Cricket has been such an integral part of my life for over fifteen years now. I have watched and cheered my team, I shouted in frustration at the spineless cricket that we sometimes played, I cried with the pain of defeat, I soared on the wings of victory, but, always was with my team. So, diplomacy aside, I bleed blue and I want my team to win, each and every time, however stacked are the odds against us :).
The first test match between India and Australia was highly emotional for any cricket lover because of the days leading upto this match. Philip Hughes was a stranger to me, yet not a stranger. He was a cricketer of promise and his abrupt death stunned the whole cricketing community. I was no exception to it. Watching the first hour of the match was exceptionally hard for me, especially that of Warner bat. And when Clarke walked in, I had tears in my eyes, understanding the magnanimity of the task ahead of him. But, as sport often does, it heals the wounds as you play along. It balms the rough edges of the pain and embraces you to it, in the only way a sportsman knows how. Watching the bravery of the Australians, rising above the shock of a ceased young life, I applauded them with all my heart.
And then, match moved on, and so, in the midst of all the generosity, I started routing for my team. I was frustrated with the young bowling attack, to say it tamely. I was annoyed with the spiritless fielding. I was screaming in my mind, saying, cricket community needs a fight. It needs to heal. It needs spine of steel, not mindless cricket. I have not expected our team to bowl them out, not with that bowling and not on that track and certainly not the Aussie team that was playing for something more than just cricket, at least on that day. And I wanted our team to stand there in the middle and give it all. And then it happened. The moment I have been waiting for. We have always been a batsmen team, despite the likes of Anil Kumble and Javagal Srinath. Our batsmen turned up for the match, with their limited experience, but with valiant hearts, lead by the warrior himself. Kohli, for all his audacious display, is a man of strength and determination, with an unwavering focus and self belief. He is the symbol of modern India, fearless and courageous.
Watching India fight it out in the middle on the last day, though it was a four day wicket, with the huge target looming in the horizon with inexperienced batting line up and Lyon spinning the ball like the devil himself, I knew it was a long call for victory. I woke up with a prayer that we battle it out, win or lose, it still is alright.
India seem to bring their best when against Australia in recent times, probably because Australians would just steamroll over anything that cannot stand to its fearless cricket. And the current team witnessed the retired legends give their all, to win two of the most memorable victories against them, one in Eden and other in Adelaide. Perhaps there was a lesson learnt by watching them, to fight it out, to absorb the pressure, to play with patience and enjoy the beauty of a battle unfold. Virat Kohli sure did, dancing like a lion, with Vijay a step behind, just a step. While watching them play, I could not but hope that we may win the match. And then, we dwindled. Murali Vijay for all his bravery fell for that tickle of nervousness that even God himself might experience on 99. But what broke my heart was the valiant Virat wicket. He stood hunched on his bat for a long time, his posture speaking everything that was unsaid. I don't want to go, it said. I want to win it for my team and country, it said. And my heart, just fumbled for what seemed like an eternity. I felt it would break at his despair. As I stood, to give him an ovation for his batting that surpassed many expectations, I could not but feel proud of such counterattack. Virat was in a zone, battling it out and it was such a sad, sad dismissal. Virat and Vijay sure made batting look easy. Though what followed was a collapse, with Rahane's unfortunate wicket, I will remember this match, not just for its emotional drama, but for one of the best knocks I witnessed by the most zealous Indian cricketer in recent times. I will remember it for choosing to chase a mammoth target, without even thinking of a draw, which might have been inconceivable in not so distant past. It was exhilarating to witness a match so beautifully poised at lunch on the final day.
