Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash
---- Leonard Cohen
Monday, April 18, 2011
Life and Times of a Cricket Ball
Dressed in cherry red and golden seams in her prime, she , slightly blinded by the afternoon sun emerges, sedately from the maternal box, a Kanya-Daan, by the man in the long coat.
Destined to be, maybe, indulged initially, rubbed sometimes the wrong way, that too with some dirt; sometimes, spat on, sometimes twirled around in place, and spun and thrown around by fellows exhibiting style...
Hurting at being flung at three wooden, unmoving types, out there on "bail", untouched except by middled wooden "faces";
Sometimes being swept across the mud, Sometimes flicked here and there, Sometimes lofted high up to fall helplessly at the mercy of the watchers, and Sometimes, even being called Doosra although a Pehla by right;
Being thrashed to the ropes and stopped by unrelenting chasers and throwers, as the public madly applauds, impervious to her wounds and her mind.
Sometimes, late in the evening, her tears cover the ground, but the crazy blinded folks call it dew..... and carry on.
The Game of Life continues, and she ages, seams unraveling, misshapen attitude, and faded color.
A new box in brought out, with so many new ones preening inside, and eyed by fellows in long coats, and arms that speak, she gets relegated to the "has beens" as a kind gent, wipes her wounds, takes a second look at her, shakes his head, and drops her inside the box.