Futile Attempt

Summer holidays of 1998. We retired after a long, hard day of cricket. We played six matches at an average score of twelve. I top scored the fourth match with a twenty seven. The seventh match I won the toss and put my brother to bat. My brother played formidable defense and made one hundred and twenty seven before sun went down. Not a huge one I know for I made a three hundred and thirteen few years back with the same opposition, my brother.
My brother was a good player of the game but not good enough to match my skills, mainly because when he was off for his post graduation for two years, I got to play lot of cricket, at school, at the streets, beach and at home all alone. I would practice front foot defense seven hundred times a day. Throw the ball at the wall – go for the defense and back to position before the ball arrives again. I would do this half the day and go for back foot strokes during rest. More than that, I mastered playing limited space cricket. In a sit out of three hundred and fifty square feet with an old broken shoe rack at one corner, a huge metal frame leaning on the wall behind the bowling end and another wall of the same height behind the batsman. This customized version of cricket was played with a light tennis ball and with no stumps. Three consecutive times the ball beats the bat, one is declared out and of course one pitch one hand catches were always part of the game. Every ball struck earned a run and anything hit on the shoe rack fetched two. Anything that rose above the metal frame was awarded a six and ball hit straight back at the wall behind the bowler below the frame was granted four. Sledging was permissible to any extent but physical abuse.
Strategies ran through my mind, prayers loped in my heart; my blood was warm amid frustration, set up a sleepless night for me.
The day arrived, a fresh start, a brighter day, and loads of confidence to salvage the bat from the hands of my brother, I began bowling. The first ball I bowled, I dropped a sitter, pitching plum in front of me. I gave it my right hand but could not gather. Never the less, I patted myself for the wonderful start.
My brother scored a one hundred and fifty soon. That was the last time I counted him raising his bat at me. Within an hour from then his score was two hundred and seventy two, three hundred and four just before we went for lunch. He snatched the mango from my hand and yelled “mangoes are not for losers”. I was calm as I knew it was part and parcel of the game. I had done more than this when I scored my triple century.
Back at the field, my desperate attempt failed to get his wicket well within three hundred and thirteen, my best. I failed, lost my cool and never attempted any half chances thereafter. He was scoring everywhere. I would have swayed my hands at least three thousand times at him that day. He reached eight hundred and seventy eight.
I felt miserable that evening. He declared the score to my dad at dinner. My mom, who hardly knows the game burst with laughter for even she knows a seven hundred plus score, was comical. Until then I thought cricket was the only talent I possessed, I felt ashamed. But I did not want to give up. As soon as I picked his wicket I knew that the bat would be in my hands. So calmed myself to sleep and got up fresh the third day.
Sad, his run making flourished again. Eight hundred in a jiffy, nine hundred and he derisively did not punch his bat in the air. He shrieked “I shall take that next at thousand bro”. At least before a thousand was only a distant dream. Thousand hundred and seventy four at lunch, I almost bust out of fatigue. One last try before I give up I thought and bowled post lunch but no good gods supported.
At thousand one hundred and sixteen, I knew I did not throw the ball, but it left my hand at its will, and fell short at the pitch. My brother attempted an unintended stroke before losing his wicket by giving me a catch. I lay flat on the floor for at least five minutes with my brother brutally smiling to reiterate that it was nothing of my effort to get him out. I did not bother for bat was in my hand now Fresh energy got into my system, rushed of blood. I knew how to make big runs. I would have made it at least ten times more than my brother. I remembered all the fun I made of him when I scored my triplet. My first thought was to reach to hundred before the day ended.
Well, got out of the first ball. My brother shredded his ribs laughing at my upshot. He rolled on the floor mocking at me. I stood still, in disbelief. All that I needed was another chance, I cried foul at his genuine wicket, I protested I was not ready to face, I lost my sane and yelled, but all the while he was laughing at me. Finally, I begged him to offer me another chance to play, but, why would he? He played his turn, why would someone be interested to bowl? My brother got a call on his phone and went inside leaving me there
I fell pale and sick on the floor. I cried, literally. I was there on my knees for more than half an hour. Felt so lonely and wretched. 27th May 1998, that was the last day I played cricket at home. For the fear that I would lose the toss

A deadly story

A crab appears and moves around restlessly with nobody around in absolute tranquility.
A bright sunny afternoon on a lonely beach. Rohini and Shiva, newly married couple, apparent by the wetness of turmeric on her mangal sutra, sweet smell of mehndi, array of bangles and the fresh jasmine on her hair, warily playing with the sand, with her newly married husband next to her.
A distressed man comes into view out of the flashy sunlight at the beach. He approaches the waves and picks up a shabby doll by the rope tied to its neck.
‘Mahesh!’ Cries the young lady as he comes into her sight. Moves towards him in excitement. They, Gleefully greet each other. Mahesh asks ‘Rohini – how come...Here?’. Rohini replies ‘The bus that rolled down at Yercaud hills – in which 20 people lost lives…….’ as she speaks, her husband comes up to her. She stops abruptly and introduces Mahesh to him, “Mahesh, he is my husband, Shiva. He is Mahesh – you remember? I told you ………at the college”. Shiva shakes his head in acknowledgement to her words. She pauses, and all the three start walking along the waves.

