Maiden Over

“Dot ball. Ponting realising the danger of nicking the ball and not offering a shot. Good bowling by this lad, he’s proving that he can be as good as Irfan at the other end.”

Irfan. Irfan. Irfan. Irfan was the darling of the media, while he was always the step-son. Though he was arguably a better bowler than Irfan, he could never reach out to the masses as Irfan did. He could never sign as many autographs or make the crowd chant his name. In the dressing room, his voice never had as much weight as Irfan’s. He was, at best, the guy at the other end of Irfan. Deep down below, this irked his conscience, but the mature person he was, he did not utter a word. He brought this simmering rage into his bowling. If Irfan gave four, he would give two. If Irfan gave a wide, he would give none.

“Oh, this is a quicker one, taking Ponting by surprise and landing into the gloves of the keeper. This is very good bowling.”

He and Irfan had spent a good part of the last season with Wasim bhai. He was their mentor, the most celebrated exponent of the reverse-swing. He tuned their run-ups, supervised their action. Like a cruel taskmaster, Wasim bhai drove them to run in from either end of the pitch getting them to perfect their actions. He would hammer five stumps into the pitch and ask them to bowl on the sixth stump. As they began to stick to their line, the number of stumps decreased. By the end of three weeks, they could uproot a lone stump with clinical accuracy, bowling from either end of the wicket.

“This is clever cricket. He’s pitched it in line and taken it away from the right hander. A little nick and Ponting would have been walking.”

He derived a strange pleasure in this cat and mouse game. Like a criminal he plotted their downfall, creating a ploy and doggedly pushing the batsman to take the bait. Sometimes he would go for boundaries, but he would come back to his line and tempt again. He had enormous patience and an unsurpassed tenacity to perform. As he walked to his marker, he shined the ball with renewed vigour.

"This is an absolute beauty, He’s given it some room, but Ponting unable to decide whether to drive it or cut it. He’s begun to lose his cool now."

His last four deliveries had gone untouched into the hands of the wicketkeeper, each one veering a little towards the slip than the previous. He could sense the batsman slowly inching across his guard, tempted to drive, but backing away at the last moment. He savoured this moment. This was his most lethal quality and he prided himself on being able to exploit it with more success than anyone else in the country. Together with Irfan Pathan, he formed a formidable pace battery, two more deliveries without runs and this would be their sixth maiden over in a row this afternoon.

“Excellent delivery. This is tight bowling. India really turning on the heat now.”

He had pitched it up a bit short of good length, causing the ball to rise a bit so that the batsman had to bend back and fall in line across which he had moved to play the ball. One more, one more, he muttered to himself as he focused on what to choose next from his arsenal. He felt a drop of perspiration making its way down his spine, tickling him as reached his waist. He pressed his shirt to his body, to absorb the wetness and spat out the gum he was chewing. He loved the electric feeling of the final ball. There was a pregnant expectation as the crowd fell silent. A quick glance around the field, the slip cordon was ready, his captain and few others outside the circle were on their toes, slowly moving into position. Like a hunter homing in on his kill, he ran towards the pitch.

As he nursed his broken tooth, he vowed for the umpteenth time not to dream on a treadmill.

Khuda...

... aur kismat ko hai kisne dekha?
Khuda aur kismat ko hai kisne dekha?
Humne paseene se mitayi hai apni haathon ki rekha.

Wealth

Walking along the memory lane,
delving and ducking into its deep alleys,
I realise how the world has changed,
and I can't help smiling and feeling avenged.

Long back -
When my small feet trudged on others' paths,
they rebuked me good and fine.
And I thought they were right,
cos I had none to be known of as mine.

When I begged the beggar, for a morsel of food,
he called me names and slapped me more than once.
And I thought he was right,
cos I was always 'the fool' or 'the dunce'.

When I stole some bread at the baker's,
they became ruthless, and locked me with the horses and hay.
I still thought I was wrong,
and started off on my way.

I flew on to reach new heights, to places
from where the world looked fun.

Now -
The baker wants my name on his bread
and those of them come and pat my back,
who had never cared to set me right
when I had trod the wrong track.

Love is now being proffered on a platter,
tongues wag, and eyes are green with envy.
Today, I seem to have everyone,
and everyone wants me.

They're now sorry for their rebukes,
they say their hands ache from the slap.
And should I utter a word now,
the same hands shall shamelesly clap.

They try to disguise their contempt in wide smiles
and I am suddenly very happy.
I bear no hatred, their fate shall doom them,
the scars they have left on me shall surely ruin them.

Ah, Wealth!!! Thou art miraculous.

18XI00

Spilt Milk

The sun peeps over the horizon
reluctant to awaken the world
this winter morning.
My sun has already set,
and drowned, deep into the oceans.