Thank you Virat, for leading the fight from the front. I know this will hurt, but victories are not just in the matches won, but in the lead up to that final moment of the result. My heart bleeds blue and I am proud of the chase, down to the last session of the final day. Thank you ICT, I love you! Good luck for the second test!! :)
Dec 14, 2014
Jul 28, 2014
Promise to myself
It is very important to remember how I feel today. The hurt that I feel right now, could swallow me, leaving me as a husk of a person that I am, that I aspire to be. Time and again, when I get into the comfort zone, falling back on being lethargic, there is this push from my conscience and the destiny seems to conspire with it to push me out of it. After all the hard work that I put in, it hurts to see that I cannot move forward from where I was. Every time I am caught up in work, I tend to forget that I work in a cut throat business, where 'I' am not important, what I do right now is not VERY important. My future value is diminishing every waking day , just as surely as I move to the closure of my life. I cannot afford to forget that, not for a waking second, if I want to be where I want to be. I am, but a microcosm in the bigger picture, one of the millions. Sure, I know my job, sure, I can do it with aplomb and so can a million others. Then, there are a million others who aspire to do what I do and are just hoping for a chance. So, what is it that I have done differently? What is it that is making me a cut above the rest? Do I know? Am I really a cut above the rest? And to be honest, I know I am not. But, times like these, I don't want to remember that. I need to focus this train of thought into me, to forget the rest, to forget everything else and remember what I vowed when I took my responsibility, that my goal is to be the best I can be, not the best there ever was and will be. I owe it to all the millions who are aspiring for a chance to use what I was given, humbly and justifiably, to my own eyes. I need to remember to be thick skinned, to let go of the negativity, focus on my inner strength, to understand that working does not equate a success. Out there, there are no friends, no enemies, just people like me, who want to earn a humble bread for their dinner table. Some earn a feast, some earn mere bread, but at the end of the day, every single one out there is working for that piece of food to tuck into their tummies. If I want to eat a feast, I bloody well have to earn it. But, am I the one deciding, I get to eat feast today, I am to starve tomorrow? I bloody well am! I am the one steering my ship to the shore, I am using whatever is available to me to reach that shore. And I need to remember that. No one out there can make me feel belittled without my permission. But why is it, why in Sam's hell am I withering like a leaf, drifting through the wind? I know the answer. Because, for a moment, I relaxed. Yes, I confess, I let go for a moment, the reins I guard with sanctity. But, never again, never again will I be blindsided into feeling this sucker punch. And never again will I feel this cheated. That is a promise I make and a promise I intend to keep.
Jul 17, 2014
Sound of Music
DISCLAIMER: This is a fictional story. All the characters are fictional. The incident itself is a creation. Any resemblance to people or to the situations in the real world, is purely coincidental.
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She stood, transfixed, her stance defensive, her body weighed down by her sorrow of losing a dear one. Her heart refused to accept, her mind could not correlate her anguish. She fought for control of her emotions that threatened to drown her in misery. Performing on a stage is a daunting task, which requires courage and back bone. She could not feel her spine, let alone her courage. But she was compelled to do so today. She was walking across a street, one of the million streets she hunted, in search for peace over the course of years and found an open mic night in one of the pubs on that street. She had no idea when her feet started walking towards the door nor did she have a recollection of walking on to the stage. She was shocked when a mike was pushed infront of her. Her breathing rabid, she tried to back down, but something held her there, something stopped her from moving. She looked across the pub, noting the drunken folks, stirring in their haze looking at her, their gaze uninterested. The air was heavy with the smell of booze and the stink was revolting. It was a place far away, in a land she did not knew existed until providence brought her feet to it. She almost wanted to ask for a drink herself, to drown her mind in the bitter taste of beer.
Something snapped in her and she dropped her back pack. She knelt down to open her violin case, noticing her shoes, that were worn out. She looked at her clothes, shocking herself at her appearance. While she felt at home in her rags, they were a far cry from the sophistication she was used to, a long time ago. She ran herself to dust, quite literally. She touched her violin, that which was an extension of her some eons ago, was locked for a long time now. She wondered if it would feel alien to her, when she took her bow out. She could feel the gush of her blood through her veins and recognized adrenaline. She almost wanted to snap the case shut. Again, like being held on an invisible leash, she stood, violin in her hand. She stood there, feeling the pumping of her heart, feeling the heat flush her face, a tiny brow of sweat crowding her hairline. She was thrown back to the time, when her performances were sought out, when there were lines of people standing in queue eager to walk into the auditorium, where she would be sitting on a chair, spot light on her dazzling face, dressed in a flowing gown, her heart reverberating the joy of playing her music to the audience who understood and connected to it. She looked across the pub, where no one paid any attention to her. She had no audience. She felt the adrenaline go down a notch, when she noticed a fleeting image of her lost one, her husband, standing there, looking at her, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. She has seen the face enough number of times to not be shocked any more. She shut her eyes, forcing the image out of her mind, preparing herself for the pain that would undoubtedly choke her. She could feel her heart choking and she opened her eyes, fully intending to get down and go back out, into the cool air, to run, to not think and not feel the misery in her, when her mind froze at the image of her dead husband, with a plea in his eyes. She could not shake it off, she could not shut it out. It held her in place, his steady gaze mingled with love and fury, reproach and demand. She could no longer say no to his demand, when it was mixed with his righteous anger and subtle reproach. She could hear his voice, filled with ice, his eyes ripe with fierceness, telling her to get on with life.
