Blowed over

I was one of those silly people who turn their noses up at 20-20 cricket. I mean you know those usually gripes. Too bachha, all flash no technique, just a cynical little commercial idea and all that. Well then yesterday happened. And I don’t know if all the same arguments still hold good - right now I don’t care. Last night was kutthe ke maze.

The campaigners of 20-20 could not have had it better if they had staged it! Hell, what fun it was. Imagine an India-Pakistan match in the first major international tournament ending in a tie and then going on to be decided in the crazily football-like bowl-out. Like they once famously asked- who writes these scripts?

I don’t know if I was giggling so much because of the relief of India’s making it to the next round, or because it was late and I was possibly in some yet undiscovered sleep zone, or because Sehwag’s giggles were infectious.

We were watching (I think) the first ever bowl-out in the history of the game and nobody quite knew what to do. Both teams were transformed into sets of silly school boys both embarrassed and excited at the same time. But this bowl-out thing is really the silliest thing you ever saw and terribly fun.

All round too this tournament is turning out to be hugely exciting, spectacular fielding, fabulous batting, and desperate bowler-batsman clashes. Aha! Fun, fun, fun!

I don’t think that 20-20 is going to wipe out or even diminish the other forms or anything dismal like that. I reckon its going to spill a flood of options and we’ll have it all the better for that.

Whatever, I am game!

In the shadow of the crib

Dramatic sounding title and all, what?

The picture was taken in bright afternoon light and had such stark shadows that it was not to be resisted.

Sunita had just come to fetch it after work and I had to quickly take a few shots before she took it away. It must have been a long day for her but she waited patiently, indulgently even, as I took the pictures. She understood, I think, something of the sentimentality that had me going.

In fact I fancy that it stuck us both similarly when she helped me bring it down from the attic yesterday. Big, heavy, strongly wrought, old fading green – it weighed oddly of memories as we manoeuvred it out of the narrow attic door. It came down with pipes and cartons and old furniture. All to be sold for scrap. But we did not know what to do with the cradle. Sending it back to the attic, for another twenty something years, to be decided about later? Too foolish to be considered. Fortunately Sunita took a fancy for it. She has no immediate use of it – her own daughter is only sixteen, but she couldn’t resist it. It was that kind of cradle.

Objects do record life, you know. Some more than others, perhaps. A cradle, I think would do this more vividly than most. Emotions around a cradle are sharper, more lucid and somehow… universal. Joy, anxiety, pride, sleep. All basic, all intense. This cradle of my childhood told of all this and also of peace. For itself it proclaimed a solid dependability. It was a happy cradle.

My mother tells us it has rocked three generations of babies in our family and the first to own it is over seventy now.

But attics have got to be cleared. And overlarge wrought-iron cradles have got to go. But I am glad that it hasn’t gone to the Kabadiwala’s just yet. Its inheritance of impressions won’t be broken down to scrap just yet. Its good that the cradle managed to convince Sunita to take it home with her.