Ashes Diaries 2013

This one’s from the draft archives when England retained the Ashes with a thumping 3-0 defeat of a rather meek ‘un-Australian’ side. I guess given the Australian team’s current form I won’t be able to recycle this draft. Hence the post…

The world needs Ravana to make the story epic. The cricketing world needs an Australia, a team that was known for its villainy. It was a team that typified all that was evil and wrong in cricket.

In the 90’s we grew up on an Australia that never lost, that won 16 tests in a row and when a certain Dravid and Laxman (note the not all planned Ramayana reference) conspired to conjure a victory, it was called the Miracle of Eden. It was that tough to beat an Australian side.

The one under Ponting was even more arrogant.. Even more forthright in its villainy. It took a “Vanara” moment in Sydney to really rattle them. And then you compare it with this Australian side, a side devoid of that arrogance but for a David Warner who seems like a schoolboy up to pranks, rather than the much famed mental disintegration. On the field they bat, bowl and field with an aura on inevitability, the inevitability of defeat.

There were moments during this series when for a few moments there was some regression to the past, a harkening to that aura of ‘The Invincibles’ especially when Clarke batted or when they bowled but those were just moments.

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The Beginning of the End

The signs are all here. SAMAR is over. After a hard fought three days I have no trophies to show for sporting achievement at MICA. The admin office staff hints on and off that these are the last few months left. A few juniors even uncharitably put it clearly in those words. But the fact that the best two years of my life will soon be over did not dawn on me until I decided to put down a few words for the Yearbook. 

As I started capturing in words the bitter sweet experiences of the years bygone, it slowly hit me. Not in a blinding flash, not in that theatrical way like a magician performing his trick but in a slow creeping manner time is flashing past.That it shall soon be over.

To borrow half of Bilbo’s words “I don’t know half of them half as well as I should like.” 

 

The madness shall soon be over…MICA shall soon be over…

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Sourav Ganguly

Dada’s appeal doesn’t lie in his brilliant offside play or in his vaulted leadership skills. Dada’s appeal lies in his ability to back himself to turn back the clock.Gideon Haigh once wrote Tendulkar makes time stand still. Dada turns back father time, grabs him by the neck and forces him to bow down before his unflinching will to win. Therein lies a champion. 

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Bombay/ Mumbai

Bombay has to be experienced on one of its brown trains, not inside on the wooden seats but in a cramped, crowded train compartment with you hanging on to some part of the door with half a foot on the footboard and the other half swinging wildly in the air.

It has to be experienced on the BEST bus stops where bus drivers are in a greater hurry to rush home than the commuters they promise to ferry.

It has to be experienced inside a yellow taxi with the head out of the window on Marine drive.

It has to be experienced in its dirty smelly streets, its claustrophobic spaces and poverty stricken slums. Mumbai has to be experienced on a quiet night at 3 am all alone on a slow walk by the melancholy sea. Or it has to experienced in its million cricket matches,  some on the banks of the Banganga. Image 

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Freedom

Have you heard the cold wind on a morning,
A chirping sparrow on a tree?
Have you ever wondered what it is to be free?
Have you ever pondered if entrapped are we?

