In an old, crumbling notebook, which somehow survived since my childhood days, I found this little poem that nine-year-old me wrote to my parents. What a strange feeling it was reading this. I wonder if traces of this obstinate and willful yet loving kid are still left in me.
To my parents
It’s My life
It’s my life
Stop nagging me
Stop scolding me
Stop instructing me
It’s my life
Don’t interfere with it
Let me do what I want to do,
How I want to do it
When I want to do it
Where I want to do it
But please guide me,
Encourage me,
Love me,
Care for me,
Help me,
Forgive me,
And don’t forget me.
And you will get all these things back from me.
Your loving son,
Varun.
The Professor
Raj darted forward, skipping over two steps at a time. He had four flights of stairs to climb. His lungs pleaded for air, but their request was denied. He had to be on time that day.
Professor Goldstein was not a man to be kept waiting.
Raj felt lucky to even have an appointment with the legendary scholar. Considered as the Godfather of natural history studies, Goldstein’s work in the field was admired by all and sundry. His research ranged from all varieties of plants to insects to micro-organisms to aquatic life forms. His published papers were widely acclaimed and lauded as a benchmark by many academic institutions.
Every year he selected two or three new students to help with his research. God alone knew how many applied. Raj was certain that all of the 200 students in his class at the university had applied. The same was probably true for many universities the world over.
Near-perfect grades, exemplary research work and a heartfelt application essay had earned Raj the chance to work with the reclusive Mr. Goldstein, whose picture rarely appeared anywhere despite all his fame.
As he raced along the final set of stairs, Raj couldn’t stop his mind from imagining what the professor would be like. Would he be genial or stern? How would he like Raj? Would there be further tests?
Raj paused at the top of the stairs to collect his breath. He strode forward towards the black wooden door at the end of the corridor. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a small rectangular name plate on the top right corner of the door. It read Goldstein’. No doctor or professor Goldstein, both of which would have been more than deserved. Just Goldstein.
Raj steadied himself. He checked the time. He was two minutes early. He raised his hand and rapped his knuckles on the door. “May I come in?”
“Yes.”
Raj slowly pushed the door open and took a step in. His eyes took in a spacious room with numerous desks and sofas. All four walls were covered with shelves, lined with jars of samples: insects, plants, and every other creature. The glass jars came in all shapes, colors and sizes. There must have been close to a thousand of them filling the room.
At the far end of the room, sitting on a reclining chair behind a round oak table was the man himself. A white mane of hair reached just below his shoulders. His face was thick with beard. Behind a pair of round, black-rimmed spectacles, the professor’s eyes locked onto Raj. The eyes flickered up and down, seizing Raj up.
A wrinkled hand motioned for him to sit. Raj lowered himself. “It’s so great to finally meet you, Professor Goldstein.”
The professor nodded ever so slightly. “So, why are you here?”
“Umm…to do research.” Raj blurted. The professor’s eyes bore into his. Raj continued. “Actually, my field of interest is aquatic life, fish of all kinds.”
The professor continued to stare at Raj for a moment longer. His breathing was slow and rhythmic, like a sleeping child. He rose from his seat, retrieved a sample from a shelf and placed it before Raj.
It was a fish. A haemulon to be specific, the kind found in tropical waters. It was kept in a neckless glass bottle fitted with a cork, and immersed in yellow alcohol.
“Study it.” The professor said. “You will not use any instruments, you will not read anything on the internet, your phone will be switched off. Only your two hands, your two eyes and the fish. I will come back from time to time and ask you what you have seen.”
The professor rose again, his six-foot tall frame was lean and gaunt. He made his way out of the office. Just as he stepped out, he turned and called out. “Oh, and make sure you keep it moist. The instructions for how to handle it are on the jar.”
With that, he was gone, leaving Raj to the fish.
Raj stared at the little creature. He opened the jar and gently placed the specimen on a tin tray in front of him, taking care to replace the stopper. Bringing out a pen and paper, Raj started taking notes.
