AN HOUR OF ACCLAIM

On the face of it, there seemed to be an upswing in my popularity ratings amongst our townsfolk. The signs looked unambiguous.

For starters, I nearly burst a blood vessel when my neighbour's Sphinx-like face burst into a broad smile. The last time he had bestowed that honour was almost ten years ago when he tried show off his newly acquired set of dentures. Then why the devil did he smile? Did it have anything to do with my recent exploits at the badminton tournament, I wondered, as I set on my evening jaunt into the town.

On my way, I realised that I was famished and decided to provide my craving tissues with some restoratives. With great trepidation, lest I should be an easy prey to the prowling traffic warden, I steered my vehicle into a No-Parking area facing my favourite eatery. No sooner had I alighted than I heard the dreaded whistle of the traffic cop. What happened next took my breath away. The guardian of the law flashed a sunny smile at me winking at the same time as if to say, 'Go on buddy, have a ball' and looked the other way. It appeared to me that the local constabulary had finally recognized my place atop the pecking order.

At the restaurant, the waiter whom we had nick-named 'Iceberg of the tip' for his coolness towards customers who did not tip generously(he was always aloof and unfriendly towards me for being a poor tipper) suddenly turned effusive, dripping honey all around.

He fussed over me as if I were President Obama, serving lamb pilaf and a glass of milk shake in two shakes of a lamb's tail. To cap it all, the restaurant owner, a sour soul, if there ever was one, greeted me with bonhomie and offered me 'Triple Pudding' - on the house!

By then I was convinced that, for reasons not yet known to me, I had acquired an aura of pre-eminence which made people go out of their way to soft-soap me. Or, was it because the Devil had taken a day off, leaving everyone in town in charitable mood that made them yearn to pat the humanity on the back? I was to find out soon.

On my way home, my progress was impeded by a large festive crowd that had gathered in front of a TV shop bursting fire crackers and dancing to drum beats.

Then, as if on cue, a man appeared and shooed away the revelers and made way for my vehicle to pass through. As I thanked him, he peeped through the window and said, "Shout hurray to Dravid, Tendulkar and Kumble, Sir. We have just thrashed Pakistan at the Champion's Trophy."
As I complied, he stepped back and saluted smartly.

It was then that the scales fell off my eyes as I learnt the reason for the wave of magnanimity that had engulfed the town. Suddenly, I was thankful that it was not the day on which Zimbabwe 'thrashed' India.

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Under-hand Cricket

Yesterday I dreamt of a former English fast bowler waving a bottle of glycerin at me. Clad in snow-white, he loudly appealed "Just do it."

Though initially stumped, 1 realised that Mr. Snow-white was prodding me to follow his 'shining' example and dream up a scheme to lift the
fortunes of Azharuddin et al who, of late, despite sporadic flashes (in the
pan) of genius, have been pushed on to the back foot by a volley of defeats. As he egged me on, 1 began to hatch a plot.

Snuff Bluff: To poke our business into other people's nose, dip the ball in snuff before bowling a rib-cage bouncer. The whiff of snuff can send any rival batsman with his nose in the air into a fit of sneeze and while he takes a blind swipe, the ball takes the middle stump for a hike. Our boys in the field are advised to wear surgical masks, an advice not to be Sneezed at.

Cherrycol Chutney: A bal(l)sam that turns gluey only on impact with the ball and melts in five seconds. Anointing this gloo on our fielders' palms can help the skied cherries to stick to the (butter-) fingers as they latch on to the catches that win matches.

Magnetic Fielding: involves a unipolar magnetic ball and electrically magnetized boundary ropes - both of identical polarity. Since the like poles repel, our opponent's smashes take U-turn near the ropes to return like homing pigeons. When we bat, the reversed polarity of the ropes ensures that the ball reaches the fence before you can say "Whack. Robin Singh".

Turtle Willow: is a bat that briefly lengthens by a foot when rubbed against the ground. For the chronic victims of the third u(va)mpire groping for the popping crease, such a bat provides that 'short extra cover' against run-outs.

But playing abroad where we find ourselves on sticky wickets is a whole new ballgame. So, taking a cue from Anil Kumble ("I wish I could carry this Kotla pitch everywhere"), the Shiva Sena activists can 'bail' us out of this (block hole) by digging out the Kotla pitch in one block and carrying it to England during the World Cup. On the eve of each India fixture, the Sainiks can, unnoticed by the 'night watchmen', invade the pitch in the pitch-dark and transplant the Kotla pitch - the Operation Pitch-switch.

Image Courtesy: www.plattpc.kentparishes.guv.uk