Breakthrough

A dry day
After two of damp
weather and hope

As the clock ticks
and conviction dwindles
-the sun decides to shine

Pg#1 and wicket#501 happen

This isn't a dry state today


Thanks Anil

The Map of the World

Till late after the Carnival of 2003, the best in the business compared themselves to Australia and acknowledged India to be getting to a best ever 2nd position-more than anyone else, our beloved captain wanted everyone to think that way.

The true 'Test' of game was the homefield of the islanders who had great pride in displaying their evolution from a prison island to the centre of modern day industry, education, tourism and of course their biggest resource-Sports. The breeding grounds and the factories had worked well for them to produce generation after generation of naturalized talent-a regime so similar to yet so different from Hitler's.

Today, a year of ordinary performances not matching the revered potential of a star spangled team, a loss to the lowest placed team in the ODI table, stars (showmen) bigger than the team (in capturing newsprint for 'outside the field' performances) and most dangerously- a bench that knows it is not even half as good as the ageing and seemingly irreplaceable current lot they'll have to replace soon, are just some of the reasons why one would not want them to continue holding to the title of 'The Best'.

But only if a better replacement was in sight! Only if the forerunners to the crown had been worthy claimants and had taken the lead at this oppurtune moment-of weakness of the leader! Instead, our great team has chosen the path to mediocrity that is whirlpooling them to the depths of fan-hatred, backlash and historic annihilation. They have dared being wiped out of our memories and have excelled in showing alternate sources of earning being as important, if not more, than their primary source.

Leadership is such an ephemeral phenomenon-reaching there is easier than staying there. If these two teams have not yet got the message, the time is ripe for us to see a new sun rising- one that proclaimed some 200 years ago that it doesn't set at all on this empire! Do you hear them marching in? God save the cream.

Morale Busting

"Sometimes, the true test of bravery, is to live-rather than to die."

The more I think of this line today, the more I like the way certain one-liners are tailor-made for certain occasions.

They were not as good a team as we made them look.
We weren't as bad, as we ended up looking.
The spirits last night weren't as high as our supporters think.
Stamina was not as rare a commodity as our 'backless' legs made it seem.
The pitch was not as dusty as last year.
The ball was not as slippery as we made it to be upon comparing it to our NIVEA.
The reff was not as lazy with the whistle as we thought him to be.

We just had to win 'a second match'-something we are yet to accomplish in our representative careers.

We just had to play better.

(Had I not been so tired and lazy yesterday, this condolence would have been preceeded by an exultant post. Hmm)

To whomsoever it may concern

This is to declare, that this blog, made for the purpose of rendering discourse on a certain topic known-as may be apparent in its nomenclature- to arouse a certain brand of passion, but having wandered-in the recent past-into covering general interest areas courtesy its befogged blogger, has consecrated to convalesce and provide topical coverage for its intended mission.

(undersigned)

The Eternal Twelfth Man-II

Adolescence is a wonderfully commoving phase of life. Each person believes he has it in him to change the world. And each wants to do it in his or her way-the right way. There is allegiance in a chosen passion. And a chosen person.

Had Amit not left the club just before the 10th class results came out, he probably wouldn't have been home that day to see them.
Perfunctory incidents of lecturing and emotional outpourings accounted for, he prepared for the admissions process. Commerce was cut off at a manageable level in Ravindra, so he avoided transfer to safer pastures. Also, bunking classes with Rashmi would have been impossible in that case.

The next two years were spent in coachings and school-not neccesarily in that order though. Intermittent displays of religious affinity enabled Amit to assert his faith in the sect. An encounter against the St. Paul's Boys was a monthly affair. A little rarer was the Invitation Tournament at the stadium that he had so fondly romanticized of playing in when he was the juniormost member of Elegant. Then, he was too young. Now, he was club-less. Desires subsided like drops of rain on a dusty outfield-forced by the advent of ground below one's feet. The beginning of the end.

Amit had always prided his statistical supremacy-not with Correlation or Regression-with detailed analysis like the number of boundaries in Sachin's 235th one day inning or the Umpire that stood for the New Zealand-Sri Lanka match in Kandy in March 2002. All youngsters at his age spent major part of their days watching all overs bowled in a one dayer. Even test matches were watched with an open textbook to substantiate passive viewing.Tom Sawyer had his reasons for hating school but he was lucky never to have missed watching the first half of a match. This agonizing pain had taken its toll on Amit a hundred times.
Now, he had been experiencing a slow but scaringly steady entry into a land of cricketing amnesia-where records become difficult to recollect and worse-matches become more and more similar, inclination to watch the next reduces at an increasing rate. This phase of involuntary abstinance from the histrionics of fanhood is amusingly scary. This is the cricket lover's PMS. Triggered by the austere realization that life makes you mature at handling, a sudden disenchantment from the game is experienced.

College life can be a high point in the career or a nonchalant 3 years-depending, among other things, on the city one stays in. The logical continuation is either a professional course or an attempt at getting practical experience.

Amit decided to join the promising banking sector after graduating in commerce. At times, when he even wished to look for the bat he had stashed away in the unreachable corners of his past, he would return lost and empty-handed. The only matches he remembers now are the ones that he imagined playing.

