It's with more than a tinge of guilt that I look at Navjot Singh Sidhu these days. No sooner do I fix my eyes on him than my remorse-ridden head mechanically droop, unable to find the courage and strength to meet his pointed eyes - never mind he is on TV and I in the safety of my drawing room - conscious as I am that this is a man I sinned against.

For it brought hurtling back to my mind the certainty and ferocity with which I would tell anyone who would lend me half an ear that this cheerful-looking Sardar was the worst thing ever to have happened to the art of cricket commentating. That the skin-deep sophistication he displayed was as ridiculous as the pompous nothings he mouthed. Nothing, or nobody, could be more absurd, I argued. Alas, destiny, and Sony Max first and Doordarshan later, thought otherwise. My limited sense of clairvoyance didn't allow me to foresee Mandira Bedi and gang plotting to raise the bar and prove me wrong. And how.

Of course, the curtain has long been drawn on the Big Event and the World Cup is safely nestled in Kangarooland. But the scars of the breathtaking assault Sony Max's apology for a commentary team launched on my senses seem to outlive the memories of the action on the ground.

A whole lot has been written and said for and (mostly) against Mandira and one argument constantly trotted out in her defense was that she was better than her predecessor - Ruby Bhatia. True, but that was small comfort. The numerous faux pas apart, her exaggerated grief at an Indian loss and mock over-jubilation at an Indian win was clearly a hangover from her acting days which was as irritating as it was transparent.

Even so, singling Mandira out for blame would be grossly unfair. Many of her more illustrious colleagues were equally, if not more, pathetic. If there's one thing she needn't worry about, it's whether her fellow commentators would look down at her on account of her inadequacies and goof-ups, for they had enough of their own to spare a thought for someone else. The relentless onslaught launched by this bumbling, fumbling bunch left an aftertaste only comparable to that of the Ricky Ponting blitzkrieg in the final. So much so, that every time World Cup 2003 is mentioned, the sheer ludicrousness of the commentary circus vies with the then overpowering might of the Aussie juggernaut to be first to one's mind. Those seemingly endless bouts of mind-numbing absurdity served only one purpose - help us viewers rediscover the utility of the long-forgotten mute button. Wonder if that greatest Indian ever to set foot on South Africa, Mahatma Gandhi, were alive and watching the World Cup on Sony Max, he would have still stuck to his cherished ideal of non-violence.

But when Sony Max is bumbling away to glory, could Doordarshan be far behind? Itching to get in on the act, it jumped all over the recent tri-series at home that featured India, Australia and New Zealand, assembling much the same bunch of jokers that (dis)graced the Sony Max panel, in the end coming up with DD's own version of Fully Faltoo.

Through all this, one can't help feeling sorry for Charu Sharma. The guy is capable, but there's only so much even Sachin Tendulkar can do if he's to take the field with 10 monkeys.

It's tempting to say that this is as bad as it gets. That nothing could be more absurd. But Sherry is watching me, 24x7. That triumphant, wicked smile playing on his lips, whispering, 'I told you'. He reminds me there are more World Cups, and sundry other tournaments, to come; that I ain't seen nothing yet. And I stand there with defeatist eyes and a hangdog expression, the broken pieces of my cocksure arguments scattered around me, grudgingly swallowing the indignity of the wily Sardar having had my measure. Constipated for words, I mumble the silliest of them all - Sorry.