Cricket till I die- Excerpt - III

The Dream Takes Flight

“Life is like a library owned by the author.
In it are a few books which he wrote himself,
but most of them were written for him.”
– Harry Emerson Fosdick

What on earth was I thinking?? My head was killing me.                                                                                There I was, sitting in an exam
hall, going to be the alma mater of one of the most prestigious
B schools in India for which all I had to do was merely smudge
the paper for two hours.
My heart, on the other side, was pounding from inside, almost
ready to spring out of any orifice it could have managed to
find. This is it, I knew. If I have to follow my dream, this is
pretty much it. There will be no second chances.
The words of Sharma had stood correct. The Royal Delhi
Club, undeniably, had made the path an easy one. Each
performance got eyed by people who mattered and once I
was in my element there was no looking back. I had been
selected amongst so many prodigies to be a part of the
trials for the ‘Delhi Daredevils’. These old legs had been
preferred over young stallions, something for which the only
explanation was that there was something they had seen in
me. Something special, I furthered myself.
The trials for the Delhi team started that day, the day my
third semester examinations commenced. In an hour I
was expected at the trials. On one side lay a cushiony life,
guaranteeing the comforts of life, an abode in a posh colony
in Delhi, a swanky ride and a life filled with air conditioned
offices and innumerable client visits which would include
infinite soporific team meetings where I would want to do
just one thing, i.e., bang my head on the table. I had derived
my answer; I wanted the other side of life. That of labour,
sweat, toil and of uncertainty as to whether all this would
materialise even into a fraction of what I’d always dreamt of.

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Excerpts from the book- II

Around fifteen people had turned up; ready to be stuffed with

beer, whiskey, rum and cheese burst pizzas. Anticipating the

amount of semi-processed cheese bursts induced puke my

house would be guest to that night, I had instructed people

in prior that when feeling giddy, either run straight to the

balcony and puke on the road or make a dash to my toilet.

The latter being the safer option though, I had made it clear

that my living and drawing room were not options, and this

rule, if tested, would lead to their ass being kicked straight

out of my house.

I had also asked my neighbours in prior, that if the decibel

levels cross their patience levels, they can excuse me this one

time, as pretty soon I’d be leaving to be a part of one of the

most prestigious B schools of India. This piece of information

was met with arched eyebrows, oblivion and at some places

indifference. I had very smartly bribed them for excusing

the noise. Mr. Ghutmales’ children had been presented with

Cadbury chocolates and Mr. Kadam’s wife a fake compliment

and a kaju barfi hamper. Mr. Bhansode, the asshole of the

lot, was out somewhere for the week and that saved me a lot

of tension.

The party was a wild one, and my friends were shamelessly

hitting on my girlfriend, alcohol I tell you. I redirected them

to other females in the party and tried to be the perfect host

offering them chips, peanuts and the occasional slap on the

back of the head for dirtying my house. It did not take long

for the first of many vomits that were lined up, to happen.

Three hours had passed and my restroom had now started

to look like a public toilet. Guys had peed everywhere except

where it was meant to be, and I didn’t even want to wonder

where the girls were peeing. Those who had come claiming

that they’d have to leave early had now made it a point that

they cannot even be shifted to a different corner let alone a

different house. No one was planning on leaving soon and

that I had established from the “what a party man... so much

booze... haha this will take some time to finish… but what are

friends for”.

I had planned on finishing the party by midnight and then

spending the night with Sonali, which was a distant dream

now. She understood that this wasn’t possible as she kissed

me goodnight and left. I thought I’d seek Hardik’s help to get

this mess cleared with.

“Oi… help me get these assholes out now… else they’ll all

sleep here and there today”, I said.

“Fuck off… I don’t care who’s sleeping where but this chick

is sleeping with me today, so go away, let me continue”, he

frowned as he spoke in a muffled voice while he supposedly

chatted with a girl, wasted enough to not understand a word

even if he had shouted all of this.

Slowly, though tipsy beyond limits, I encouraged the less

drunk ones to take along a passed out one home with them

as I claimed I do not have any mattresses for them to spend

the night on. No one seemed to bother as after so much

booze even if I’d thrown them on the road, they wouldn’t

have cared.

‘Each one takes one’ was the slogan of the night. Finally

eight people slept at my place, a garbage dump by then, and

littered all over except at places where a human body lay.

