Childhood IV - Girl Power

The fiercest contests between bat and ball was played out at the 5th street of 'H' (pronounced hech) Block in Annanagar, Chennai. The pitch and the length of the ground consisted of the width of the narrow street with the off and leg side boundaries varying with the location of the cars parked on the street that day. The short ground taught us to play straight and score at the rate of 20 runs an over quite easily. The ploy (like on most Indian wickets), was to bat first and apply maximum pressure on the team that was chasing. So what if the boundaries were short? Chasing at 20 runs an over is always difficult. At least for 12-13 year olds.

So it was the usual Saturday evening clash between the dexterous and the sinister. This particular combination of the teams, totally due to natural selection, brought out the competitive best in us. The droit-dominated consisted of Naren and Sriram, best of friends and most united of teams. The gaucherie squad had Sundaresh and I, volatile and ready to trade blows at the drop of a hat. We were playing standard gully cricket rules-

1. hit the ball into any of the residential compounds and you were out;
2. chucking only, that too not too quick (the decision on whether the delivery was really too quick lay with the batsman thus providing a fertile premise for altercations and fisticuffs);
3. 8 overs a side;
4. Each man to bat twice.

The other rules would be made clear when the need arose during the course of the match. It was our third and final match of the day and with the series level at one match apiece, there was all to play for.

Sriram won the toss and elected to bat first (of course). The first ball smashed into his stumps (which were carved on a wall using a brick) but he reckoned it was too high to have castled him (after looking at it with the eyes on the back of his head). We were immediately in a shoving match which ended the moment Naren's grandfather came out for a short stroll.

They got off to a flier. By our standards, that was 76 off the first 3 overs. Sundaresh and I, the sinister team, hatched a subplot to contain the free-flow. We bowled quick. Just quick enough for them to miss but slow enough to prevent too much debating. Sriram saw through this (obviously) but did not react, went about with his batting and their side ended up with 128 off 8 overs, a below par score.

I should have picked up the hint of what was coming, when we came in to bat, from Sriram's glaring light brown eyes. They were spewing fire and the boy had malice writ large on his face. I faced the first ball. Or the first bolt. Sriram arched his back like a baseball pitcher and flung the ball at me as if he was trying to kill me with it. He aimed for my bat and it worked. I got an edge and the ball flew into Mr. Balasubramanyam's house. We were one down with no score. In spite of our protests, Sriram was not going to relent and told us we could surrender the match and walk away (which he knew was impossible). It was getting dark and arguing further would only make batting more difficult. I barely saved my skin during the remainder of the first over and Sundaresh stepped up to face Naren. Considering myself to be the best batsman in the team, I wanted to take the onus upon myself and get back in strike for Naren's over. I called for a hopeless single the first ball and got Sundaresh run out. The obvious followed and it was not before long that Sundaresh and I were tearing away at each other with southpaw stances. Sundaresh started weeping and left the field, walking through the gate of his house. Sriram wouldn't allow me to play on Sundaresh's remaining wicket and I was stranded alone.

That was when Deepa, Sundaresh's elder sister, who was watching the match throughout offered to play instead of her brother. Sriram saw no danger in this and let her join and I had no choice. Dressed in a full sleeve top and a traditional dress that looked like a long skirt, Deepa paraphrased the rules once before facing the first ball. Naren let go of an off spinner and Whack! Straight into the compound walls for a six! I had lost interest in the match and was only going through the motions. Sriram cheered the shot and encouraged Naren to bowl better. Deepa hit the next four deliveries for sixes before scoring a boundary off the last ball. This brought me back into the game as I had to at least do better than this girl in traditional South Indian clothes and oiled hair! I was facing Sriram again and Deepa asked me to just take a quick single. I managed that and Deepa now had to face the lightning that Sriram was firing at us. But Sriram threw no bolt, perhaps he made a concession for Deepa and bowled at an acceptable speed. And there she was at it again..... 25 off that over. It was not before the fourth over had been bowled and our score stood at 86 that I thought we had a real chance. Deepa had scored almost all of those runs and was now farming the strike!

I think Sriram realised it too and went back to bowling his bolts, at Deepa too this time. What happened next was one of the most magnificent things I've witnessed in cricket. There she was, holding the bat in the most perfect manner, elbow pointing at the bowler, back-lift right over middle stump, head perfectly still. You couldn't see where she planted her foot while playing a shot (yes, she had footwork!) because of her attire but it was as if her bat had no edges.

