The sound of the pleasant raspy saxophone
been through the test of time,
From a screechy old Gramophone,
A shot of tequila with a pinch of salt and a little of lime.
A million little stars on a clear sky with no cloud,
seen through the broken roof of an old bungalow,
lying on an old piano covered in a dusty white shroud.
An Old book and A cup of hot coffee,
The sound of the rain water hitting the roof,
Ah! Feels like I have eaten a hundred million Toffees.
Yes, Finally I’m going to write something that is not abstract or not a story.For all those people who Love cricket, Please stop reading the post right now, because I assure you, it is not going to be fun for you.
Disclaimer: What follows is a post which involves expression of hatred for the once awesome sport and the reason for it. I don’t intend to hurt anyone on any note.
I loved the sport. I really did, when there was one world cup once in four years and a couple of ODIs every year, I used to practically run from the bus stop, home listening to the Commentator, shout from inside the TV of all the houses on the way, making sure I’m not going to lose more than one over while I executed this exciting sprint every afternoon during those times. Yet here I am, writing about how much I hate Cricket now.
The meaningless publicity, The bureaucracy, The cheerleaders.
Why for god sakes? There are enough people who enjoy the sport and watch it for the sport and not for the cheerleaders.Stop spoiling the macho sport that this is.
The irresponsible players who no longer have class, The drama.
Why would you slap someone?why the hell would you cry on TV? damn it!.
The advent of the celebrities who suddenly start loving the sport so much that they want to have something called the most stupid Indian Premiere league (IPL) , and then, Cricket became lame.
Lame to the extent that Mandira Bedi and her wardrobe of tattered little clothes became the presenter for something called the Twenty /Twenty world cup, which then became T Twenty,
what was that for?I gotta tell you “Not cool man, Not cool at all!
and all of a sudden all these gimmicks became so important, that the only reason cricket talk was in the air was for this and not for the love of the sport.
So now I’m one of those really frustrated once-upon-a-time-cricket-lovers, who cannot take it any more, and has started hating the word cricket and all the people who put status messages like “Tendlya Rocks!!!!” Get a life guys, Cricket is not the sport for us anymore.And I’m sad it is not!
Your wife is right! Cricket Sucks!!
The street was always bubbling with activity. There were merchants , goldsmiths and florists trying to charm the few customers that frequent the little bazaar by displaying their wares.There was an old bearded man who always stood near one of the flower shops playing his violin and there were at least ten people around him all the time. There was shabbily dressed eight year old who always stood right in front almost everyday with a little stick which he can use to find his way.He didn’t go without coming there, not even on a single day, he remembered how all the songs sounded like when the bearded man started playing it.On one such usual Day and the bearded man beckoned the little boy and taught him how to hold the violin and how to play it. a couple of months went by, the little boy learned fast, he soon covered his master when he had to rest for a while so the crowd is entertained. He looked at the prodigy with all pride, when he rested.
One fine winter morning, when the street was not particularly crowded, the little boy dressed in his best clothes came running to see his master as usual, only to not find him. The florist beckoned the little boy and took him by his hand to give him something.The violin was left on the footsteps outside an abandoned little hut. There was a little braille note- he opened it. It was the notes for the new song he was supposed to learn, and someone had signed off saying “You are on you own…”. He felt the note with his little hand. Tears rolled down his cheeks, he took the violin trotted to the bazaar, where a couple of eager listeners waited, and started playing the violin, just like his master,only what he played was a mournful melancholy for it was the only way he was able to express his sorrow.
It was pitch dark and the three little yellow lamps on the dirty damp walls of the tunnel where simmering for want of a new tungsten. There was a puny little man standing with a pile of messily cut wood just outside the tunnel, while he kept looking out for any sign of danger, from the wild world, Gripping his Axe tight as if ready to attack anyone near him.The train passed by and the night went by, the next morning, a little Boy came by to take a last look at his Father and pick up the Axe. Life had to go on, And so that night near the tunnel, there stood a Little boy with a Lantern and an Axe .
They were laid to rest under the orange sky, On the silent Land.Two people rose up into the sky and reached the huge wooden door in the middle of nowhere. One of them was a happy bearded man and the other a sad puny little man.They smiled at each other while they waited for the door to open.
