In 2013, Puja Pabari, who had never followed or understood cricket, married Cheteshwar Pujara. On April 29, she released her memoir ‘The Diary of a Cricketer’s wife’. The following excerpts are on two inter-related incidents. When Cheteshwar was battling an injury and form in the 2018 Test series in Australia, his father had to undergo an emergency heart procedure. In Australia, Pujara would overhear an unpleasant phone call talking about why he needs to be dropped. Puja describes the ordeal of handling her father-in-law’s surgery while tracking her husband’s efforts to keep his career afloat.
Excerpts
Even as I worried over Cheteshwar’s fitness, fate delivered a major blow back home—my father suffered from another episode of tachycardia! On the eve of the second test match, in the wee hours of the morning, my father-in-law called me on my mobile from his room on the first floor. ‘Puja, I’m feeling very uneasy, can you come down,’ he requested in a thready voice.
His BP appeared normal, but his pulse rate had shot through the roof and was hovering at around 204. I panicked. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, shakily. ‘I’m feeling giddy.’ I checked his pulse again. It was still the same. I did not bother to re-check his BP. ‘I’m taking you to Synergy,’ I said. ‘Lie down quietly till I’ve arranged everything … Cheteshwar’s aunt rose at once. ‘You go. I’ll keep an eye on the child.’ I thanked her and ran down. I had already called up Dr Ajay Patil, Papa’s cardiac surgeon, and primed him about the situation. As soon as we reached, the doctors injected Papa with a blood thinner. Within fifteen minutes, he started feeling better. He was then put through the ECG and echo tests. Some forty-five odd minutes had elapsed and he seemed quite comfortable … We were back home at half-past three.
The second test was beginning that very morning, so I freshened up, took a short nap and woke up in time to wish Cheteshwar luck for the match. I carefully omitted all mention of the events of the previous night, not wanting to take away his focus from the impending game.
‘How’s the hamstring,’ I asked casually. ‘Fine,’ he answered, insouciantly. ‘Best of luck for the match,’ I wished him, with a spurious attempt at jollity. ‘Thanks,’ he replied, distractedly, his mind already on the game ahead. Later that afternoon, I took Papa to Dr Patil. ‘This is happening too often,’ he proclaimed after scanning Papa’s reports. ‘And it can be dangerous’ … It can be cured with a heart ablation procedure … The best doctor in the field is Dr Yash Lokhandwala, in . You should go to him.’
India lost the second test at Perth by 146 runs, despite ’s century in the first innings. Cheteshwar struggled during the match as his afflicted hamstring was now really troubling him. But I was battling a bigger worry. How was I going to tell Cheteshwar that his father needed a heart ablation procedure? I finally broke it to him when he reached Melbourne.
Cheteshwar made the most of his three-day break and did not step out of his room much. He alternated between resting his afflicted limb and getting his strained hamstring treated. On the lone occasion when he did, he overheard someone engaged in an intense conversation on the telephone, stating that he did not want my husband to play in the coming match because he was unfit. It was an unpleasant incident. But Cheteshwar gave no sign that he had accidentally become privy to the said exchange. Neither did he tell anyone about Papa’s medical condition.
I only learnt of the incident accidentally on Cheteshwar’s birthday after the tour was over. It was around half-past-two in the afternoon, the lights were off and the room was quite dark. Aditi was napping and Cheteshwar and I were reclining on our bed as I scrolled through our social media pages reading out birthday greetings. One message posted on Instagram was particularly effusive and touching. I read it out aloud to Cheteshwar, remarking, ‘Such a sweet gesture—what a lovely message!’ There was complete silence. He did not say a word. Puzzled, I looked up from my phone and caught a most peculiar expression on Cheteshwar’s face—one that was simultaneously secretive and pitying. I had no trouble translating his mind — it was his vintage you’re-so-naïve-and-trusting look I had seen it before and was therefore quite familiar with it.
‘What’s wrong,’ I asked. ‘Nothing,’ he said, at his taciturn best. But I was not buying it. I knew quite well that when Cheteshwar went completely quiet, it usually meant he was concealing something. It was a frequent occurrence. I usually learnt of on-field gossip and politics from other players’ wives, never from him. Throughout my marriage, Cheteshwar’s description of his various trips had been limited to three unvarying sentences: ‘We had practice, a team meeting and then I returned to the room.’ Day in and day out, year after year, I had been treated to the same standard lines. He was ready to talk about everything but his professional life. There were times when I would wonder if he even knew what was happening in the world around him.
But in this instance, I was not about to let him clam up on me. He tried to fend me off, but I finally wore him down. ‘This guy you’re praising,’ commented Cheteshwar laconically, ‘wanted me to be dropped from the team because of fitness issues.’ I gaped at him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Why did you go through it alone?’ ‘Such things happen,’ he shrugged, ‘and not everything deserves a reaction. I played and played well and that’s what matters. You don’t need to dwell too much on the incident. But it’s important that you learn not to trust everything that takes place on social media.’
‘Go get a double hundred’
…The Boxing Day test was quite thrilling. Cheteshwar scored a century in the first innings almost as if he was sending out a message to his critic that he had plenty of cricket left in him … India had won the match and was leading 2-1 in the series and even better, it had managed to retain the trophy even though it lost the next match. I was elated—for the moment.
I was anything but happy when I accompanied Papa to Mumbai, fighting hard to keep my emotions in check. I was leaving my ten- month-old baby behind with my parents and wondering how she would fare without me … By the time we reached the Holy Family hospital in Bandra, Cheteshwar was approaching a century [in final Test at Sydney] … At around 11.30 a.m., India time, Cheteshwar struck a century.
The staff wheeled Papa to the OT at around four o’clock, to prep him. It was late evening in Australia. Cheteshwar was batting overnight at 130 and the Indian score stood at 303. He called me up to ask after his father. ‘They’ve taken him into the OT,’ I informed. ‘So, there’s nothing much to tell. The doctor has met us and examined Papa. There’s nothing to worry about,’ I added, repeating the doctor’s statement. ‘He won’t even be going under full anaesthesia. Just go to sleep and relax. I’ll update you in the morning.’
The next morning, I was up at 3.30 a.m. to inform Cheteshwar that the procedure had been a success. I tried to speak to him in hushed tones, but this ploy was a failure. ‘Go get a double hundred,’ I whispered. Cheteshwar did not get a double ton. He got out caught and bowled by Nathan Lyon for 193 … I was a wee bit disappointed, but perked up when my father-in- law remarked: ‘This is even bigger than a double century. He has done well for his country and the team.’ Coming from a man who was difficult to please, this was a huge compliment!
Cheteshwar was named the player of the match and series. When he was described by commentators as the Australian team’s worst nightmare whose batting had left the Aussies with no answers, my cup of joy overflowed. What more could I ask for? A vacation? A teeny-weeny break—as a treat for all the sleepless nights I had endured?
These dreams lasted till Cheteshwar’s next phone call. He had already booked his tickets to travel to Kanpur for Saurashtra’s quarter-final game. ‘Yay!’ said my normally unruffled spouse in a state of great excitement. ‘Saurashtra has qualified for the quarter-finals. Yaar, isme toh jaana hi padega (Pal, I will have to go for this)! The team will be stronger if I’m there. I hope we qualify for the semis.’ At that moment, I quietly packed away my dreams.
