Prenex needed a place to practice. We could not always use the school ground, because we could not always wrest it from the bigger boys. Behind our house there was a little plot of land overgrown with bushes. We decided to clear it. It was our summer vacation and there was no school to worry about. Thus, every morning a band of boys aged between thirteen and fifteen will descend upon this length of earth and raise absolute mayhem. Many of us will be armed with the dao, the short tribal sword. I had my own dao with about a twelve inch blade. I was fond of it and sharpened it every second day or so. I felt awfully brave whenever I held this weapon in my hand. We will slash at everything that came in the way, plants, bushes, little trees. The ground yielded wonderful things, once the skull of a monitor lizard. Every now and then I will do some random digging expecting to strike the remains of a lost civilisation. Sanu who shared a little of my idiocy and hopes expected the same. Of course, mostly we uncovered empty beer cans and bottles of whisky.
After about a week’s slashing and burning the plot was finally clear. To our dismay we discovered that the plot has an inclination. Once the pitch is laid, the batsman’s end was going to be almost a foot higher than the bowler’s. I must add that we bowled only from one end. So, there was no hope of the ends ever being changed and the bowlers getting a respite from their plight. Undaunted, we decided to soldier on. What if the batsmen were to enjoy a slight advantage? The good length spot had little edges of rocks sticking out of it. We bowlers could always tap the batsmen on the head if we landed the ball on the right spot. On the edge of the plot stood an acacia tree, quite old and rather tall for its kind. It seemed to me that it is slightly bemused by what it is witnessing. Nevertheless, this tree marked the boundary. Beyond it lay the street and you were out if you hit past the tree.
Every afternoon Prenex divided itself into two teams and played some passionately fought out games. I especially remember one valiant captain’s innings I played. It was a seven a side ten over game. We bowled the opposition out for forty-one. We started badly. The ever steady Lingi and not so steady James got out in quick succession while I held fort at one end. At the end of eight overs we were twenty-nine for five. Now I had to face the very irritating Raju who let out a Red-Indian like whoop every time he released the ball. Earlier, when they batted, he had hammered me for a few runs. I blocked his first two deliveries and tension mounted in our camp. I sent his other two for straight sixes which fortunately did not go past the acacia. I ran a single of the fifth ball. We had won.
I was obsessed with my bowling. As long as we kept playing on that plot I kept a count of the wickets I took. I remember that the final count was one hundred and four. I tried hard to copy the actions of my heroes. Some day I tried to bowl like Chaminda Vaas. I was the only one in our team who knew his full name - Warnakulasuriya Patabendige Ushantha Joseph Chaminda Vaas. He still had not had his shoulder injury and was quite fast. Another day I will be Alan Donald and the next day Fanny De Villiars. Above the foot-board of my bed I pasted a poster of Curtly Ambrose exuding pure ferocity in full delivery stride. Above the head board I gave place to Glen McGrath. When these gentlemen retired and walked out of the arena they took away with them great chunks of my boyhood. I had a nineteen ninety three edition of the Wisden Cricketer’s Almanac I had snatched from a poor cousin. Every now and then I leafed through it for some inspiration, just as a pious man will leaf through his scriptures. Of course, I showed it off to my friends too. I eagerly awaited the issues of the Sportstar. Each issue carried a poster of the sportsperson of the week, often a cricketer. I pulled them out and tenderly filed them away. They could serve as currency if something had to be acquired from a friend. I felt a catch in the throat each time India lost a game. In those days that was often. That is perhaps why I have troublesome tonsils today.
For a change, there was one very ordinary and unheroic player I identified with one day. It was the year 1997. India was playing New Zealand in the Independence Cup. New Zealand batted first. I do not recall how much they scored. At one point during the Indian rejoinder Sachin and Ganguly were batting together. Then the ball was tossed to Simon Doull, a nondescript medium pacer I had never heard off before. He went on to bowl a disastrous five overs peppered with wide after wide, many of them consecutive. By the time he was taken off the attack he had given away fifty-two runs. The crowd was booing him and I could see on the television screen that he is teary eyed. I remembered the day when I had walked back home lonesome through a drizzle. I knew then and I know now what it is like not to be a hero, for I am not one too.
For a boy of fourteen his heroes are immortal. But today I know that no hero is. Heroes too must be middle aged men one day. One day they must take off their armor and hobble into the sunset with a sour shoulder and crow’s feet at the corners of the eyes. And this heals the ache of not being a hero or of seeing the heroes crumble. Heroes must be forgiven if they do. Heroism is but a few discrete and difficult moments. And those moments can never be forever.