Within ten minutes, Raj concluded he had seen all he could of the fish. He put the fish back in the jar and waited for the professor to return.
Half an hour passed and no sign of the professor. Raj removed the specimen again and looked at it some more. New things began to appear to him. He looked intently at the fins, the tail, the mouth, the eyes. He turned it over and from side to side. He moistened its surface with alcohol from the jar.
An hour later, Raj decided to break for lunch. He made his way to the cafeteria and carried with him that unmistakable fish smell. The girl at the checkout counter pinched her nose closed as she collected his money, and shot him a dirty look.
After lunch, Raj returned to the professor’s office, and the round spectacles had re-appeared on the reclining chair. The professor wiped the glass of his spectacles with care. He looked at Raj, waiting expectantly.
Raj cleared his throat and began to recount all that he had learned and previously knew about the fish. He spoke about its body, its pores, it lidless eyes, it lack of canines, its forked tail. He finished his summary and looked at the professor.
The professor ran a hand down his white mane and waited, as if expecting more.
Raj paused. “And that’s all I had.”
The professor shook his head. “You have missed such obvious features. Keep looking.”
Raj’s eyes widened. What more could there possibly be to that little fish?
He looked up, but the professor had already stepped out. Raj sat down, and resigned himself to the task. He was not to use a magnifying glass or anything else. His two hands, his two eyes and the fish.
He brought out his tiny friend again. He began to examine it from all angles, wondering what all he had missed. He pushed it and poked at it. He began to count the scales in different rows. As time went by, he grew increasingly desperate.
Suddenly, a thought struck him. He took his pencil out and started to draw the fish. Just then, the professor returned and looked over his shoulder.
The professor nodded. “A pencil is one of the best eyes indeed. Also, I’m glad to see you have kept the specimen wet and the bottle corked.”
Once again, the professor left.
Raj drew the fish once, twice and three times. He drew it from different perspectives. He focused all his attention on it. To his surprise, he discovered one new thing after another. The afternoon passed quickly.
The professor returned. “So, have you learned everything?”
“No,” Raj replied, “But I realize now how little I saw earlier.”
“That is the next best thing,” The professor’s eyes approved. “Keep looking.”
So Raj did. He spent hour after hour with his specimen. The deeper he dug, the more he uncovered.
Finally, as evening turned to night, the professor addressed him. “That’s enough for today. Put your fish away. I will hear you tomorrow morning before you look at the fish again.”
Raj took one last, long look and put his fish away. On his way to his dorm room, his mind was pre-occupied by the fish. Everywhere he looked he saw its shape, he smelt its odor and felt its slimy surface. He lay on his bed at night, thinking of nothing else.
The next morning, the Professor greeted him cordially. “So tell me.”
Raj took a deep breath. “I had missed so much earlier. Firstly, the beautiful symmetry of it. All of its organs are paired and are exactly equidistant from the lateral line.”
“That is good.” The professor said. “Go on.”
Raj launched into a long discourse about all he had learned about each tiny part of the fish from its reddish mouth linings to its fringed gills to its fleshy lips.
The professor listened carefully. He waited for Raj to finish. “Good work.”
Raj felt pleased. He exhaled and sat down. He looked up at the professor. “So, what next?”
“Oh, keep looking at the fish, of course.” And the professor left.
Raj was mortified. Still more of the fish? But now, he set himself to the task with renewed will. The passing time brought more new discoveries, new nuggets of information.
Every few hours, the professor would drop by and hear Raj’s insights.
“That is good,” The old professor would say. “But that is not all. Keep looking.”
And so it went on. For three long days, Raj studied the fish. He began to feel an intimate connection with the creature. As he would with many of the specimens during his two year spell under Professor Goldstein’s tutelage. Raj would find out, to his dismay, that no amount of soap or perfume could cover up the fish smell. The smell would grow to be a part of him.
