Sunday, January 1

Another year passes by, just like that!


Staring from my window in the cold morning, I saw some kids playing cricket on the adjacent park. Wearing those sweaters and monkey cap which their mothers would have forced them to wear, it was difficult to see who was who. For some time they all just stood there, some with bats in hand, some with nothing. They were still waiting for some people to arrive.
“They always come late, and Mota has the ball, how would we play?” said   someone.
“Arey, wait, I called him from my landline when I left, he will be here.”

And in some minutes, everyone was there at the ground, at their Eden’s.
Captains were chosen then. Teams were picked. Coin was tossed. The winner team chose to bat first, it was obvious. There is no strategy behind it. The toss doesn’t give a captain to choose either batting or bowling, he never actually wants the second alternative. There is no winning the toss, and bowling first. It’s not the world cup.

The field was set now. Batsmen arrived at the crease. The kid who was supposed to bring the stumps forgot to bring them. Chappals were used. The thought of someone being barefoot on that cold ground filled me with chills. I don’t know how kids didn’t feel it. Maybe the enthusiasm. Maybe the thrill.

First ball was bowled. Bat was swung in full speed. Hitting a six on the first ball is always a pleasure. However, the ball missed the slap from the bat, and it went over the chappals to the wicketkeeper. The bowling team was delighted, they had got their man. Due to date problem, Simon Taufel couldn’t make it, so one of the batting team members was the umpire, he said ‘not out’.

An argument started, bowling team said it would have hit the middle stump, while batting team were sure that the height was more. It soon turned into a fight. Fielders from the distant corners of the ground, who wouldn’t have actually seen the ball, came to the umpire and said the batsman is out.

Suddenly, someone said, ask the Bhaiya who is watching us.
Photo by- Madhu Gopalan [http://www.blogger.com/profile/00782446279959875659]


And it hit me, I am now a Bhaiya. I don't have the innocence, the sweetness they have. I played cricket years back. I have problems now. I have things to achieve. I have people to compete with.

Life is different now: it’s more complex. I no longer steal a rupee coin from my Maa's purse to get an ice cream. Because I have money I want. I no longer fight with my friends and cry for they did not let me play first because now I don't have any. I no longer wear those monkey caps, not because I don’t feel cold, but because I don’t obey my parents.

I thought about all the things that have changed, I was not happy; I lost so much to become a person I never wanted to be. I wanted to be a kid again, who believed in ghosts, who believed that like SWAT Cats he could also make a jet plane with used cars, who believed that all mouse were as smart and handsome as Jerry, who believed that life was a painting and we could all colour it using our vision, who believed in trust, prayer and love.


"yaade hi bas rah gayi he,
us sunhare bachhpan ki,
baate hi bas rah gayi he,
us jeeye hue kal ki,

ek chahat abhi bhi rah si gayi he,
un palo ko fir se jeene ki! "


9 comments :

  1. fantastic vini...gr8 imagination, smart vision.. & ya realy nyc comentery.. itz alwys lyk inviting a fight wen v use chappals as wickets..

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  2. thanks Mohit, and yes the chappal thing was definitely a headache all the time! :D

    i know it would be asking you guys a lot, but do share it on your facebook page! :)

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  3. oye it touched my heart!!!!!saachi lyf has changed a lott kya the kya ho gye h!!!!!

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  4. haha...very nice!!!! ...last lines are seriously gd!!!! .... by d way wat did
    bhaiya say to them??

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  5. @Neeru- it sure has.
    @Kiranjeet Kaur Sangha- :D
    thanks, tum to padhti hi nahi thi na?
    and bhaiya to apni baato me hi kho gaya, kuch bola hi nahi, tab sab bacho ne bola, ye koi pagla lagta he isko chorro! :D

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  6. Mast likha h bhai.... :) padh ke chehre pe smile aa gyi...

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