The Eternal Twelfth Man-I

Amit had stayed in 14, B Block, 1st Floor, Kirti Nagar Society ever since nani and Pammi maasi brought him home from Holy Cross Hospital on a summer evening. He had known the rickety gate and the dilapidated boundry walls to be guarded by Nahar Singh's bushy moustache and laathi for as long. The four storied building built in the 80s had resisted modernization (no lift) and break-ins for most part of its splendid tenure. Most members were happy to celebrate the Foundation Day with a 'cultural night'-of attempts at classical dance and antakshari. The sole inclination for him and his gang-Sandip, Raju, Sachin, Ravi and Pinki were the samosa and Campa Cola afterwards.

Speaking of the gang-it wasn't a pack of 'dirty rotten scoundrels'-schooling those days hardly allowed kids to achieve the much-fancied notoriety of Dennis. They were more likely to disturb the mass of drying papad on Mrs. Patel's drawing room floor with the odd rubber ball finding its way through her already 'insightful' window. As it is, most of the day waned carrying truckloads of textbooks to school and returning with just enough homework to last the day. And Math tuitions from 5 to 6:30 didn't leave any scope for complaining for lack of academic rigour.

Amit was the youngest in the pack-save Pinki-who was hardly given membership status for official purposes, like smuggling mangoes from the gardens in the Railway Bunglows on the other side of the tracks, or playing in the C.O.D. grounds-where the Big Boys played. Age handicapped Amit to a degree that he always got to field towards the boundary where the building compound gave in to the main road. But this was no inhibition to his swiftness on the boundry. And also earned him a complimentary over (provided the match and 2 rupees per head were not at stake!) which he bowled with the most determined look on his face and the best effort his 38 kgs of muscle and sinew could muster. Of course the fact that Amit's spects were a hefty -3.5 cylinder should never have come between him and his due share of fame, but who could explain the boys of Kirti Nagar Society or those of Ravindra Bal Vidhyalay! He believed that since 4th standard-when he first got the glasses-that Kumble was the greatest bowler in India and so shall he be. One day.

And when playing against 6th B one Saturday, he had pleaded to the P.T. Master, that he would rescue the situation with leg spin. So what if he had been curtly sent back to Long Leg and directed to throw on the first bounce and not sprain his arm in attempting a direct hit. Rajiv- the son of Colonel Singh of 4 Para, and the ex officio captain of the class-was never ashamed of regularly getting out in less than 4 balls as long as his kit was being used by the entire team in all its loyalty. Amit did contribute 12 runs off 19 balls even if he got to play only the last 19 balls of the innings. He had never nursed the ambition to top score, especially with Karan at 2 down. Karan was the best bat in Ravindra and the teachers pet as well. And most girls thought his red StreetCat was very cool.

Amit had been beseeching his father to enroll him for the summer camp at the Municipality Ground for 2 years now but the Steno at L.I.C.'s M.G. Road branch couldn't tell his son that the kit in the window of Prime Sports in Sadar Bazar was a little too pressing on his budget, so he was promised a new school bag when school reopened.

By the time he was in 8th standard, Amit had been a member of the Elegant Cricket Club for 6 months. The monthly subscription of 50 rupees coming from his pocket money and a beneficent dadaji. Every morning from 5 to 7:30, he played at the club's ground-the part of land that had housed the Diesel Loco Workshop till electric locomotives had been introduced and the workshop shifted to a mile further towards the station-and from 5:30 to 7:30 in the evenings, after his Math tuitions and before his English classes. He had even managed to own Karan's "SS" bat that he had discarded last year to graduate to an "SG". This one had the famous green and yellow striped grip on the thick handle that Amit had always dreamed of holding in his hands. He could hardly believe it when on casual mention Karan had gifted the bat to him. Since then, he had always invited Karan on his birthday party. The club boasted of such heroes as Dev Negi of 10 C from his school and the 'Toofan Mail'- Kamlesh Mehta of Y.P.S. Kamlesh was famous throughout the circuit for having failed twice in 9th and also for the maximum 'retired hurts' on his bowling.
Amit loved being the number 9 for in this phase of his career.

The World Cup of 1996 had brought with it such collectibles as the Coke Sipper, the Pepsi Cap autographed by Sachin and Kambli and the Centre Fresh Pocket book. Amit had earlier collected the maximum runs in the Big Fun wrappers before the company's intent of giving the promised bat had turned into a cunning marketing tactic-something his dad had always thrown at his unwilling ears. But now, in 1999, it was difficult to convince mummy to continue with the cable connection. Boards were still 8 months away but mummy was adamant on not letting Amit repeat his performance of 67 from 9th standard.

It was not so difficult, though, to get permission for 'joint studies' at Karan's house every afternoon.

Eventful Evenings

As I gathered to write another account of my belief,
to confide into machine and feel light,
to talk to the world through the interface of virtual space

-with the dusk not many hours away
and sunlight beckoning everyone to the resplendent west-

without an invitation or permission,
nor as much as an intimation-
it flew past my unaware head as if to trim the hair further.

Before I got a sense of its presence,
it had began carving the glass at the wondow
for yet another outlet into the vastness outside.

Fear thrust me towards the door
and courage allowed me a look at its Puritan greys from the distance.

The twirled beak and two-pronged tail were enough
to distinguish my guest from the (defaulting) tenants of the bathroom.

Hard as it was to believe its presence in the vicinity,
It was true that there was a jungle out there.
And in here too.

Tired? Angry? Scared? Confused?
or was it simply lost?

From my hiding place outside
I saw the mate-
waiting, searching, wondering why its fellow had chosen to descend to that manly lowness.


The wait for both outsiders lasted not more than 2 minutes.
But took me half an hour to document!