For all the knowledge and expertise, Raj acquired over the years, he still remembered those first three days. His two hands, his two eyes and the fish. Keep looking…
Professor Goldstein was not a man to be kept waiting.
Raj felt lucky to even have an appointment with the legendary scholar. Considered as the Godfather of natural history studies, Goldstein’s work in the field was admired by all and sundry. His research ranged from all varieties of plants to insects to micro-organisms to aquatic life forms. His published papers were widely acclaimed and lauded as a benchmark by many academic institutions.
Every year he selected two or three new students to help with his research. God alone knew how many applied. Raj was certain that all of the 200 students in his class at the university had applied. The same was probably true for many universities the world over.
Near-perfect grades, exemplary research work and a heartfelt application essay had earned Raj the chance to work with the reclusive Mr. Goldstein, whose picture rarely appeared anywhere despite all his fame.
As he raced along the final set of stairs, Raj couldn’t stop his mind from imagining what the professor would be like. Would he be genial or stern? How would he like Raj? Would there be further tests?
Raj paused at the top of the stairs to collect his breath. He strode forward towards the black wooden door at the end of the corridor. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a small rectangular name plate on the top right corner of the door. It read Goldstein’. No doctor or professor Goldstein, both of which would have been more than deserved. Just Goldstein.
Raj steadied himself. He checked the time. He was two minutes early. He raised his hand and rapped his knuckles on the door. “May I come in?”
“Yes.”
Raj slowly pushed the door open and took a step in. His eyes took in a spacious room with numerous desks and sofas. All four walls were covered with shelves, lined with jars of samples: insects, plants, and every other creature. The glass jars came in all shapes, colors and sizes. There must have been close to a thousand of them filling the room.
At the far end of the room, sitting on a reclining chair behind a round oak table was the man himself. A white mane of hair reached just below his shoulders. His face was thick with beard. Behind a pair of round, black-rimmed spectacles, the professor’s eyes locked onto Raj. The eyes flickered up and down, seizing Raj up.
A wrinkled hand motioned for him to sit. Raj lowered himself. “It’s so great to finally meet you, Professor Goldstein.”
The professor nodded ever so slightly. “So, why are you here?”
“Umm…to do research.” Raj blurted. The professor’s eyes bore into his. Raj continued. “Actually, my field of interest is aquatic life, fish of all kinds.”
The professor continued to stare at Raj for a moment longer. His breathing was slow and rhythmic, like a sleeping child. He rose from his seat, retrieved a sample from a shelf and placed it before Raj.
It was a fish. A haemulon to be specific, the kind found in tropical waters. It was kept in a neckless glass bottle fitted with a cork, and immersed in yellow alcohol.
“Study it.” The professor said. “You will not use any instruments, you will not read anything on the internet, your phone will be switched off. Only your two hands, your two eyes and the fish. I will come back from time to time and ask you what you have seen.”
The professor rose again, his six-foot tall frame was lean and gaunt. He made his way out of the office. Just as he stepped out, he turned and called out. “Oh, and make sure you keep it moist. The instructions for how to handle it are on the jar.”
With that, he was gone, leaving Raj to the fish.
Raj stared at the little creature. He opened the jar and gently placed the specimen on a tin tray in front of him, taking care to replace the stopper. Bringing out a pen and paper, Raj started taking notes.
Within ten minutes, Raj concluded he had seen all he could of the fish. He put the fish back in the jar and waited for the professor to return.
Half an hour passed and no sign of the professor. Raj removed the specimen again and looked at it some more. New things began to appear to him. He looked intently at the fins, the tail, the mouth, the eyes. He turned it over and from side to side. He moistened its surface with alcohol from the jar.
An hour later, Raj decided to break for lunch. He made his way to the cafeteria and carried with him that unmistakable fish smell. The girl at the checkout counter pinched her nose closed as she collected his money, and shot him a dirty look.