She closed her eyes and held her violin. She slid the bow across the strings for the first sound of music her violin made in quite some time. She could feel her violin give a little moan at her touch, before acknowledging her. She faltered through the first chords and felt her heart stagger. She forced herself to calm down and concentrate. She visualized and let her heart take over. She concentrated on the movement of her bow, trusting her heart. She felt her heart weep before the music reached her ears. She felt her fingers glide the bow easily across the strings, taking the wail a note higher and felt a silent tear escape her eyes. She took it even higher, as her pain reverberated inside her, producing a gut wrenching note. She held it there for a full minute, while her heart throbbed and fought through the pain, pushing her through the despair. She let her fingers play the bow, playing the fiddle to the pounds of her heart. She felt that her fingers would explode as she glided the bow at the speed of her racing heart. She was held in place by him, his eyes haunting her, pushing her to a peak, while she felt being strung from one emotion to another. Her strings rang clear, note after note, high and low, crash after crash, filling her, pushing her, breaking her. She held on, willing herself, when a sob broke through her. She concentrated on the music she was fiddling, as her heart and mind willed to ride the tide. She increased the tempo to an unbearable high, reflecting the inner storm, as the music reached her in waves, crashed through her feelings, soothing the rougher edges and sharper spikes, numbing her pain. She let the music into her soul, demanding acceptance. She could feel it in her when the invisible ropes around her heart loosened. She could feel the tide turn in her and she slowed the tempo as her raging heart soothed. She let a note lighter than air, when the heaviness in her heart succumbed to the sound of music, when her soul felt lighter. She let the air fill her in, the soothing wind a balm to her bruised heart, refreshing her. Her music lulled her, drifting her to a land filled with peace. She could hear her music in the background, like a soothing wind chime. She could hear the whisper of trees, she could see him dancing to her tune, she could feel the unbearable lightness of her soul, pushing her to her toes, joining him, the notes going higher and faster, she felt the sound of her violin inside her and her heart opened, so did her ears and so did her mind, that registered the music echoing in the speakers, the sound echoing the acceptance reverberating through her body, before being engulfed by the wave of silence. When she felt her heart quiet down, she produced an echo of that peace as she slid her bow across the violin and finished on that peaceful note, content. She opened her eyes, to see his mirage, looking at her, his stance peaceful, his eyes proud, his hands in his pockets, a smile lurking on the corners of his lips. It felt real, she could feel the longing in her heart. She blinked in shock and noticed that the mirage was no longer there. She felt the panic rise in her as she looked across the room, in her desperate attempt to hold him. She could not find him. Her eyes scanned the room, noticing for the first time the claps echoing across the pub.
The audience were looking awestruck, their faces echoing the stunned pleasure and content. Her music broke through her pain, reaching her soul, filling her with peace and it broke through their drunken haze and stupefied them enough to give her a standing ovation. She did not hear it. She felt the calm inside her, while she walked down the stage, noticing that the pub no longer had the frenzy drunken haze to it. It felt peaceful. She looked across the room, noticing the faces that were still reflecting shock, and walked out of the pub, without turning back, into the night.
Years passed, but the audience remembered that soul touching performance, that held them and ruptured their soul to million pieces before sewing it together and filling them with peace. That pub, lost in the million streets held one open mic night every year, on the same day, in the hope that the angel who played to their soul would be back. Every year, that night, there was no music in the pub and the story turned into a legend, passed down through the word of mouth through years, about a hope fairy who sprinkled violin dust to soothe and clean their souls and fill it with content.
--------------------------------------------
She stood, transfixed, her stance defensive, her body weighed down by her sorrow of losing a dear one. Her heart refused to accept, her mind could not correlate her anguish. She fought for control of her emotions that threatened to drown her in misery. Performing on a stage is a daunting task, which requires courage and back bone. She could not feel her spine, let alone her courage. But she was compelled to do so today. She was walking across a street, one of the million streets she hunted, in search for peace over the course of years and found an open mic night in one of the pubs on that street. She had no idea when her feet started walking towards the door nor did she have a recollection of walking on to the stage. She was shocked when a mike was pushed infront of her. Her breathing rabid, she tried to back down, but something held her there, something stopped her from moving. She looked across the pub, noting the drunken folks, stirring in their haze looking at her, their gaze uninterested. The air was heavy with the smell of booze and the stink was revolting. It was a place far away, in a land she did not knew existed until providence brought her feet to it. She almost wanted to ask for a drink herself, to drown her mind in the bitter taste of beer.
