’t allowed mobile phones at your school.”

“But mom … Have you forgotten that India is playing in the World Cup today?’ he asks incredulously and adds with immense patience, “How can I go without knowing the score all through the day?”

“And have you forgotten that you have your Math exam today?” I remind him with surpassing patience.

“No mom, I haven’t forgotten,” he grins.

“I promise to switch off my phone when I enter the exam hall,” he assures me and edges towards the front door.

“Wait,” I persist, “It’s not about switching your phone off, it’s about breaking the school rules!”

“Grow up, mom!’ he expostulates, “Almost everybody’s carrying a mobile or an i-pad to keep track of  the match scores.  The teachers know it too, and turn a blind eye.”

“What?”

“Yeah … well, the alternative would be that they’d be pestered for scores all day long, because they, of course, have their phones with them. So …”

I roll my eyes heavenwards and he reacts, “I guess it’s hard for you to understand. There were no mobile phones when you were in school. You had no option.  We do.”   He pats my shoulder patronizingly, and leaves for school without noticing the wistful smile on my face.  Little does he know that though technology changes, the typically Indian longing to know cricket scores,  does not.

Flash back. 1987. Reliance Cup in India. I was in high school  like Ankit and no, we didn’t have mobile phones or i-pads, but we did  keep track of the match scores in school. We had mini-transistors. With earphones!

Ours was the ‘studious’, shareef section, neck deep into ED (Engineering Drawing)—not like the Arts and Commerce boys, who were almost ‘expected’ to do everything that was prohibited. The achchha bachchas in ED studied hard and abjured all outlawed pursuits. However, the lure of cricket score updates at the World Cup, especially on days when India was playing, proved too much of a temptation, even for us.

Five boys in the 50-strong class managed to get the mini-transistors flooding the market just then, along with the earphones. A lot of time was spent in practising poses. The little blue contraption would be tucked away secretively in the trouser pocket, the shirt would be worn sloppily, tails hanging out to conceal the earphone wire that was to crawl beneath the shirt and up the torso, to emerge above the collar, right next to the ear. The adventurous ones rehearsed sitting at their desks with their heads supported by their left hand (which effectively covered the earphone), while writing busily with their right hand and faking intense concentration!

All was going well and the five enterprising volunteers would write down updates on slips of paper and pass them around periodically. If the teachers knew what was going on (and how could they not?) they possibly had decided that discretion was the better part of valour and so were looking the other way. Also, it was noticeable that most teachers would vanish into the Principal’s office in their free time, and come out discussing the match in hushed tones.

And then came the fateful day when India played against New Zealand—a day that was to go down in the annals of cricketing history and become a red letter day for every Indian—a day that our class never forgot, albeit for slightly different reasons.

It was Math class and we were being tested on Differential Calculus (how sadistic can you get!). Anand sir, better known by the affectionate sobriquet of ‘Baby Elephant’, prowled the aisles between the desks with enormous majesty, casting critical glances at sundry notebooks, muttering at intervals: “not bad,”  “good,” or “moron!”

It happened just as he was passing Aniket, one of the class toppers and his personal favourite.

“HAT TRICK!” yelled the model student, jumping up from his desk and punching the air euphorically.

“YAY!” roared the class, forgetting itself for an instant. Then followed, pin drop silence.

“Hat trick? Whose?” this from Anand sir. The class stared speechlessly at him.

“Tell me who made a hat trick!” he demanded. Some of the girls giggled.

“Chetan Sharma, sir,” answered his favourite hesitantly. The class held its breath, not knowing what was coming next. Anand sir suddenly remembered where he was.

“You good-for-nothing! Hand over that contraption at once, and get on with your test … and God help you if you perform badly!” The transistor was duly handed over to him.  In a further effort to retrieve his lost dignity, he growled: “I’m letting you off because it’s your first offence. Do it again and you’ll end up in the Principal’s office.”

“And what could be better than that?” muttered a wise guy from the back of the class; “he’ll get to see the match live instead of just listening to the commentary!”

Aniket as it turned out was not so lucky. According to reliable sources however, Anand sir was later sighted in the staff room, with his ear glued to Aniket’s transistor.