After lunch, Raj returned to the professor’s office, and the round spectacles had re-appeared on the reclining chair. The professor wiped the glass of his spectacles with care. He looked at Raj, waiting expectantly.
Raj cleared his throat and began to recount all that he had learned and previously knew about the fish. He spoke about its body, its pores, it lidless eyes, it lack of canines, its forked tail. He finished his summary and looked at the professor.
The professor ran a hand down his white mane and waited, as if expecting more.
Raj paused. “And that’s all I had.”
The professor shook his head. “You have missed such obvious features. Keep looking.”
Raj’s eyes widened. What more could there possibly be to that little fish?
He looked up, but the professor had already stepped out. Raj sat down, and resigned himself to the task. He was not to use a magnifying glass or anything else. His two hands, his two eyes and the fish.
He brought out his tiny friend again. He began to examine it from all angles, wondering what all he had missed. He pushed it and poked at it. He began to count the scales in different rows. As time went by, he grew increasingly desperate.
Suddenly, a thought struck him. He took his pencil out and started to draw the fish. Just then, the professor returned and looked over his shoulder.
The professor nodded. “A pencil is one of the best eyes indeed. Also, I’m glad to see you have kept the specimen wet and the bottle corked.”
Once again, the professor left.
Raj drew the fish once, twice and three times. He drew it from different perspectives. He focused all his attention on it. To his surprise, he discovered one new thing after another. The afternoon passed quickly.
The professor returned. “So, have you learned everything?”
“No,” Raj replied, “But I realize now how little I saw earlier.”
“That is the next best thing,” The professor’s eyes approved. “Keep looking.”
So Raj did. He spent hour after hour with his specimen. The deeper he dug, the more he uncovered.
Finally, as evening turned to night, the professor addressed him. “That’s enough for today. Put your fish away. I will hear you tomorrow morning before you look at the fish again.”
Raj took one last, long look and put his fish away. On his way to his dorm room, his mind was pre-occupied by the fish. Everywhere he looked he saw its shape, he smelt its odor and felt its slimy surface. He lay on his bed at night, thinking of nothing else.
The next morning, the Professor greeted him cordially. “So tell me.”
Raj took a deep breath. “I had missed so much earlier. Firstly, the beautiful symmetry of it. All of its organs are paired and are exactly equidistant from the lateral line.”
“That is good.” The professor said. “Go on.”
Raj launched into a long discourse about all he had learned about each tiny part of the fish from its reddish mouth linings to its fringed gills to its fleshy lips.
The professor listened carefully. He waited for Raj to finish. “Good work.”
Raj felt pleased. He exhaled and sat down. He looked up at the professor. “So, what next?”
“Oh, keep looking at the fish, of course.” And the professor left.
Raj was mortified. Still more of the fish? But now, he set himself to the task with renewed will. The passing time brought more new discoveries, new nuggets of information.
Every few hours, the professor would drop by and hear Raj’s insights.
“That is good,” The old professor would say. “But that is not all. Keep looking.”
And so it went on. For three long days, Raj studied the fish. He began to feel an intimate connection with the creature. As he would with many of the specimens during his two year spell under Professor Goldstein’s tutelage. Raj would find out, to his dismay, that no amount of soap or perfume could cover up the fish smell. The smell would grow to be a part of him.
For all the knowledge and expertise, Raj acquired over the years, he still remembered those first three days. His two hands, his two eyes and the fish. Keep looking…
The Dentist Appointment
I hate dentists. Well, it’s not personal really. I’m sure some of them are good fellows whom one can have a beer with. What I was referring to was the act of sitting in their chair with my mouth hanging open, waiting for them to do stuff to me. I hate the pain in my teeth, the uneasy feeling in my mouth, the high-pitched hum of their tooth-drill or whatever it is. So, to correct myself, I hate dentist appointments.
