Smashing Sachin, Crouching Wade

Stewart Monckton, my blogger friend from Melbourne, who is  a Birdwatcher, Biologist, Bushwalker, Booklover and Ex-pat from UK, clicked this wonderful cricket capture , in his backyard. 

Please also see his wonderful second blog "Paying Ready Attention : Thoughts on the Natural World"

With the ongoing Test cricket series between Australia and India , happening in various cities India, and right now in Hyderabad, naturally, the stance of the cricket (insect) reminded me of something.

Sachin Tendulkar who was then yet to bat (and is now back in the pavilion to the great disappointment of every one including Stewart), naturally figured in my thoughts. 

Maybe I should simply call this guy below, Mathew Wade.....

He slowly crouched,
eyes focused,
mind antennas sharp,
keeping wickets,
as the wind came in to bowl.

But Sachin Tendulkar
at the crease
meant something else.

The ball smashed
under him
as he bent to
hold a catch,
missed,
and the leafy umpire,
simply waved
his arms in the air,
to declare four runs.....

The glorious uncertainities in the gullies

My blogger friend, Anil P. , is a widely travelled trekker, travel writer, poet, photographer, and has been honored  by Lonely Planet , as a featured blogger in 2012.   

He clicked this on one of his sojourns in Kolkata, during Durga Puja days. Everyone is out, pandal hopping, except these 3 chaps.. Read his entire post here.

These three faithfuls, staying home , doing what all little boys in India do.  Using any little bit of space , pretending they are the India X1. (I know some boys who mouth the commentary as they play...)

So what if there are no stumps; a neighbor's doorway works fine.  So what if there is no umpire; and so what if you hit the Wall when you drive; Rahul Dravid always stood in the slips.  And how else do you train to bowl straight on to the stumps, err someone's schoolbag propped up with some shoes ?

The fine leg
is long and deep,
and
the square leg
is rectangular,
but nevertheless,
the ball flies
and is swept,
past the
lighted slips
in the gulleys
and Walls
and is
avidly watched.

They don't know it,
but it is not
a six.

Because
the neighbor's tree
has done
an amazing leap
to take
a catch.

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.

Howzzat !

Australia play India today. Many will bunk office, claim outside work trips, sit unmoving through the various innings, quote history, gorge on food, lose appetites, glare at someone asking a question, swear at foolish bowling, and basically lose their minds.

Sometimes one wonders if life is cricket. Except for some , it is an unending lifelong-everyday-day-international played in the grounds of Life..............







Life,
she said,
threw bouncers at her;
She ducked some,
She faced some,
and became strong
in the process
of absorbing
angry looks,
muttered abuse,
and disdainful spitting.

Sometimes,
a slow one
made her think,
though momentarily.
Misled
into shoving it away,
she saw
the pillars shaking behind her.

Someone was
always spinning;
sometimes an imaginary yarn,
sometimes
a violence,
that appeared to go elsewhere,
but was directed to her.

She removed her
helmet of doubts,
wiped her
brow,
squinting at those
planning to destroy....

Sweeping
fashionable fools,
Flicking stuff
far behind her
crossing boundaries
set for her;
An almighty
shove
high up there
as her confidence
grew
like the projectile
that hit
the stands of
those
who understood and supported her...

Sometimes
in a pose reminiscent
of a Nataraja,
sometimes,
down on her knees,
slapping out
all the
dangers and troubles,
everything
meant for her.

And Life,
in a white coat,
held its hands,
sometimes high up,
sometimes
as if,
indicating the
green expanse,
giving her
all the resources
she needed.....

She looked up,
blinded
a bit by the
flooding sweat,
and more by
some tears of
relief and joy....

It looked like she would win
at last !

Views of the Cricketing type.....

I was introduced to blogging after I saw my son's blog, "A Cricketing View". While I blog about everything under the sun, the son has a serious cricket blog.



He recently completed 5 years of blogging , and his path has lead him through interesting communications , with folks like the MCC, guys who make the cricketing software used on TV , and so on. His many cricket friends commented on this occasion.

I did too. In a slightly non cricketing way. As below.




One DNA string
short of a good length,
on a perfect pitch
for
bouncing ideas
sweeping opinions,
and
assorted cuts;
and another chromosome,
dedicated
to
the embroidery of words
not always
black and white...
And millions of
unique
excited protein strings
in the stands,
the 'Lords'
and the 'Eden Gardens'
of the mind;
the story
of a genome
of a blog.