The faster Sriram threw, the better she seemed to connect. Naren was exhausted from chasing the ball so much and I was just enjoying the show from the best seat in the house. She drove, cut, pulled and swept in a fashion that could only be termed - adept. She cut the short balls, square drove the wide ones and absolutely smashed the half-volleys. And every whack off her bat was followed by screams of 'two! two!' and the swishing sounds the border of her skirt made while she ran. I had just been selected for the Districts team a week earlier but was being taken to cricketing school here by this young lady. I could see Sriram's forehead gleaming with sweat under the streetlights which had come on at half past six, almost half an hour ago. I could hardly see the ball but Deepa seemed to know where to hit it even before it left the bowler's hand.

The last over, to be bowled by Naren, required us to score 14 more runs to win. I forgot to add that I had succumbed (again) to one of Sriram's bolts and Deepa was now batting on the last wicket we had left. Anyway, Naren, the weakest bowler among all of us at that time, stepped up with a nervous Sriram watching from extra cover. Deepa was facing and she sent the first ball racing away for four past the bowler. The second ball, a cut shot timed too well, flew over Sriram's head for a six. Four runs to win from as many balls. My premature celebrations had started with taunts at Sriram and barbed comments about sportsmanship. Deepa smiled at me and tapped her bat in wait for the last time.

I say for the last time because what she did then, is quite inexplicable to this moment. She charged down the track, moved away to her leg side and smashed the ball into outer space. The shot was so tremendous that it climbed two floors into Mr. Balasubramanyam's terrace by the time it had covered 15 meters. I had leaped in joy when she had connected and landed on a bed of thorns.

Sriram shouted 'YES!' only three hundred times while Naren stood as if he'd been hit for six but with a smile on his face. Sriram mimicked my voice calling me a loser and ran home just as his mother came out to call him. Naren thanked Deepa for the good game and left without saying a word to me. Deepa just looked at me, shrugged and walked away smiling. I could see Sundaresh sprawled out shirtless, on a cot just in front of the main entrance to his house.

Egg-less Fruitcake

Its that time of the day again when I go to sleep early. Not too much work tomorrow except following the last day of the Test Match between India and Bangladesh. I have just finished watching a movie. Twelve Angry Men, watched it for the third time. That after reading The Great Indian Novel which followed a little bit of GMAT preps.

So much activity had made me awfully hungry and since we had finished the Maggi and eggs over dinner, I knew I had to forage for food. In my own house. Oh yeah the joys of bachelorhood. I opened a packet of snacks called 'Hippo' and kept staring at the picture of the animal on the cover as it stared back at me. Musta been Hippo food as it did not go down very well with me. I proceeded on to look for something else. I was despairingly looking at the bottle of Teacher's that I had tucked away in one corner of the counter when my eyes fell on the little blue plastic box that I use to keep cakes in. Yes!

The same cakes my mother makes and sends with me from Hyderabad, the same cakes that my flat-mates and I enjoy so thoroughly and keep away from visitors. Egg-less as I had mistakenly told Ma that Varun (my roomie) is a 'pure' vegetarian. I saw through the translucent case that something was actually inside! I was quite surprised, pleasantly if I may add, as I had last brought a cake with me almost a month back, actually, longer still. It must have escaped Varun's voracious sense of smell, Akhil's ability to finish a cake in one sitting and Abhijeet's amazing appetite.

I saw it as a sign from God, one to make me realize how important Ma still is in my life even though I am on my own now (apart from three 29 year olds babysitting me). I felt a wave of emotion sweep over me. I opened the box, tore off a considerable chunk with my bare hands and shoved it into my mouth in one motion. I then closed my eyes to enjoy this little piece of home.

I chewed in to taste the raisins, still moist and fresh as Ma had soaked them in Rum (I think). 'Ammmm' I said in my mind and looked down towards the rest of my precious cake.

Thats when I saw the maggots. So many of them that you would wonder how they could fit into that tiny piece. They had obviously been disturbed and were not comfortable at all. Some had lost a part of their family due to this sudden attack on their 'home'. I then realised I had too many raisins in my mouth compared to how much Ma normally adds.

I looked down at the rest of them and kept chewing. Mind numb, eyes blank, I just kept chewing, for 5 minutes I think. I then gulped it down and quietly walked out of the kitchen, after closing the box and returning it to its place.

Unbelievable how such a small piece of cake can quell one's appetite. In fact, I am sleepy already. And I cannot wait to eat the next fruit cake that comes my way.

It always appeared funny to me how Baba would finish a cake as soon as possible once it had been baked. 'Eat it fresh' he says. Such is his insistence that he offers the cake to anyone who cares to eat it. 'Not quite the same a few days later' he says. Well Baba, what do you know? I thought this one tasted as fresh as ever, even the dry fruits.

Thought for the day :

Does a de-ranged psycho mean a normal person?