I had a dentist appointment last Sunday to get a cavity filled. From the moment I scheduled that appointment, a week in advance, I was cringing in anticipation. Dr. Edward, my dentist, is a decent bloke. He even supports Real Madrid, my favorite soccer club. But I dreaded being in his chair, a hapless victim to his assortment of needles, syringes and other instruments of torture.
The next day, I drove past Dr. Edward’s office, on my way to work. I found my thoughts drifting to the upcoming cavity filling. Images came into my head of me sitting back in the dental chair, gripping the armrests, blinded by the light on my face, waiting for the needles to strike. My hands began to shake at the steering wheel.
Then, I pulled myself back to reality. Chill out, man, Right now, you’re just driving your car. Nothing bad is happening to you. Focus on the road.
The rest of the week went along. Two days before the appointment, I was in the grocery store picking out some candy when I saw him. Dr. Edward himself. The chief tormentor of my thoughts. He was examining some cereal. I felt the muscles on my face freeze. I could see his syringe inching towards my mouth. In panic, I threw the box of KitKat, paid for my groceries and scrambled to my car. My mouth still felt numb from imaginary anesthesia and sharp syringes.
I snapped myself back to the present. Relax. You’re just standing here. There are no syringes. There’ll be time for that later. Relax now.
I woke up on Sunday morning and stretched myself. I looked out the window and saw it was a bright sunny day. Then it hit me. Today was the day. The sound of the tooth drill drowned out the birds chirping outside my window. My mouth felt full of saliva. I needed to spit out. I rushed to the bathroom and gargled.
Take it easy. You’re at home. No drill is touching you as of now. Enjoy the clear blue sky and make a nice breakfast. You can deal with the dentist later.
At 2:00 pm, I sat in the waiting room. My hands turned the pages of some magazine but I wasn’t really looking. My whole body had gone tense. I heard the drill from the inside room – the real drill this time. I clutched my jaw. The sharp end of the drill would pierce my molars. My teeth started to chatter.
I returned my attention to my actual surroundings. Why are you tensing? Right now, you’re sitting in the waiting room. There are no instruments assaulting your mouth. Why not read a nice article?
The dentist’s assistant came up to me. “We’re ready for you.”
“N-Now?” I stammered. I rose to my feet unsteadily. I walked into the office, feeling like a man on death row. This is the moment. I found myself lying on the chair. Dr. Edward smiled and made some joke about the soccer game. I nodded but I barely heard him.
I stared at the light above my face. I took a glance at the instruments on the table. The drill was there, with its tip facing upwards. It had me in its sights. I felt as though it was taunting me. I looked at the tweezers, the syringe, the forceps. The whole gang was there. Ready for war. I could already feel the solid metal forceps tug hard at my canines, the sharp probes poke away at my molars, and then the machine drill go in for the kill. My forehead knotted up in pain. The inside of my mouth, my gums, my lips started to recoil in despair.
I forced myself to take a few deep breaths. It’s alright, buddy. At this moment, there is nothing happening. You are not experiencing any pain. You’re sitting in an expensive leather chair. Why not lean back and get comfortable?
Twenty minutes later, my cavity was filled. It was over. I had felt tiny stabs of pain, which were trifles compared to what my imagination had conjured up.
I thanked Dr. Edward, and settled the bill with the assistant. As I walked out the door, I was reminded of an old saying, “A coward dies a thousand deaths…”
I had a dentist appointment last Sunday to get a cavity filled. From the moment I scheduled that appointment, a week in advance, I was cringing in anticipation. Dr. Edward, my dentist, is a decent bloke. He even supports Real Madrid, my favorite soccer club. But I dreaded being in his chair, a hapless victim to his assortment of needles, syringes and other instruments of torture.
The next day, I drove past Dr. Edward’s office, on my way to work. I found my thoughts drifting to the upcoming cavity filling. Images came into my head of me sitting back in the dental chair, gripping the armrests, blinded by the light on my face, waiting for the needles to strike. My hands began to shake at the steering wheel.