One day, when we were in the middle of a game, a middle aged tribal gentleman walked into the ground stopping play. “Did you clear this plot my sons?,” he asked us. “We did sir,” we replied to the nabah. “You have done me a very good turn my sons,” he said, “it is I who owns this plot. I wanted to clear it for long but was too lazy to do so. But now that you have done it for me I can plant some ginger here.” We were left quite aghast. We could not imagine ginger growing on the pitch we had laid with so much pain and love. However, the nabah never came back to plant his ginger. Maybe, he was too lazy once again.
After about a week’s slashing and burning the plot was finally clear. To our dismay we discovered that the plot has an inclination. Once the pitch is laid, the batsman’s end was going to be almost a foot higher than the bowler’s. I must add that we bowled only from one end. So, there was no hope of the ends ever being changed and the bowlers getting a respite from their plight. Undaunted, we decided to soldier on. What if the batsmen were to enjoy a slight advantage? The good length spot had little edges of rocks sticking out of it. We bowlers could always tap the batsmen on the head if we landed the ball on the right spot. On the edge of the plot stood an acacia tree, quite old and rather tall for its kind. It seemed to me that it is slightly bemused by what it is witnessing. Nevertheless, this tree marked the boundary. Beyond it lay the street and you were out if you hit past the tree.
Every afternoon Prenex divided itself into two teams and played some passionately fought out games. I especially remember one valiant captain’s innings I played. It was a seven a side ten over game. We bowled the opposition out for forty-one. We started badly. The ever steady Lingi and not so steady James got out in quick succession while I held fort at one end. At the end of eight overs we were twenty-nine for five. Now I had to face the very irritating Raju who let out a Red-Indian like whoop every time he released the ball. Earlier, when they batted, he had hammered me for a few runs. I blocked his first two deliveries and tension mounted in our camp. I sent his other two for straight sixes which fortunately did not go past the acacia. I ran a single of the fifth ball. We had won.
I was obsessed with my bowling. As long as we kept playing on that plot I kept a count of the wickets I took. I remember that the final count was one hundred and four. I tried hard to copy the actions of my heroes. Some day I tried to bowl like Chaminda Vaas. I was the only one in our team who knew his full name - Warnakulasuriya Patabendige Ushantha Joseph Chaminda Vaas. He still had not had his shoulder injury and was quite fast. Another day I will be Alan Donald and the next day Fanny De Villiars. Above the foot-board of my bed I pasted a poster of Curtly Ambrose exuding pure ferocity in full delivery stride. Above the head board I gave place to Glen McGrath. When these gentlemen retired and walked out of the arena they took away with them great chunks of my boyhood. I had a nineteen ninety three edition of the Wisden Cricketer’s Almanac I had snatched from a poor cousin. Every now and then I leafed through it for some inspiration, just as a pious man will leaf through his scriptures. Of course, I showed it off to my friends too. I eagerly awaited the issues of the Sportstar. Each issue carried a poster of the sportsperson of the week, often a cricketer. I pulled them out and tenderly filed them away. They could serve as currency if something had to be acquired from a friend. I felt a catch in the throat each time India lost a game. In those days that was often. That is perhaps why I have troublesome tonsils today.
For a change, there was one very ordinary and unheroic player I identified with one day. It was the year 1997. India was playing New Zealand in the Independence Cup. New Zealand batted first. I do not recall how much they scored. At one point during the Indian rejoinder Sachin and Ganguly were batting together. Then the ball was tossed to Simon Doull, a nondescript medium pacer I had never heard off before. He went on to bowl a disastrous five overs peppered with wide after wide, many of them consecutive. By the time he was taken off the attack he had given away fifty-two runs. The crowd was booing him and I could see on the television screen that he is teary eyed. I remembered the day when I had walked back home lonesome through a drizzle. I knew then and I know now what it is like not to be a hero, for I am not one too.
For a boy of fourteen his heroes are immortal. But today I know that no hero is. Heroes too must be middle aged men one day. One day they must take off their armor and hobble into the sunset with a sour shoulder and crow’s feet at the corners of the eyes. And this heals the ache of not being a hero or of seeing the heroes crumble. Heroes must be forgiven if they do. Heroism is but a few discrete and difficult moments. And those moments can never be forever.
One day, when we were in the middle of a game, a middle aged tribal gentleman walked into the ground stopping play. “Did you clear this plot my sons?,” he asked us. “We did sir,” we replied to the nabah. “You have done me a very good turn my sons,” he said, “it is I who owns this plot. I wanted to clear it for long but was too lazy to do so. But now that you have done it for me I can plant some ginger here.” We were left quite aghast. We could not imagine ginger growing on the pitch we had laid with so much pain and love. However, the nabah never came back to plant his ginger. Maybe, he was too lazy once again.
1 comment:
hey i still rember those days...n 1 thing is sure ur memory is more stronger then mine...u just proved it.missing u buddy.
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