Something snapped in her and she dropped her back pack. She knelt down to open her violin case, noticing her shoes, that were worn out. She looked at her clothes, shocking herself at her appearance. While she felt at home in her rags, they were a far cry from the sophistication she was used to, a long time ago. She ran herself to dust, quite literally. She touched her violin, that which was an extension of her some eons ago, was locked for a long time now. She wondered if it would feel alien to her, when she took her bow out. She could feel the gush of her blood through her veins and recognized adrenaline. She almost wanted to snap the case shut. Again, like being held on an invisible leash, she stood, violin in her hand. She stood there, feeling the pumping of her heart, feeling the heat flush her face, a tiny brow of sweat crowding her hairline. She was thrown back to the time, when her performances were sought out, when there were lines of people standing in queue eager to walk into the auditorium, where she would be sitting on a chair, spot light on her dazzling face, dressed in a flowing gown, her heart reverberating the joy of playing her music to the audience who understood and connected to it. She looked across the pub, where no one paid any attention to her. She had no audience. She felt the adrenaline go down a notch, when she noticed a fleeting image of her lost one, her husband, standing there, looking at her, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. She has seen the face enough number of times to not be shocked any more. She shut her eyes, forcing the image out of her mind, preparing herself for the pain that would undoubtedly choke her. She could feel her heart choking and she opened her eyes, fully intending to get down and go back out, into the cool air, to run, to not think and not feel the misery in her, when her mind froze at the image of her dead husband, with a plea in his eyes. She could not shake it off, she could not shut it out. It held her in place, his steady gaze mingled with love and fury, reproach and demand. She could no longer say no to his demand, when it was mixed with his righteous anger and subtle reproach. She could hear his voice, filled with ice, his eyes ripe with fierceness, telling her to get on with life.
She closed her eyes and held her violin. She slid the bow across the strings for the first sound of music her violin made in quite some time. She could feel her violin give a little moan at her touch, before acknowledging her. She faltered through the first chords and felt her heart stagger. She forced herself to calm down and concentrate. She visualized and let her heart take over. She concentrated on the movement of her bow, trusting her heart. She felt her heart weep before the music reached her ears. She felt her fingers glide the bow easily across the strings, taking the wail a note higher and felt a silent tear escape her eyes. She took it even higher, as her pain reverberated inside her, producing a gut wrenching note. She held it there for a full minute, while her heart throbbed and fought through the pain, pushing her through the despair. She let her fingers play the bow, playing the fiddle to the pounds of her heart. She felt that her fingers would explode as she glided the bow at the speed of her racing heart. She was held in place by him, his eyes haunting her, pushing her to a peak, while she felt being strung from one emotion to another. Her strings rang clear, note after note, high and low, crash after crash, filling her, pushing her, breaking her. She held on, willing herself, when a sob broke through her. She concentrated on the music she was fiddling, as her heart and mind willed to ride the tide. She increased the tempo to an unbearable high, reflecting the inner storm, as the music reached her in waves, crashed through her feelings, soothing the rougher edges and sharper spikes, numbing her pain. She let the music into her soul, demanding acceptance. She could feel it in her when the invisible ropes around her heart loosened. She could feel the tide turn in her and she slowed the tempo as her raging heart soothed. She let a note lighter than air, when the heaviness in her heart succumbed to the sound of music, when her soul felt lighter. She let the air fill her in, the soothing wind a balm to her bruised heart, refreshing her. Her music lulled her, drifting her to a land filled with peace. She could hear her music in the background, like a soothing wind chime. She could hear the whisper of trees, she could see him dancing to her tune, she could feel the unbearable lightness of her soul, pushing her to her toes, joining him, the notes going higher and faster, she felt the sound of her violin inside her and her heart opened, so did her ears and so did her mind, that registered the music echoing in the speakers, the sound echoing the acceptance reverberating through her body, before being engulfed by the wave of silence. When she felt her heart quiet down, she produced an echo of that peace as she slid her bow across the violin and finished on that peaceful note, content. She opened her eyes, to see his mirage, looking at her, his stance peaceful, his eyes proud, his hands in his pockets, a smile lurking on the corners of his lips. It felt real, she could feel the longing in her heart. She blinked in shock and noticed that the mirage was no longer there. She felt the panic rise in her as she looked across the room, in her desperate attempt to hold him. She could not find him. Her eyes scanned the room, noticing for the first time the claps echoing across the pub.