Then, I pulled myself back to reality. Chill out, man, Right now, you’re just driving your car. Nothing bad is happening to you. Focus on the road.
The rest of the week went along. Two days before the appointment, I was in the grocery store picking out some candy when I saw him. Dr. Edward himself. The chief tormentor of my thoughts. He was examining some cereal. I felt the muscles on my face freeze. I could see his syringe inching towards my mouth. In panic, I threw the box of KitKat, paid for my groceries and scrambled to my car. My mouth still felt numb from imaginary anesthesia and sharp syringes.
I snapped myself back to the present. Relax. You’re just standing here. There are no syringes. There’ll be time for that later. Relax now.
I woke up on Sunday morning and stretched myself. I looked out the window and saw it was a bright sunny day. Then it hit me. Today was the day. The sound of the tooth drill drowned out the birds chirping outside my window. My mouth felt full of saliva. I needed to spit out. I rushed to the bathroom and gargled.
Take it easy. You’re at home. No drill is touching you as of now. Enjoy the clear blue sky and make a nice breakfast. You can deal with the dentist later.
At 2:00 pm, I sat in the waiting room. My hands turned the pages of some magazine but I wasn’t really looking. My whole body had gone tense. I heard the drill from the inside room – the real drill this time. I clutched my jaw. The sharp end of the drill would pierce my molars. My teeth started to chatter.
I returned my attention to my actual surroundings. Why are you tensing? Right now, you’re sitting in the waiting room. There are no instruments assaulting your mouth. Why not read a nice article?
The dentist’s assistant came up to me. “We’re ready for you.”
“N-Now?” I stammered. I rose to my feet unsteadily. I walked into the office, feeling like a man on death row. This is the moment. I found myself lying on the chair. Dr. Edward smiled and made some joke about the soccer game. I nodded but I barely heard him.
I stared at the light above my face. I took a glance at the instruments on the table. The drill was there, with its tip facing upwards. It had me in its sights. I felt as though it was taunting me. I looked at the tweezers, the syringe, the forceps. The whole gang was there. Ready for war. I could already feel the solid metal forceps tug hard at my canines, the sharp probes poke away at my molars, and then the machine drill go in for the kill. My forehead knotted up in pain. The inside of my mouth, my gums, my lips started to recoil in despair.
I forced myself to take a few deep breaths. It’s alright, buddy. At this moment, there is nothing happening. You are not experiencing any pain. You’re sitting in an expensive leather chair. Why not lean back and get comfortable?
Twenty minutes later, my cavity was filled. It was over. I had felt tiny stabs of pain, which were trifles compared to what my imagination had conjured up.
I thanked Dr. Edward, and settled the bill with the assistant. As I walked out the door, I was reminded of an old saying, “A coward dies a thousand deaths…”
One Game Away
The tri-color flags fly high. The drums beat on. The ecstatic screams ring out loud. The fireworks light up the night sky. The arch-enemy has been vanquished and sent home. Victory is ours to savor. The moment seems to last forever.
At least we wish it does.
India have earned a place in the Cricket World Cup final after defeating neighbors and perennial rivals Pakistan. It’s been 28 long years since we have won this trophy. 28 years of agonizing defeats and bitter disappointments. Now, the cricket-crazed fans of the world’s second most populous country have another chance to hope, to dream, to wish upon a star.
Can this team cross that final hurdle when so many promising Indian teams in the past have flattered to deceive? Will MS Dhoni lift the same trophy that the legendary Kapil Dev brought back home in 1983?
This is the question in the hearts and minds of every Indian. This is the question that dominates our thoughts and our conversations. Has our moment finally arrived?
Nothing brings this vast country together like the sport of cricket. We forget our differences, our petty squabbles over religion and politics. We are united now in a common belief, a shared dream. Oh how we have longed for this moment.
Our opponents in the final, the island nation of Sri Lanka, have been brutal in destroying their opponents. They hammered the hapless English out of the park. They brushed aside the ordinary New Zealanders with relative ease. Their confidence is high, their form is solid, their cricket is exceptional.
