Of Love.

It was a quiet day. Kids were away at their grandparents' house. Wife was busy with her morning routine of tea and newspapers.
I sat in the balcony under an orange-red star that would shine by dusk. The sky was a neat stretch of serene blue.
Most of the neighbours were away, and they would come back with ruddy memories of the holidays. The security guard looked at me from his lonely room by the gate. He smiled at me, as he usually does. I waved at him.
Christmas!
As I sat there with no preoccupation, the pain and loneliness of the 1989 Christmas returned.
On that Christmas eve I stood at a crowded railway station wondering where to go. College had closed and friends had all gone home. The evening was red, stars shimmered from different corners, and everyone had a spring in their stride. They were hurrying to somewhere.
I sat on the stone bench, fighting my tears. People and objects turned watery, smudged and wobbly.
For the first time I missed her. She had gone home, and I had no access to her in those days of no mobile phones. The looks that we shared, the laughter that echoed in the corridors, the careless play of her tresses in the breeze, her colourful shawls, her dimple, her eyes…
I was lonely.
No season reminds us of love and sacrifice as the Christmas does. God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son to die on the cross…
God is love—one of the most abused sentences. Perfect love takes away all fear…another one. They paint those words on the back of trucks and ricks.
Nothing reminds us of love as Christmas, and I sat on the platform gazing at the passing trains and the passengers. I was in love.
Christmas reminds us of sacrifice. Of someone dying on the cross for others. He was bruised and battered, and He carried that huge piece of log uphill. He was as helpless as a butterfly pinned on a piece of wood. Beautiful but fragile. He died, and there was darkness at noon.
I stared at people dragging their sandals and cloth bags as they ran after slowing trains and jumped into coaches with a sense of momentary triumph. But I was feeling like a defeated. I knew she would come back when the college reopened, but I was missing her on the Christmas eve—the most romantic of all days when stars would witness the most amazing birth on earth; when the shepherds would see something unusual in the starry sky and be surprised by the voice from Heaven; when three wise men from the East would follow a star to that quaint manger.
My heart beat hard—it longed to be with her, singing those hymns, remembering the most unique birth, celebrating God’s love for all of us, scooping up the colours of the evening in my hands, splashing them all over us, holding her hand with a proprietorial assurance.
Eighteen years have passed. Nearly seven thousand days have gone since we last met. Was she angry, sad or dejected? I still don’t know, but I cannot forget the look in her eyes. And, still I wonder what made me turn the other way—running away from facing her.
Let your love go, and if it’s yours it’d come back. She let me go. For 18 years—didn’t try to trace me even once. She let me run away where I wanted to run away to. From dreams to realities; from fragrance to sweat drops. From songs to tears. I ran like a cross-country runner—passing streets, hedges and streams, without stopping and without looking at the onlookers.
I never checked on her either. I didn’t know where life had taken her. But I often thought about the love, with a tinge of sadness and regret.
Somewhere in the distance, from the coastal road, sounds of firecrackers lacerated the silence and broke my thoughts. They were celebrating Christmas.
I knew what I wanted to do.
I went inside, and wept. Out of joy and grief.
For God’s love, and mine.

Celebrate, anyway!

There has been much noise about fans celebrating India’s climb to the top spot in Test cricket.
I find it a reason to uncork a champagne, if you can afford one in these days of pay cuts and job losses.
I may pull out a Jacob’s Creek from my cellar—not bought to bubble up the Indians’ moment in the sun, but gifted by an NRI nephew last month.
Am I wrong in celebrating the Indians becoming the number one Test side? Am I dumb enough not to see the hollowness of the ranking system?
Do you remember the covers of some of our national magazines when the Indians under Mohammed Azharuddin who made one of their worst tours to Australia over a decade ago? Some of it said that team was the worst Indian team, and some pundits suggested that the whole bunch should be thrown into the South Pacific.
When things go wrong, you’re thrown into the depths of ocean, I learnt that day.
But sadly, when things go right also, the cynics make sure they throw some cold water on you—they pick their nose to come up with some slimy facts to show that you don’t deserve the glory.
No one in the team claimed that the Indian team is the best in the world. Captain MS Dhoni has never bragged that his team could hang the Aussies to dry any day anywhere, nor has he beamed that his boys would make the South Africans eat humble pie every time.
But when the team beat the Sri Lankans 2-0 at home, a commendable task by any means, the system of the ICC, based on points, says now this Indian team is ranked the number one in the world.
Now, tell me, is that a moment for the captain to walk up to a Hollywood Ravi Shastri at the presentation ceremony and tell the whole word, “Sorry, we don’t deserve this, we are not number one, but a substandard team”.
We live in a world where awards are rejected for more publicity, and the media make the denier a celebrity than the one who accepts the honour and quietly walks into the realities of life, with a smile of satisfaction.
There is no doubt that there are areas where the Indians have to vastly improve. Their fielding still doesn’t stop your heartbeat—the way the Springboks or Kangaroos, or even the Kiwis do. The way some of the senior dive at the ball resembles a kid’s tentative steps in a swimming pool. Uninspired and gingerly.
They still have to sharpen their fangs. That knocking-out punch is still missing most of the times. They still have to display a steely resolution to hang one-handed on the cliff, to turn things around by the skin of their teeth. They still have to befriend the corridors of uncertainty on foreign soil. They still have to look the Oz in their eyes and say, “We’re the best.”
On certain days, the bowlers just can’t finish off the middle and the tail. They gasp desperately, they bowl with their heart in the dressing room, they walk with stooped shoulders and cold bellies—the fire is missing, the hunger lost.
The batsmen often show symptoms of a contagious flu. If one sneezes, all is shivering. Three wickets gone under a barrage of bouncers, others come with sweating palm and fluttering bellies and blink at the short-pitched ones. They fish with eyes closed and feet stuck firmly on the crease.
Yes, they have to improve.
But there is no denying that on their day, no one rules the park like the Indians. Look at the quality and variety of their batting: Sehwag—no words on him—and Gambhir, followed by Dravid, Tendulkar, Laxman and Dhoni. I’d drive miles with no murmur to see them in full flow, where they destroy bowlers with their respective prowess. I’d still walk to see Zaheer, Ishant and Sreesanth spearheading the attack with seam and swing, and Harbhajan—though not a purist’s delight—outwitting the batsmen.
This Indian team, if not the best yet for the doubters and bashers, no doubt is an exciting one. They make you pull out the Jacob’s Creek from the cellar and go out to the balcony while the night falls quietly.