Wednesday, June 24, 2009

A Page of his Diary.




"Come wander with me, she said,
Into regions yet untrod,
And read me what is still unread
From the manuscripts of God."
-Longfellow


She was like that, I contemplated affectionately as I inured myself to the grief of her parting words. They played with the trajectories of a longing mind, the diffracted rays forming kaleidoscopic patterns on the mahogany table, paintings of her gentle soul. For a moment I thought I heard her vibrant laughter. The unrestrained freedom of it. The cadence of it. The intoxicatingly sweet rise and fall of it. Even in my head, she was hopelessly beautiful. And in my head, she was still mine.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Boom Boom Pakistan.



My heart was with Pakistan, my money with Sri Lanka. I mean, how many heart breaks can a person take?
Besides, our rosaries and hopes have bled for too long. Not anymore.

We all sat there in the large, air-conditioned TV lounge, with a tension so tangible, it was almost physical. I was hailed unpatriotic. That's our creed. Traitors are not only made on battlefields but on cricket pitches as well. You lost me in '99.

But you have just won me back. You won me over with the fall of wicket upon wicket. You won me over with the catches you did not miss. You had me at the pressure you put on the cricket tycoons. You shattered me with those beautiful boundaries and sixes. With the level headedness you handled yourself with. With each throw of the raging ball, with each time Muralidaran stared you down, with Malinga's majestic presence on screen, with the runs they shaved off, all our hearts pumped as one for you.

If I could have been there, I would have prostrated with you, I would have embraced you Shahid Afridi and Abdul Razzaq and Umer Gul and Shoaib Malik. Gentlemen, you have offered us a silver, glittering gift of hope.

You with the abominable English, with the unibrows, you without the suaveness and fluidity of dream men, you with the unpredictable outcomes, you have done us all proud.