Thought Crimes

Statutory warning: Most of this post is highly narcissist. The author is aware of the fine line between boasting and lying; the reader should be aware of it also.

It’s been ages since I posted. Whenever that happens, there usually is a lot that has occured between my last post and the current one. This time is no exception. It’s not that I’ve not written for so long for a dearth of things to write about. In fact, I’ve thought of posting something at least 5 times but have not, either because what I was contemplating was too personal, too opinionated, too iconoclastic or because I was too lazy. The last reason generally dominated. Better late than never though.

The year of Bond ended on a high note, not alcohol wise. Spent 31^st night chatting away with two great friends, both long-time neighbours. One of them is actually my oldest friend. I believe I’ve known him since I was 5. There was a party, too. My cousin tried to get me to dance but I didn’t feel like it so didn’t, much to the chagrin of her friends who, I hear were hoping to dance with me (It’s my blog, I decide what to write here). My mom as well as my friend’s also tried to persuade us but we were stubborn mules. Plus, there was a bonfire where we were sitting and it was pretty comfy.

Back to college then. The sem’s just started. Everything seems hunky dory. I’ve not screwed up my attendance yet. It should be party time 24*7, but for reasons that will probably remain unknown to mankind, I’m just not enjoying myself that much. There’s often an emptiness that seems to be gnawing at my insides. On the contrary, there are these sudden unexpected bouts of uncontrolled mirth when I find myself laughing away with friends at any odd place. Passers-by may look askance at us but who cares. Good times indeed.

I’ll get to the title justification in my own verbose way. The placement season is on and most of the seniors here have landed cushy jobs with fat pay packets. CAT results were announced the other day and I believe there are more than half a dozen BLACKI’s this time. Another dozen or more have got calls from the IIM’s. To be precise, the seniors are on a roll. Great work, guys. It is but natural then, that in their last semester, they have every right to indulge themselves. What else are the poor souls supposed to do, with only 12-15 contact hours a week? It so happens that the means of entertainment that they’ve chosen is that perennial favourite of young lads and old men throughout the subcontinent- cricket. The farmhouse is proud to be host to their desires and the lords often join them for a game.

I’ve been an avid cricket enthusiast for most of my 20 (Goddamnit) years of existence. I might not be able to bat for nuts, but boy can I bowl. To see me bowl is like poetry in motion. Appearances notwithstanding, I’m quite the pace spearhead of the team. Being Lefty, I aspire to copy Wasim Akram, the original Sultan of Swing, as much as I can. I generally bowl left arm over (right arm around for the ubiquitous right-handers), pitch the ball between middle and leg, good length, and let the pitch do the rest. More than once, I’ve been told that I manage to get the ball to move. I confess I have no idea how I do that. The other day I bowled a peach of a delivery to get the prize wicket of the best batsman in the opposing team. The minute the ball had left my hand, I knew that this one was going to be a beauty. The ball pitched at middle stump, began to move away from the right hander who rightly decided to leave it. But then, it swung right back in and hit the top of off. Thank you. Thank you very much.

The only glitch in this apparently perfect scenario is that after 2 days of intense cricket, my body began to show vigorous signs of protest. I couldn’t move a muscle without causing pain to myself. I had to stop watching South Park because my sides ached so much whenever I laughed. Coughing became a strict no-no too. And it was then that I decided that it was just too high a price to pay. I would take no further part in the gentleman’s game.

I might have chosen comfort, but sometimes I think of what I’m missing out on by not playing. The truth is that I love to bowl. The air that blows against my face even on a still afternoon when I take my run-up, the hopeful scent of a wicket that beckons whenever I jump, the will to put the last ounce of energy into that one delivery to get that extra yard of pace, the desire to pitch the ball in the right place stemming from the knowledge that pace alone is not enough, the elation that begins to form when you instinctively know you’ve bowled a beauty, the boost in confidence every time the batsman is beaten and above all, the incredible pump in adrenalin when a scorcher gets an edge or better still, a stump- am I prepared to forego all this just because of some sissy excuse regarding ‘Hai meri kamar’? You bet I am. Give me a cozy bed any day. Toodle-oo.

PS- Steve Bucknor is a bad bad person.

# posted by Saagar @ 2:56 am