Contrastingly, India have taken the scenic route to the final. The batsmen held their nerve and squeaked through in a tense run chase against the powerhouse Aussies in the quarter-final. This was followed by disciplined bowling and fielding effort to earn an emotional victory over Pakistan in a much-anticipated, high pressure game.
Here the Indian team is at the final then, one game away from immortality, amidst a fanatic home crowd in the country’s commercial capital. Mumbai. The home town of Indian cricket’s greatest legend. Sachin Tendulkar is worshipped more ardently and by more people than most Gods. On the verge of a historic hundredth century, he will have one last chance to win the ultimate prize for his country.
While I was growing up, my father used to regale me with tales of the 1983 World Cup which India won. They were tales of triumph against odds, of glory, of public elation. These tales always left me in wonder, wishing that I had been there. I followed the fortunes of the Indian cricket team for all my adult life. For years, Indian teams showed so much talent but failed to deliver. For years, we waited for victory, for glory. But the tales of 1983 remained just stories handed down from an older generation.
We, the battle-hardened Indian cricket fans, have suffered through enough painful disappointments and nearly moments. Our hunger for this trophy has built up over the years to a deafening crescendo. We need our own stories now to recount for future generations. We need our own moments of mass euphoria, of collective ecstasy, of prolonged jubilation.
Come Saturday April 2nd, 2011, our moment of reckoning has arrived.
At least we wish it does.
India have earned a place in the Cricket World Cup final after defeating neighbors and perennial rivals Pakistan. It’s been 28 long years since we have won this trophy. 28 years of agonizing defeats and bitter disappointments. Now, the cricket-crazed fans of the world’s second most populous country have another chance to hope, to dream, to wish upon a star.
Can this team cross that final hurdle when so many promising Indian teams in the past have flattered to deceive? Will MS Dhoni lift the same trophy that the legendary Kapil Dev brought back home in 1983?
This is the question in the hearts and minds of every Indian. This is the question that dominates our thoughts and our conversations. Has our moment finally arrived?
Nothing brings this vast country together like the sport of cricket. We forget our differences, our petty squabbles over religion and politics. We are united now in a common belief, a shared dream. Oh how we have longed for this moment.
Our opponents in the final, the island nation of Sri Lanka, have been brutal in destroying their opponents. They hammered the hapless English out of the park. They brushed aside the ordinary New Zealanders with relative ease. Their confidence is high, their form is solid, their cricket is exceptional.
Contrastingly, India have taken the scenic route to the final. The batsmen held their nerve and squeaked through in a tense run chase against the powerhouse Aussies in the quarter-final. This was followed by disciplined bowling and fielding effort to earn an emotional victory over Pakistan in a much-anticipated, high pressure game.
Here the Indian team is at the final then, one game away from immortality, amidst a fanatic home crowd in the country’s commercial capital. Mumbai. The home town of Indian cricket’s greatest legend. Sachin Tendulkar is worshipped more ardently and by more people than most Gods. On the verge of a historic hundredth century, he will have one last chance to win the ultimate prize for his country.
While I was growing up, my father used to regale me with tales of the 1983 World Cup which India won. They were tales of triumph against odds, of glory, of public elation. These tales always left me in wonder, wishing that I had been there. I followed the fortunes of the Indian cricket team for all my adult life. For years, Indian teams showed so much talent but failed to deliver. For years, we waited for victory, for glory. But the tales of 1983 remained just stories handed down from an older generation.
We, the battle-hardened Indian cricket fans, have suffered through enough painful disappointments and nearly moments. Our hunger for this trophy has built up over the years to a deafening crescendo. We need our own stories now to recount for future generations. We need our own moments of mass euphoria, of collective ecstasy, of prolonged jubilation.
Come Saturday April 2nd, 2011, our moment of reckoning has arrived.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)