Ayo, Wattsupp Revolution !!

This is a protest against all those kaam waalis(maids) and car-wash guys who think they can get away with four figure monthly salaries and still be absent on critical days when the homemakers are expecting a VVIP visit. A candle light march was organized to pay tribute to all the housewives traumatized due to this heinous and gruesome sudden absence of maids. Two women, with startling resemblance from one of my favorite Ekta Kapoor serials, Kandles Ki Kudiyaan, were at the forefront of the march to India Gate, which brought together all the housewives from different parts of Punjabi Bagh. “This is our 11/12, enough is enough, humien iski jawaabdehi chahiye.”

Just when I finished registering my solidarity for the cause, by clicking “Yes” on the wall of “Homemakers Hit Back”, a remarkable initiative on Facebook by one of the tech-savvy homemakers, a friend called late at night, apparently after lighting a candle in his room as the local electricity board was on a strike. Their new bettery-candles were not being sold at all in these marches to India Gate. Sources say their head electrician being kicked out in the final round of the qualification of Roadies 6.4 could be a clandestine reason behind their clamor. Coming back to the friend, he had a business plan. Scented candles, multi-colored candles, Facebook candles, Roadies candles. He was already on his way, compiling a ppt, showcasing the estimated figures and pie charts related to the business plan. I was taken in by the Roadies candles. The very next morning, I poked him, before fine tuning my french-beard. ”Will they really be able to perform those tasks which other candles did with an attitude? Will they be able to withstand the challenges posed by Naqvi’s lipstick powder women?” His reply was startling, “ Dude, **** *** ”.

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Different Strokes

“Right arm over, medium faasht”, declared Maamu, adjusting his belt to the expansion he experienced in his belly after finishing his lunch. He marked his run up with precision. Bittoo screamed, ”Mammu, dheele ho to merko karne do firssht over (If you don't feel good, let me bowl the first over)”. Mammu, relentlessly shining the cosco bowl on his right thigh, expecting some reverse swing, paid no heed to Bittoo’s plea. He was right, it was humid, air was still and full of dust, ideal conditions for reverse swing. I gazed at all of them with such excitement, could feel the tension on Salim’s face, boldest of them all. He had just washed his eyes after being struck by a Maamu bouncer in the previous match they played before Sumit and I joined them. “Aaane do maamu, ab terko bataata hoon (Bring it on Maamu, I'll show you now)”, with that shout from the opening batsman Salim, a 7 over match started, and the village crowd grew in number with every ball bowled.

A huddle was formed, when I was bowled by Sumit. The huddle was a celebration, a victory, neither of any team, nor of any particular player. All nine of us in the huddle, celebrated the end of one of the finest cricket matches we had ever played. We opened the small 2 rupee plastic water cans and drank to Bittoo’s “Ye hai youngistaan” shouts. No one knew for which team we batted for or bowled for. No one knew who had won. We had kicked a lot of dust while playing and even stepped over spots where the local buffalo, in his post lunch session, had decided to stop, watch a few strokes and relieve with little shame. What happened after the first ball was bowled and before the last wicket fell is as unexplainable as the “Nadal-Federer” episode of my previous post. Tinku colliding with a buffalo while going for a catch, little Miss Chutki, with a tomboyish look, saving three runs by unconsciously hurling her stick to stop a fast moving ball towards the boundary, the ‘well-bowled’ and “shaaabash maamu” shouts by some bloke at the boundary line, who moved from his place only when it was his turn to bat, these were just a few of those unforgettable moments.

Many thanks to Maamu, Salim, Chutki, Bittoo, Tinku and the other two horribly funny characters who had very difficult names to remember. Sumit and I may ride again to the same place someday for another dose of ‘village-bliss’, only if the school run by some Shankar Sharma doesn’t change its mind and re-admits these seven students it kicked out, apparently for not being able to pay the tuition fees. Salim thinks this wasn’t the reason. Now he doesn’t idolize Sehwag anymore. His bat, broken from edges, now reads “Shahid Afridi”.

The King & The Master

The wait is over. No words can describe what these two have achieved till date and what they will in the coming years. Forget the expert analysis, the physical states, ignore the past records, leave behind who is better on what surface, disremember the semi-final if you can and overlook the 5 hours, 13 titles and other numbering blah-blah. Sit back, pick up some strawberry and cream or whatever gets you going. Think for once those greatest rivalries you could not witness live. Borg-McEnroe, Evert-Navaratilova, Becker-Edberg, Sampras-Agassi. Today, not a single spare seat at The Rod Laver Arena. For me, as always, ‘Vamosssing’ in the Rafa camp. It doesn't get better than this. Rafa in four.

Ladies and gentlemen, quiet please. Time.