What the fake!

"Yes", I said, confirming my credentials.

"Are you the Fake IPL Player?"

The question was shockingly straight-uncomplicated, without any perfunctory politeness and devoid of giving you any opportunity of posturing. If at all I was in a state of general fuzziness, preparing for a boring Q&A or allowing inertia to build into a torpor that lazy afternoon it immediately vanished into thin air.

"Are you the ------- what?" I uttered, still in stunned surprise at the directness of her inquisition. The fact was that this Fake IPL Player, an anonymous character I had heard of was becoming a part of a popular folklore, a national whodunit reality web show that no one could solve. The guessing game had begun in deadly earnest.

"The Fake IPL Player", repeated the obdurate reporter, a nebulous innuendo hinting at unfathomable possibilities.

There are few times in your life when you really wonder if all the hullabaloo surrounding ourselves makes sense or is it sheer lunacy in fast forward. This was one of them. I had been reading snatches about a mysterious, foul-mouthed, inner mole in the IPL tournament in South Africa who had apparently created a cult following with his detailed dollops on life after 6 pm on the hyper-party circuit of IPL-3. By the way, he also talked cricket strategy. Since amongst the possible contenders for the dubious title were a few well-known cricketers and TV commentators, the rumor mongers were having a field day. I was obviously curious to know as to how I, a cricket recluse of sorts, had figured in this illustrious company as I was in far-away Mumbai and my anemic love affair with IPL was public knowledge.

I was prodigiously embarrassed as it bothered me that the reporter had the audacity to even put me in the considered list of the dubious suspects. I was angry but chose to be deliberately restrained.

"How in heavens did you think that I was this Fake? Why me?"

Her response left me nonplussed. "In fact, someone has said that it is you?"

"Really? Now who is that? I asked my curiosity getting the better of me.

"You are not aware? Haven't you been visiting the Fake IPL player's site?

"No, I haven't", I said. She seemed so flabbergasted by my response, I presume, she must have fallen off her chair with a resounding thud. Apparently, I had committed sacrilege in not following the latest sensation in the Indian media.

She then meticulously helped me scroll down to reader comments section on the Fake's site. There were a few archived articles on the site and you could sense by the innumerable feedback that the Fake had captured the new emerging niche IPL audience; flippant, frivolous, flaky types, essentially giddy-headed lovers of the underwear version of the game desperate for juicy gossip, paparazzi kind of bedroom reporting and wild punting. The Fake clearly delivered without much labour pains.

Hidden sandwiched in the middle of some rabid observations on an article were two comments made by some Fake's fan that said something akin to that Sanjay Jha could be the Fake IPL Player based on his assiduous research of my writing style and intense opinionated views on some players-officials that matched the Fake's descriptions. Whew!

"Thanks for letting me know that imitation is the best form of flattery", I told the lady journalist. "But unfortunately that is where the similarity ends."

In fact, far from being flattered, I was furious. It was grossly insulting to be even remotely compared to someone who was at best a pusillanimous pip- squeak of a pansy operating from a shrouded cover. What really sickened me about the Mid-Day call was the nauseating tabloid-like approach to cricket journalism. How can you question anyone on some unknown internet visitor's arbitrary observations on a web site which is called Fake IPL Player? It was evident that other media were quickly capitalizing on this new sleazy scribe and in fact, trying to match his squalid style. In all fairness though I admit that Mid-Day published my version unedited denying in any kinship with the cyber-world's great fancy.

The Fake had clearly mastered his space with judicious planning. One had heard the media buzz on an anonymous blogger who had emerged in the social networking space and had been providing salacious details on various stages of undressing witnessed by him in player's private harems . He was the most ubiquitous hack you could conceive of in your wildest imagination as he was simultaneously amidst players, listening avidly to coach's instructions, writing bounteous notes during a late-night party on the nocturnal misadventures of young hopefuls, commenting on what players said mid-field to each other in matches that did not even involve him or his KKR team. Of course, a significant part of his engineered creativity was spent on ridiculing players and officials who looked highly vulnerable during the IPL circus. In a sense , he assiduously played to the gallery, stroking the dark side of the susceptible greedy cricket fan under the subterfuge of sanctimoniousness.

