I dream of an evening of cricket. of bowling quick. like srinath. left arm straight and high. right arm bent, wrist cocked, ball gripped firmly. of sweat pouring down. my shirt flying. body lean. both legs in the air, in that leap, that instant before the release, eyes strained, a stitch in the chest. agony. writhing agony to land the ball in that spot.
that moment. a full dusty field. 5 other matches going on, haphazardly spread about. each weaving its way around the other, expertly, guided by no one in particular.
the screams. the curses. a shattered brick, masquerading hopefully as the lone stump. no one is deceived. but no one bothers.
friends. merry making. laughter. loud slaps. a visit to the tadi. theka. home. food. tv. conversations, reminisces of the match past, mostly made up, an amalgam of dream balls not bowled, cover drives not yet played, spectacular running catches not yet taken. silences. slow silences. hurried sleep.
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