The cool breeze ruffles my hair
and sends shivers down my spine,
rekindling past memories;
when similar winds
had dug up long buried questions.

The dust has long settled on the floor.
I'm aware, and yet I don't dare sweep it.
For, the cords have frayed,
and the beams are rusty
and will not bear, if the dust rises again.

Sparrows chirp around my bare house,
exploring quiet rooms and eerie hallways.
Dawn to dusk, this arboreal cacophony
echoed by the barrenness,
is my only company.

The orange red evening sun makes his entry
spreading golden light
across the cobwebs of my house,
and that of my heart,
and slides down, laughing at the irony.

27XI00

Raindrops and Summer Springs

Songs of raindrops and summer springs,
the squeal of little fledglings,
the beauty of the rising sun,
the joys of quiet, little fun.
The mesmerising dewdrops on the grass
shining away in their own unique class;
To see the small birds collectively fly
across the wide vast blue sky.

The lonely canter of a horse,
the cry of wild pigs across the moors.
The sight of a village girl milking a cow,
and the slow pace of the farmer's plough.
The sprightly dance of the daffodils,
and the half-naked boy gathering quills.
The deer and its ever-cute doe
and the ripe fruits hanging from the bough.

The silent rustle of the leaves,
and the swish of kitchen sieves,
the frogs, croaking in the rainy dusk,
the enchanting fragrance of musk.
The splash of the waves on the shore
and the waters hugging the oar.
The cry of a newborn baby
and the mother's sweet lullaby.

The presence of the shells in the sea
and the bliss of soliloquy.
The lone whistle of the watchman at night
now here, now there, but out of sight.
A rickety old bullock cart, creaking on its way,
a rooster on the sill, heralding a new day.
These are life's little overlooked joys,
but who cares to wait...and who enjoys?

09I00

Dreamgirl

Where has my peace of mind gone?
Where was this restlessness born?
Who is giving me sleepless nights,
illuminating my heart with lovely lights.

Whose is the face that comes to my mind,
and why is she so hard to find?
Whose is the voice I long to hear,
who is so far, and yet so near.

Whose is the presence encompassing me,
who has robbed me of my soliloquy?
Whose is the perfume drifting in the breeze,
whose thought subconsciously puts me at ease?

Whose is the name, the stars seem to tell?
Whose are the anklets, ringing like a bell?
Who is this beauty with jet-black hair,
in front of whose face, the moon isn't fair.

Who is the lady, who comes in my dream,
and why does she have the mischievous gleam?
Why does she come and throw a sweet smile,
only to vanish after a while.

Where do her slim fingers beckon?
Who'll help me, with whom do I reckon?
Who is calling out my name? Who is it now?
Who is the pretty angel, with whom I'm in love?

27XI00

Winds of Change

I've always believed that you would be there for me.
I've always felt that you'd never let me down.
But its only now, oh my lovely, that I'm feeling
the winds of change in you...

I've never had the notion
that you could hide your emotion...
that you'd leave me all alone...

...to walk in the shade of the trees,
which swayed to our footsteps.
...to listen to the rustle
of the leaves which echoed our laughter.
...to smell the flowers which smiled on seeing your face.

Look at the stars in the sky, can't you hear what they say?
Come back to me, oh my lovely, have you forgotten your way?

I've always believed that I was the only one for you.
I've always felt that you knew me through and through.
Now, can you see my heart, my lovely, broken -
by the winds of change in you.

27XI02

Anxious Heartbeats

The night was dark and the clouds hid the moon.
The maidservant looked out, and was about to swoon.
The wind blew hard, and the tiles clattered,
and the duke heard the gallop -
the distant gallop...
as if above the noise of the wind, his ears had shattered.

He frowned, he scowled and he gnashed his teeth.
In the dead of the night, his sword came out of its sheath.
He put on and buckled his coat of leather,
and then he heard the gallop -
the ominous gallop...
Who was it now, in this unearthly weather?

He opened his window and called his guard.
The panes shook wildly, he fastened their cord.
Down in the sheep-pen he heard a nervous bleat,
and he heard the gallop -
the continuous gallop...
and his heart began to skip a beat.

He bolted from his tower, securing his lace.
His guard came behind him, wiping rain from his face.
The duke stood in the doorway, and scratched his toe,
again he heard the gallop -
the restless gallop...
and he outstretched his sword to face his foe.

The gallop slowed to a canter and then to a trot.
Then there were some footsteps, and then there were not.
All of a sudden, the duke dismissed his guard,
he'd recognised the gallop -
the familiar gallop...
and sent back into the sheath, his sword.

A moment later, the door came crashing in.
He was covered in doe-skin, from the toe till the chin.
He stood there, and brushed his golden mane,
he had come by the gallop -
a black stallion's gallop...
the duke's long lost friend, drenched in the rain.

29VIII00