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A short story about love

It would be their last train ride together. They climbed into the green first class compartment of the 6.15PM local train at Panvel station.With their black backpacks and a pair of books cradled in their arms, they looked like the archetypal young college going couple in their twenties.
He was tall, dark and handsome in an Indian way with thick bushy eyebrows and eyes that reflected a boyish innocence, a ticklish sense of humor that had almost everyone around in splits. What drew most people to him though was his impish smile. A smile that never left his face in his worst moments;when he had failed a few subjects, when he missed a crucial penalty in his team’s football finals or at the time when, he was insulted by the Principal for being late. It was as if he laughed at some private joke all the time, as if he had seen the futility of it all.
She was as tall as him, slim and fair with silky long hair. Her pretty angelic face had a pair of eyes that reflected a tinge of green. In fact there wasn’t a guy in the class who did not find her cute. And for all that beauty, she didn’t cover herself up with a ton of “I am beautiful!” attitude. She was dignified, intelligent and smart and could crack people up with witty one-liners.
Together they formed the humor tag team of the class, supplying a daily dose of the lecture hall’s entertainment. They ate lunch together, traveled together always meeting up at Thane Station and getting off at Panvel. Over the course of four years they had become thick friends. The bond had always been confined to friendship, though. He loved her, of course. But being shy, he never gathered the courage to share his feelings for her and was rather adept at hiding feelings and in spite of her intelligence she sometimes missed the obvious.
Today was the last day of their engineering career, the final exam had ended a few hours back and college would formally end. No more train rides together he wondered.
Each day as they traveled to college together she would try to covet the window seat and like a chivalrous knight, he would almost always give up the window seat for her, his Madame’.
As usual he allowed her to take the window seat today. It always amused him, this fascination she had for the window seat. He was feeling groggy and restless possibly due to staying up all night for covering a few more problems in Robotics, yet he smiled his ever-present grin and looked at her. She looked tired and sleepy from the previous night’s studying.
He closed his eyes and tried to doze off. Yet he couldn’t sleep. He was too overwhelmed with feeling to sleep. She could never sleep in a moving local train. So they chatted on about their future plans. At Vashi railway station, the singing beggar children entered the train. They started with an old song from the movie Dhadkan. He had never fathomed why the beggar children always sang this song.
“Jitna bekaraar hoon main,
Tum bhi bekaraar banlo,
Tum bhi Dhadkano ko samjho,
Tum bhi Mujhse Pyaar Karlo!”
And then in that crowded Bombay local train, as the beggar children sang of unrequited love, for the first time he comprehended the true meaning of the song and of love. In the four years that they spent together he forever debated with himself whether to tell her how he felt. Perpetually he would argue with himself, “It would ruin the friendship if she didn’t feel the same way.” Each time friendship won the argument over love.
But in that magical moment he decided he would tell her. “Umm!” just as he cleared his throat, a cell phone rang. He cursed the freaking phone as she picked up the call, “Hey! Yeah, the exam was fine. I will see you in an hour. Love You!”
He looked at her in surprise. She flashed a conspiratorial smile and said “That was my boyfriend. Sorry, I never told you about him. I didn’t want anyone to know. You were saying something…”
“Nothing. When do you think will they declare the results?” he replied hiding back everything and looking away at the setting sun in the Arabian Sea. For once the smile had left his face.

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Wankhede

As a part of CaPoWriMo, I am taking a shot at writing a Cinquain.

Wankhede
Crowded Bustling
Praying Hoping Screaming
For the Cup that Counts
Victory!

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The Master’s Fairytale

Sachin Tendulkar World Cup 2011

Sachin Tendulkar World Cup 2011


Photo credits:- AFP PHOTO /ALEXANDER JOE/AFP/Getty Images

A fairy tale emerges again after eight years,
A hope he carries for twenty eight years,
Fervently he purviews the scene,
As his mates run hoops on the greens.
Tries hard to calm his nerves
Even after all these years
Now the cherished moment of his dreams
Seems likely, seems near
As he strides into his home ground,
A billion dreams to him are bound,
Shall he then slay the Lankan Pride
And to victory his country guide?

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The Zulu Priest’s Prophecy

Dr Ali Bacher does not watch much cricket these days. His time is taken up in creating more awareness about AIDS, that ravaging disease running amok in his country. On a recent visit to a Zulu village Dr. Bacher suddenly asks one of the Zulu healers to make predictions about South Africa’s chances in the World Cup. The Zulu medicine man throws a bunch of stones, bones and lot else and then says, “South Africa will come close, but not win.” Dr Bacher throws up his hands in despair and says, “Not again.” He then smiles and adds, “I wish I was a doctor, who can predict outcomes of World Cups.”

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Andy Zaltzman

When an Englishman takes to the pen in a style that has traces of Wodehouse and Clive James, one can only jump in the seat and roar with laughter. Cricinfo that brilliant website on all things cricket,  has one of the funniest cricketing blogs on the planet. Andy Zaltzman writes of the travails of being an English fan in a World Cup that England have determinedly decided to lose. Without any more of my ramblings sample some Zaltz’s best lines:-

My daughter, who likes to please, came up to me a couple of days ago, and said: “Daddy, I really love cricket.” I swelled with pride – “I may have my practical, organisational and logistical flaws as a parent,” I said to my vigorously nodding wife, “but clearly, I am doing the most important part well.” I turned back to my daughter. “That’s great, sweetie,” I replied, giving her a well-deserved cuddle. “And who is your favourite cricketer?” I asked. She pondered for a few seconds, perhaps weighing up the relative merits of Bradman, Sobers, Hobbs, Tendulkar, Kamran Akmal and Tavare. “Daddy, my favourite cricketer is Roger Federer.” Evidently, I still have some difficult parenting work ahead of me.

29 for 9 – the equal fourth worst nine-wicket collapse to end an innings in ODI history. Coincidentally, 29 is also the number of times during breakfast the following day that Sachin Tendulkar looked up from his cornflakes with an expression on his face that unmistakably read: “Are any of you guys going to attempt to (a) explain and (b) apologise for that?”

It should be another fascinating match against intermittently explosive opponents, and if they win, they will begin the knockout stages buoyed by the knowledge that only they and Australia remain unbeaten by top-eight ranked opponents in this tournament. England are amongst the best prepared outfits in sport – this must all be part of a scientifically-generated masterplan.

May his tribe grow! You can follow him on twitter @ZaltzCricket.

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