Malaika and Murali

This week for me is about two words. According to the Oxford Dictionary (highlighted version), these two words are the longest words in the English language. The words which you have obviously guessed by now are Muttiah and Muralitharan. Eight hundred Test wickets! That’s the equivalent in sprinting terms of running a hundred metres race in 4.7 seconds. (This record has so far only been achieved by two Germans, both of whom were Doberman Pinchers.)

Eight hundred Test wickets! Bent elbow or straight, 800 is 800. Now I’ll let you in on a secret and, don’t worry my elbow is absolutely straight. Nine years ago I had the honour of interviewing the great man, for a music channel which incidentally doesn’t play any music.
We were in Colombo — my colleague Malaika Arora and me. Malaika, remember, was made by God on one of his better days, but then again apparently the same was true of Murali. He was sitting on a deck chair in his swimming trunks at the Taj Samudra. I went up to him and the rest of the conversation has been recorded for history as well as for two of my closest friends.
Cyrus: Hi, Murali.
Murali: Yah, I’ll have a Vodka with a twisted lime (this was followed by something in Singhalese).
Cyrus: No, no Murali. I’m not the waiter.
M: (Something in Tamil not necessarily complimentary.)
C: I’m sorry Murali. I don’t want to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could do an interview with you. Oh, and this is my colleague Malaika.
M: (Springing up with alacrity, says something in Tamil, apparently very, very complimentary.)
C: So I take it, that’s a yes.
M: Yes, yes, but she must do the interview.
Malaika: Sorry, but I don’t really like cricket.
M: Then I also don’t like cricket. (Something in Tamil which vaguely conveys he’s ready to get married.)
C: Sir, she’s actually leaving for another shoot. Say bye, Malaika.
Malaika: Bye Murali.
M: (Falls back on the chair as if he has been shot.)
C: Ok, so shall we start?
M: (Says something in Singhalese — this I’m sure is very, very uncomplimentary from the way he rolls up his eyes).
C: Please Murali, we love you in India.
M: Okay, okay. But make it quick. I’m trying to get a tan. (Big smile with a twinkle.)
C: Thanks Murali. Murali, I’ll start with this, what do you think of the Indian team?
M: Overpaid.
C: And what do you think of your Sri Lankan team that seems to be getting better and better.
M: Underpaid. (Big smile, two twinkles, a chuckle and a snort, all in Tamil.)
C: Murali, I don’t want to get too controversial, but your cuties like umpire Daryll Hare say you are a chucker.
M: (Murali springs to life, shouting like a deranged madman, first in Singhalese, then Tamil, then both together.)
C: I didn’t want to antagonise you, but by your own admission your elbow is bent.
Murali by now is jumping about like a race horse on a pogo stick, screaming bloody murder in a language I can no longer follow.
C: (Pushing the envelope) Can you show us your bowling action in slow motion, please Murali.
(Murali picks up the cushions on the deck chair and throws them in the pool. Not satisfied with this, he throws the deck chair in the pool.)
C: (To be on the safe side I vacate my chair)… err please Murali, just a quick look at your controversial bowling action, please?
Murali flings a passing waiter into the pool, and now jumps menacingly towards me.
C: (I say my prayers). Oh! look. Malaika is back. Malaika, why don’t you finish the interview with Murali.
M: (Cooling down immediately. dives into the pool, retrieves the deck chair, cushions and the waiter and returns to his original demeanour.) She can ask me anything.
And that was that. Malaika did the interview. Elbows were never mentioned. In fact, both the parties honoured their pact to keep all talk of body parts to the minimum. Malaika spoke to the world’s greatest spinner and this is what she learned: Murali loves the colour white; He loves Ralph Lauren; He uses conditioner everyday; He’s never had waxing; Hugo Boss is his perfume and Indian food is his favourite.
What did Murali learn? Well he learned Malaika’s phone number. How do I know? Well, because she gave him my number. And every month or so I get a call from a man with a thick Tamil accent:
Caller: May I speak to Malaika?
Me: D’you have a bent elbow?
Caller: (Highly uncomplimentary observations both in Tamil and Singhalese.)
But 800 wickets is 800 wickets.