Copper leaves flew high in the wind
Rustling each other often they grinned
Thought they were flying on their own
And when the wind stopped blowing
The seeds of disappointment were sown
Often they make a feeble try
The wind smiles ever so wry
They wait for wind's mercy again
With heaps of helplessness and
Little patience flowing in their vein
Let's go out and play a game;
With zeal and slice of acclaim;
Having searing spirit and just one aim;
Where the winner is revered;
And the loser collects the blame.
It matters to me. It really does. They may never meet again, rather they won't meet again. I've ensured that. They won't hear each other again. They won't see each other again. I want it to hurt them. Unfortunately, my effort doesn't alter things much. I can only manhandle events; not the results. They themselves will determine their fate. Brutal may it sound but I am elated that world will never see them together. Sadist I am. I can only hope that they are not masochists. I pretend to heal wounds; I'm not known to inflict wounds. I enjoy my stealth. I move on. Quietly. Viciously. Proudly
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It hurts. It really does. There is an eerie sense of pain. Unbearable pain. It is about to obliterate every patch of vitality. I often thought that we would be together. Always. I always wished to see him; I always wished to hear him. It proved to be a gag. I was wrong. I was proved wrong. Brutally. Intentionally. Time, they say, heals wounds. I think otherwise. It seems that like everything else, time has eventually been corrupted. It has lost its character. Time has started bestowing wounds. May be, it always did. It is a sadist. It waits, hunts, enjoys. And then, moves on--quietly, viciously, proudly.
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I can sense victory...Another victory. I must thank them for their support.
It can't get bigger than this. The much-anticipated mega-event that everyone (at least I) had been waiting for so long has finally arrived. ICC World Cup 2007. Right from my childhood, I have dreamt of watching India win the cricket world cup. People from the generation that precedes me don't tire telling me stories of how they went out beating dhols on the streets when India, unexpectedly of course, won 1983 Prudential World Cup; how a proud Kapil Dev whole-heartedly accepted the trophy on the famous balcony of Lord’s; how he and his teammates went around Delhi with the charming silver trophy; how Mrs. Indira Gandhi congratulated him for the grand success. And I don’t tire listening to them either. But there is a subtle sense of jealousy. I always feel jealous when they tell me those lusty episodes, for I have always wished to see all those events repeating themselves in our era. It was such a pleasure to watch that Prudential World Cup when I visited the Lord’s museum a couple of years ago. I can’t imagine the high spirits all around India if this present team manages to pull out a victory on April 28, 2007. Words of a person who is truly in love with the Indian cricket team.
History, as they say, repeats itself and I desire to see this saying coming true this year. Since that golden month of July 1983, India has come close to winning this event on more than one occasion—1987 semifinal and then 1996 semifinal. But none so closer than the grand finale of 2003 edition. Faces in the team have changed but desire has inevitably remained the same. Come on India. Give all of us a chance to beat dhols on the streets on India. Trust me, this generation of cricket lovers will pray in front of your idols for a long, long time. You guys are, of course, not Gods but you will be treated like nothing lesser than Gods in India.
Though I am an avid Indian cricket team fan, I would like the games of this WC to be tantalizingly poised rather than being one-sided. There is much more sense of elation when a whole team competes against another team to win a close match. Blazes of individual brilliance, most of the times, don’t manage to create such illustrious effect. 2003 WC was a spoilsport in this respect. Even that Indo-Pak encounter in Centurion Park resulted in a one-sided affair, thanks to some extraordinary effort by Tendulkar. That is why, unlike most Indians, I rate 1999 WC matches much higher than those of 2003 WC. One can recall that Australia-South Africa semifinal as an example to understand what I mean.
On a serious note, irrespective of which team wins the trophy, Cricket should be the ultimate winner. And may the best team win. Everything else is secondary.
As crowd becomes dizzy, city dips into murk
Though flesh gets lazy, my head jumps to work
With hush in abundance, tranquility tickles the mind
I wish this brutal cosmos were always so kind
The faces I see daily are so misleading
I never know if they are euphoric or bleeding
Faces are often not as obvious as they look
They own the shrewdness of an agile crook
Those faces stare mine and give different name
Alas, alas, they sound anything but the same
They call me a terror, they call me a saint
Perhaps I am everything, everything I ain't
I often see my face in that old dusty mirror
As a desperate attempt to make myself clearer
As always, I lose in this age old game
But one day, I will gift myself a name
The pigeons outside are seizing peace
The golden rays are about to fleece
We'll try reading those faces again
Without ignoring that tinge of feign
When the first yellow rays hit her face
Dew gave grass the final embrace
Woke she up in the usual space
Without anticipating any fresh race
Leaning casually at small windowpane
Looked at the street she again and again
Passed a man during thin morning rain
Their eyes met daily and lips smiled then
Moved he ahead, her curious eyes gazed him
Until he reached horizon's brim
She wished to go out, relish and scream
She envied his freedom in restless dream
Walked he hopelessly towards the town
His tired feet gradually slowing down
Who the woman was having eyes dark brown
Thought he daily with head always drown
Reckoned she herself a bird in prison
His smile lent her a hope, a reason
With a desire to taste the changing season
She abandoned her haven like a wild pigeon
The sun was warm, she found it sweet
Ran she through the field of wheat
The air she touched was fresh and neat
Believed she was in a company elite
Sneaked into her abode, he saw luxury a lot
An abundance of fortune he always sought
Proud he felt as he handled a golden pot
There was more than what he had ever thought
The sun began beating, it was all heat
She was brought down on her feeble feet
The sun went down, gloom showed its ugly teeth
Gold lost its hue, seemed like an iron cleat
Amid her cosmos, her throat went dry
She couldn't find her any ally
Having had his fortune, got nothing to try
Girdled by golden hue, he sought to vie
On the doorsteps they did collide
There was nothing to show, nothing to hide
Realized they something and then they cried
The grass is not greener on the other side