The crab, now twitchy, moves about all over the place.

She breaks the silence and enquires Mahesh,” Mahesh! I heard, you committed suicide?”

Hush all around that place with only the squirmy crab quivering in the summer sands.


Inspired by a short film emitted on television.

Recur

Both rose with their eyes into each other. Cold wind brushed through the ventilators slipping into her damp hair. She shivered of cold. He placed his chin on her shoulder and pecked her neck. He held her close to him for a brief moment and whispered into her ear. She shook her head and gently rested her head on the wall behind. She felt his eyes on her and looked up. A tiny tear gingerly made its way down her cheek as she bit her lip.

Both rose with their eyes into each other. Hot wind blew through her dry hair. He placed his chin on her shoulder and pecked her neck. He held her close to him for a brief moment and whispered into her ear. She shook her head and rested her head on the wall behind. Memories ran in her head. She brushed away her thoughts as she picked a strand of dry hair trapped in the wall. Fears of the past clouded her mind; a tiny tear gingerly made its way down her cheek as she bit her lip.

On Sardars

Fallaciously quoted for their obtuse sense and onus of the jokes at them they undesire. Pages and pages of unwise craks about our very own sardars, on the magazines, word of mouth and now on the internet. sometimes it is injudicious to deride the community which has done no mistake. Infact we have few sardar greats like Vallabhai patel - the iron man of India or be it our beloved prime minister who we proudly call the 'thinking man', we might have many more to quote but the world still claims them to be exceptions. When we set in 'Sardars' in google search the first 10 results have the links of poor jokes on the great sardars. Nothing wrong. as long as it remains a joke and not hurt the sentiments of individuals. I am reminded to mention the 'Tamilian-Thayirsadham jokes' or the 'Malayalee's-chaaya shop on the moon' are also wise cracks on a particular community but are not as popular as those on sardars.

Ending this bit with an unpredictable joke on sardars that is being circulated on internet.
"Interviewer: Just imagine you are on the 3rd floor, it caught fire and how will you escape? Sardar: its simple. I will stop my imagination!!! "
May be in few decades, with more jokes of this kind spreading in the world, the sardars may be ascribed for their 'presence of mind' than their imprudent wit.
It makes me doubt if this is a calculated insertion by an inteligent Sardar to recover his societey. If so, Kudos to him, if not it is a wake up call for the rest.

Dare to think, create history

The beginning of certain wonderful creations in this world cannot be traced back. I am here talking about creative thoughts which struck someone at some point or a few at different environs.

Imagine. An epoch where pyjamas with strings attached are the only established attire for men. Say, pyjamas became the ethical dress code in the society. It seems perfectly fine, until one guy breaks into the party of pyjamas with his zipper attached to it for the first time ever and claims it to be his creativity to add some utility value. I am sure he would have ended up being a laughing stock among others. He would have taken all the humiliation for coming up with such an idea in a society that believes in Pyjamas as the dress code for men.
But fortunately, zipper pants are so common today. It has become the very part men’s attire. But how many people today really know the history of such a great invention? I would rather call it a creative thought. No more we laugh at zipper.
Zipper has a utility value, so do many creations. Most of the creative thoughts have survived the tests, embarrassments, degradation yet have created successful histories, while other creations die premature. A classic example of the creation that died early would be that of hmm.......ummmm....I thought for more than an hour. I could not hit upon any creation that failed.
Creation may face a drift, they might have been put under scanner and ridiculed, certain creative ideas might not have worked well in a particular environment or society or they might have quickly lost the race to scientific advancements, but this can never be attributed as failure to the any original creation that has come out of a man’s creative ability. So keep thinking, make new ideas. People around us may call it is funny and useless? So be it, could there be a funnier creation than a zipper on men’s pants?

Who’s this guy?

George – wishing one and all in the company with his pleasant and immensely heartwarming mail. His Diwali greeting was all about India. A ppt as an attachment where slides contained grand old people of first two worlds praising India as the only place for salvation of mankind and more. I found it truly amazing, something that I have never seen before. In all excitement to reply to his mail with few good words, Quickly, I mailed my colleague to know who had sent this mail with the body of the mail as “Whos this guy?”

And there I committed a mistake of my life.

What’s wrong in knowing about a guy who has written so well about India as a country of sensible people?

Nothing wrong in that for sure until I directed the mail to George himself.
And who’s this guy? None other than George Koukis - our Company’s Chairman from Switzerland.

What more, failed attempts to recall the mail electronically. Not once but several times like a mad man’s menace with gadgets. Followed it with a sincerely apologizing mail asking him to ignore my reply to his mail. Continued with a note of appreciation for his gratifying wishes. By now that would have sounded like ultimate flattery.

After almost three hours, with discomfiture mounting with every moment in anticipating reactions of the Chairman, a mail arrived in my Inbox. Mail successfully recalled at 6:04 PM, October 15, 2009.

A great sigh of relief

Colors or flowers?

For the first time attempted a flower design.