The Kings of Hard Times

We, Indians, are in for hard times.

Well, by no means am I an economist. Or a philosopher, either. In fact, I am as close to being a philosopher as Viveik Oberoi is to making a sensible film. This is to say, pretty close, like a typo-free Manish Tewari. But joblessness can make you do things, like thinking.

The writing is on the wall-coloured business newspapers, which double up as notebook covers, that carry with them gory tales of bloodbath on the stock markets, of some random Government policy going wrong, and much more, that make as much sense to hostel dwellers as the mess food.

In fact, the writing has been there for quite some time now.

Romance of galli cricket

This post first appeared on Sportskeeda.

No sooner than the clock strikes the designated hour that kids, even adolescents, start trickling in and soon the paltry area between two buildings or the open parking lot lying in abeyance becomes the center of commotion and clamor, much to the relief of kids who couldn't afford an afternoon nap despite the repeated pleas of their mothers, lest they miss out on the action.   

Dead branches and bricks serve as stumps, with a solitary piece of rock doing the needful at the bowler’s end.  Lack of enough bats means sometimes the non-striker runs for his life, er wicket, empty handed, and the batsmen are again forced to meet midway through the pitch, if one can call that strip of dust and stones a pitch, where the bat is handed over.

The batsman at the non-striker’s end also has to dispense of his duties as a makeshift umpire, and is at the center of scandalous accusations of corruption and partiality. Hell, even the players don’t add up.

Name calling takes up more time than the game itself in case of brick-stumps. Because the imagined height at which the ball floated over them is different for different players, leading to oblique reference to the non-striker cum-umpire’s lineage.