Forever and More

She extended her arms and gently covered my ears. What she spoke seemed like sweet nothings in my ear. Her voice tones were interspersed (albeit, gently) between different levels of melodies

As I attempt to guage her, the yellow skin on her body bears fruity qualities. Her brain tries to guage my mood to continue whispering sweet nothings. A Genius at play, it would seem! As I lay in bed, she engulfed the silence of the night, lying beside me, comforting me. I would fall asleep, in her arms, listening to her lullabies. As I rode in to nowhere, she accompanied me, lovingly caressing my back, gently filtering out the din outside. When I spoke alongside her, her melodious tones seemed more extravagant. When I listened to her intently, my world suddenly reflected the joys of a musical, unfettered by noise.

She was a bit mysterious on occasions. I would not know what she would say next. But there was a very nice medley, all the time. Sometimes, I would ask her to go back and repeat the things she'd just said, just to re-live the euphoria. Not once did she disappoint. Oftentimes, her lustrous face, reflected organization of thought. As she spoke, her face painted a rich kaleidoscope of colours, and sometimes, embezzling the gaiety of her voice. But often, her face was not the object of my attention. She would sometimes respond awkwardly to touch, but her face would glow, radiant and all. I would feed her, sometimes with quick bites, sometimes with elaborate meals. It would never matter to her. She would never flatter to deceive. We would fight too, when she said things I did not want to hear. But the fallout would end when the right chord was stuck soon after. On days when she felt low, a quick charge would immediately liven her up. 

Over the years, she has oft comforted me. Her gentle voice would emancipate worry. Her company on trips livened up an otherwise mundane journey. I would always come back refreshed after being in her arms. As I get up everyday to put myself through the grind, I know, when I come back home, she would be waiting for me, her arms stretched wide open, beckoning me to them....

For Love of the Game -Part2

Pudgy took his guard first up. He strapped on his pads, abdomen guard and gloves. Somehow, he never wore the helmet. Perhaps, he did not like to survey the landscape from the confines of the grill, perhaps he felt it was an irritant to his free hitting style. Pudgy was always a bowler first. A cracker one at that too! He loved to give the cherry a rip as it left his elastic wrists. He loved to dabble in military medium too. But I enjoyed watching him when he bowled spin. A physique like a certain blonde-haired Australian wonder, he had a bowling action quite similar to him too. Maybe a couple of more steps into the delivery...He liked the hard wrought-iron surface we played on. He liked the ball coming on nicely to his bat. He loved it give it a spank. "I am going to hit you out", was the message sent out loud and clear. I never really liked bowling to him. Often, standing at mid-off, I could feel the power and the force with which the ball would leave the bat. Pure disdain, I tell you! It was not a fun time to be fielding at that position too, especially with the cold Pacific breeze blowing through the well-lit makeshift cricket area. Pudgy as a bowler was superbly organized. Hell, I never liked facing him either! He would bowl leg-spin from around the wicket to right-handed batsmen. We had a predicament with our makeshift cricket field. The boundary wall was, perhaps just a couple of feet from where out leg-stump ended. It was almost as if Pudgy took a machiavellian delight in our agony. The ball would come looping from his hand (a beautiful loop shaming geometry!) and dip right on line with the leg-stump. The only way to play the ball was to either move across and back and awkwardly guide it to the off-side or kill the ball in defense. Open stance never seemed to work for me due to the boundary wall. And, I did not have the balls to sweep a spinning, bouncing cobra. In the six overs each of us faced, Pudgy's two were hell.

Lefty perhaps played Pudgy the best. Being a south-paw gave him natural advantage. It was a joy to watch Lefty bat. He had the elegance, much like an audacious former Indian captain. Again, standing at mid-off, you can just watch the ball caressed towards the point and cover areas. Lefty was quite fidgety with his stance too. He liked the little details. There used to be an apologetic look on his face after he would send the ball flying, moments after it left your hand. "Sorry, mate", came promptly. After every ball, he would adjust his gloves with the same clinical precision as before. Lefty used to wear his helmet on top of his rotated cap. It provides a solid base for the helmet, he used to say. And he liked trying out new bats too. I recall, he had spent multiple sessions seasoning a new bat which adorned our balcony for a while. Often, Pudgy and Lefty would converse in Kannada. Perhaps it was sledging. No, I don't think it was that. Folks from Bangalore are much too genial. Lefty used to bowl right-arm medium pace. It was great fun playing Lefty. We had to always mind of our foot, though. A yorker was always on the corner when Lefty bowled. And, he kept coming at us. With the same speed, same pace, every delivery. He used to apologize if we played and missed! He was a fine reader of his opponent too, Lefty. He would comment on our shots, the way our feet were moving, balance and all that jazz. And, do it so gracefully. Fine gentleman, Lefty was! He would encourage us to try something new, cater to our requests bowling specific deliveries repeatedly and with the same intensity. He would let you know what to expect when he was trying something new, to get the batsman's perspective! Much like Amby...

Amby always prided in being technically correct. He was equally dextrous bowling with either arm. Amby played Division league cricket and manned the No:3 position much like a certain legend who was India's finest there. Every game we played, Amby used to preface it with a methodical warm-up session of stretching and loosening up. If Amby batted first, it would be a good 10-15 minutes before we bowled the first ball! He used to go over strapping on his pads to putting on his helmet with utter disregard for time. Never rush yourself before going out to bat, he would often remark. Amby used to wear a bandanna underneath his helmet. He would always come out to bat with a dri-fit white shirt underneath his t-shirt. His entire ensemble made for much banter amongst the others but never once was he perturbed. Even while waiting to face the delivery, he would raise his head up at the last moment. Often, we have stopped in our run-up thinking he was not ready! Amby had a very prodigious cut. It was a joy to watch him cut the ball. His shift of balance, while being oh, so nimble on his toes. Like Lefty, he would often dabble in the intricacies of the technique. He handled Pudgy much better with an open stance and was never afraid to launch into the sweep. Against the pacers, Amby would never be rushed into playing a rash shot. But Amby was never about the powerful hitting. There was something insanely serene about him. Even when he bowled, he had the perfect run-up before delivery and his action was smooth as silk. He used to experiment with a new technique each time we played. One session used to be just for out-swing while the other used to be for in-swing. Even when batting, Amby followed a routine that he would have thought of to practice, earlier. And, he used to practice this for his game in the leagues. I hear that even in friendly-matches, Amby would always fancy himself to hold one end up, something he prided in doing in the league games too. To us, he was the most complete player.

Amby, Lefty and Pudgy represent three very real characters with whom, I have had the pleasure of sharing multiple practice sessions. I never cared that Amby played Division cricket, that Lefty represented clubs professionally or that Pudgy was the best bowler of spin I had ever played. To me, it did not matter who was a better batsman or a better bowler, who was fitter, who was more knowledgeable. To me, what mattered was that wrought-iron tennis court and the sheer joy of playing a sport that the four of us loved. To us, the cold Pacific breeze brought the warmth of friendship. To us, cricket provided a stage to let go, be free.

Always for love of the game....