The true face of cricket in India
A fourteen year old boy telling his story...
Every day. I didn’t care if it was summer, winter or rain I ran the course I sprinted away just to find myself adjusted in the dreams. I wanted to play. Just to be strong, just to gain might, I handled my bat kept on swinging it day and night. While everybody else slept I would wake up in the morning at sharp 4 took a 5 km to walk to my dear home, the ground. I used to touch the ground, and it felt as some holy temple my body was longing to visit.
I played every stroke like my life had given me the last of my minutes. Thunder clapped and lightning struck me, every time the bat touched the ball with a silk like touch, and showed it a way out of the bounds . I shed all I could sweat, tears and blood forget my own self chasing the Indian jersey that I so loved.
At the end again, fate twisted. Threw me in a hole where the money filled the ear gaps of people and no one could hear my plead, no one there to give any head left all alone still hanging by a thread I chased it again every morning with the depth of desire, to gain nothing but ashes left by the burning fire.