The audience were looking awestruck, their faces echoing the stunned pleasure and content. Her music broke through her pain, reaching her soul, filling her with peace and it broke through their drunken haze and stupefied them enough to give her a standing ovation. She did not hear it. She felt the calm inside her, while she walked down the stage, noticing that the pub no longer had the frenzy drunken haze to it. It felt peaceful. She looked across the room, noticing the faces that were still reflecting shock, and walked out of the pub, without turning back, into the night.
Years passed, but the audience remembered that soul touching performance, that held them and ruptured their soul to million pieces before sewing it together and filling them with peace. That pub, lost in the million streets held one open mic night every year, on the same day, in the hope that the angel who played to their soul would be back. Every year, that night, there was no music in the pub and the story turned into a legend, passed down through the word of mouth through years, about a hope fairy who sprinkled violin dust to soothe and clean their souls and fill it with content.
May 29, 2014
!!Happy Fourth Anniversary!!
And so.. I had an experience in Taj Falaknuma last evening for my fourth wedding anniversary. (Shocking?! To me too!! :) ) It was a memorable experience, personally, because my hubby spent time and effort to make time for “us”, remembering my off handed mention of Taj Falaknuma after the raving reviews. We both are mostly “go and get it done” people, at least when it comes to experiences at least one of us enjoys. So, it was surprising that we waited for an occasion, perhaps, we both hoped to make our anniversary memorable subconsciously, thanks to the influence of web about the grandeur of the palace.
Adorned in a saree, surrounded by peaceful never ending land, walking hand in hand with my guy, made me feel the richness from within me. That moment of peace, that moment of shared intimacy among strangers, that moment of love that engulfed me, watching him awestruck at the brilliance of the then Nawab was worth the experience that dented his wallet. Watching him gasp and stare made me feel ridiculously amused. And holding him and being held by him made the day’s closure picture perfect. Thank you dear, for the drive and the palace setting ?.
Looks like the then Nawab and my hubby share the same madness for wood. I am not kidding when I say this: he pointed out that the bed he got done for our bedroom and the sofas in the darn palace are made of the same wood and he said: I give you a Queen’s bed and you crib about the wood. Yes, I hate wood, I can’t help it. Whether it is Queen’s bed or a paltry mattress, what difference does it make, when it makes me feel old and ancient? Longevity be damned, I would much rather have style and hence peace of mind, thank you very much!!
I choose to remember this day because he managed to drive “to” the place without cribbing about the traffic, wooed me with the setting and genuinely enjoyed himself rather than just for me. Little things matter!
“You can talk with someone for years, every day, and still, it won't mean as much as what you can have when you sit in front of someone, not saying a word, yet you feel that person with your heart, you feel like you have known the person for forever.... connections are made with the heart, not the tongue.”
Congratulations to us!
Adorned in a saree, surrounded by peaceful never ending land, walking hand in hand with my guy, made me feel the richness from within me. That moment of peace, that moment of shared intimacy among strangers, that moment of love that engulfed me, watching him awestruck at the brilliance of the then Nawab was worth the experience that dented his wallet. Watching him gasp and stare made me feel ridiculously amused. And holding him and being held by him made the day’s closure picture perfect. Thank you dear, for the drive and the palace setting ?.
Looks like the then Nawab and my hubby share the same madness for wood. I am not kidding when I say this: he pointed out that the bed he got done for our bedroom and the sofas in the darn palace are made of the same wood and he said: I give you a Queen’s bed and you crib about the wood. Yes, I hate wood, I can’t help it. Whether it is Queen’s bed or a paltry mattress, what difference does it make, when it makes me feel old and ancient? Longevity be damned, I would much rather have style and hence peace of mind, thank you very much!!
I choose to remember this day because he managed to drive “to” the place without cribbing about the traffic, wooed me with the setting and genuinely enjoyed himself rather than just for me. Little things matter!
“You can talk with someone for years, every day, and still, it won't mean as much as what you can have when you sit in front of someone, not saying a word, yet you feel that person with your heart, you feel like you have known the person for forever.... connections are made with the heart, not the tongue.”
Congratulations to us!
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