I tried to read some of his early articles to comprehend his overwhelming success. The Fake's initial writings had occasional witticisms and was a frivolous rip off on standard journalistic reporting by talking in a language both calculatedly opprobrious and studiously scathing. But it was to soon degenerate into pitiful abuse, lurid exaggerations, and frankly insufferable rubbish. As his gossip mill gathered momentum and a desperate fan club seeking vicarious thrills grew manifold it became yellow journalism at it's abysmal worst.

This multi-tasking self-propagated paragon of versatility wore several badges, one of being a disgruntled player from Bollywood hero Shah Rukh Khan's Kolkota Knight Riders who was extremely disillusioned with Australian coach John Buchanan for his maverick experimentations in trying a four-captain theory which meant virtually stripping the Prince of Kolkota of his royal robes in his own palace courtyard. Also this self-confessed Fake had a severe pathological grouse against the club owner SRK bordering on some disturbed state of mental obsession.

I have been a massive fan of SRK amongst other things for one singular reason, he is a classic example of a self-made man who has battled personal losses, health problems, industry camps and inner fears to emerge as one of India's most respected actors for his extraordinary success. He also has unwittingly become a social commentator and a moderate liberal representative of his Muslim community. Thus, I found the Fake's corrosive outbursts and repugnant snide remarks against Khan in pathetic taste and totally deplorable. It was not cricket. It revealed a harsh mind, hell -bent on taking small-time pot-shots and exploiting the hedonistic predilections of the IPL community---sexual gossip, behind-the-scenes snooping and reveling in the discomfiture of his target vulnerable group. It was journalism's most twisted travesty.

Apparently this stealthy genius eavesdropped on even a passing wind emerging from a constipated tummy if you believed in the convictions of his undisputedly growing legion of gullible fans. Of course, he could read sign language and decode satellite conversations across the seven seas as well. Mr Fake IPL Player's proximity to almost everyone who mattered in IPL cricket was indeed laudable. He could do no wrong.

The Fake lost the plot in attempting to meet myriad objectives of being both a pulp-fiction writer and a self-proclaimed subtle positioning as the savant of the game. His unstoppable fall began when the Fake began to call cricket players by derisive terms, pregnant with nasty name-calling and stories crafted to humiliate those he viciously scorned. Of course, his whole façade collapsed like three wickets by a swinging delivery when he took those high moral postures and finally made his grand appearance into a damp squib.

The Fake promised a great cinematic thrill preparing us with the perfection of a professional his moment of great unearthing, the disclosure of his real identity. It was meant to be apocalyptic. The world waited with baited breath for the intrepid unveiling of this smart Alec who had by now also created enemy camps hungry for his blood. Came the big moment, and out instead came a lame chicken without a liver giving us some clichéd self-righteous balderdash in a well-rehearsed scripted shadow image. In the end, he became the very parody that he had malevolently made of his objects of ridicule. Even that moment was a complete fake. Just desserts finally !

So why do I write this piece about a masquerading piece of mock? Because Fake would have died a natural death ( as most over-blown "products" do) but for the fact that we in the Indian media gave him a sacrosanct halo, a consecrated space as if he was the "real one". It revealed, in my opinion, the Indian cricket media's deep-rooted inferiority complex, it's own internal demons and inadequacies surfacing as the Fake positioned himself as the first Deep Throat of Indian cricket, even as his feeble croaks had people queue up in large hoards on his famous blog-spot.

I earnestly hope that this time round the Indian media will not publicise the atrociousness of the last season even if I do know that several will surreptitiously devour its questionable content for self-titillation. I can visualize the reemergence of the Fake as IPL 3 comes closer, sharpening his claws for some more secondary thrills looking for unguarded preys. Also, as I read in a Sunday newspaper some time ago, he may even be writing a book. The author profile is awaited. After all, wouldn't you like to know who is the one who successfully faked even a façade?

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