Hardik did not manage to bed the girl as her boyfriend came

to pick her up, which left him very sad, and I had a nice time

reminding him what a fool he had been the whole time.

Feeling delighted as to what a manager I’d make at FMS

as not one person had vomited inside the house after my

instructions; I saw the most disgusting scene when I entered

the kitchen. Who on earth vomited in the kitchen, I wanted to

find out and rub his face in it. Anyhow, I spread newspapers

over that crap and slept.

At around seven, people began getting up and started

doddering their way back home leaving me with this mess,

for which I knew I’d have hell to pay to my maid. She took

200 Rupees only for cleaning for this one day, apart from the

700 I gave her for a month. I must confess those 200 Rupees

were very well worth it and I am sure she must have made

another 50 from the uncountable beer bottles and cans she

collected from the place. The rest of the day was spent in

nursing the hangover, with lime juice, orange juice and other

fluids. Finally, I ate at night when I was sure that my stomach

was finally ready to ingest solid food.

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Excerpts from the book- Cricket till I die

The Inception Of The Dream-

“Happy are those who dream dreams and are ready

to pay the price to make them come true.”

– Leon Joseph Cardinal Suenens

A sudden impulse enveloped me as I saw myself taking a

U turn, driving on the wrong side of the lane and entering

the confines of a massive gate. The top of the entrance

supported a semicircular board which read ‘Mohan Meakins

Cricket Club’ in a worn out shade of black, from which layers

of chipped paint hung loosely; ready to drop any moment

and the board at its creakiest best just waiting to give way to

a strong gush of a Delhi thunderstorm.

As I parked my bike on one corner, an old man exemplifying

the age old Indian phrase of ‘one foot in the grave’ confronted

me. He was the guard, as his attire suggested, a timeworn man

in his late sixties it seemed, who could ward off, let alone a

crook or a thief, not even a small puppy dog. In a season that

would fall definitely under the type ‘summers’, he somehow

still managed to sport a flimsy sweater, bespeaking once

again of his age.

“Can’t you read ‘No Parking’,” he grumbled as I saw the

back of his throat through the massive cavities in his mouth

attributed to the last few teeth left dangling by his gums,

which were as fragile as the board at the gate.

I looked around as I saw a parking sign, hung upside down,

lifelessly on a single hinge and I parked my bike in that area.

The quietness of the ground felt really comforting when

57

contrasted with the hustle filled traffic I was a part of just

moments back.

A small concrete, two room excuse for an office blocked the

parking locale from the main ground. I entered the ground,

crossing the corridor which had a stench as if it hadn’t had

the opportunity to be cleaned for months now. The lush

green ground wasn’t as lush green now as I observed a group

of young boys practicing in the nets as a man, considerably

older than the lot, seemed to be shouting after every small

period of play, seemingly with a lot of suggestions mixed

generously with profanities.

After observing for some good fifteen minutes from a distance

close enough to get a good hang of all the abuses the old

man used, the man, whom I figured would be the coach,

sighted me.

“What are you looking at?? Why are you late?” He asked

shouting at the top of his voice.

Taken aback, after a moment of being at a complete loss as

to what to do, I walked towards him to help him clarify any

misgivings he might have fostered as he squinted hard to

identify any recognisable features on my face.

“Oh!! My damned eyes!! I am sorry”, he said once I was

close enough to him, as he seemed to suffer from some long

distance face recognition issues.

“But anyways, who the hell are you?” He asked.

“Nothing, Sir!! I mean no one! I was just watching,” I said.

“You don’t frikking play??” He asked

“I do sir.” I found myself saying.

“Oye Rakesh asshole. Give him the pads and the helmet, you

dumbfuck, let’s see if he has the balls; you seem to have left

back home today”, he said as he looked seemingly frustrated

by something Rakesh had done.

There are times when you just can’t say no and then there

are times when you don’t want to. This, I do not know, fell

in which category but dressed in a jeans and a shirt I found

myself padding up. With a major disconnect between my

mind and my actions, things seemed to be taking on their

own course, rather than waiting for my mind to give out any

signals for the same.

As I faced the bowler, who was a mild medium pacer, I

defended, drove, pulled and cut with equal poise as the cries

and yells from the coach subsided with each shot I played.

The bowler who had, till now, been tormenting the previous

batsman, now was subjected to the choicest of abuses

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