Left-arm Spinster

Twenty-three

2009-11-18T11:35:00.004+05:30

India vs. Sri Lanka- 1st test at Ahmedabad

Uda Walawe Mahim Bandaralage Chanaka Asanga Welegedara.
That's twenty-three syllables; I could eat lunch faster.
You are ambidextrous between bat and ball,
polysyllabic above all
and you sure can decimate the Indian openers.
But...

...what is your first name?
What is your middle name?
What is not a name at all?
Is there a place involved?
What are your thoughts on the nomenclature of your progeny?
Why?

Poor Chanaka
of big hair, big teeth and big name.
How full is the heart that bears your name.

The longest word in my dictionary is
Mahendra Singh Dhoni.

But mostly, seventeen thousand runs

2009-11-09T16:42:00.009+05:30

(India vs. Australia, 5th ODI, Rajiv Gandhi International Stadium, Hyderabad)

Whistling through my nose,
I am wrapped in the frigid arms
of a cubicle with no heart.
Certainly no television set.

So carefully I position my computer at the stumps,
my mouse at silly point,
my eye on the outfield,
my heart with the wicketkeeper.

Settling into an afternoon of clandestine cricket-watching,
I spot the powers-that-beast way over at deep fine leg.
I try not to giggle, because really,
I’m not going to be doing very much today.

The same can’t be said of Shane and Shaun at the crease;
the same can be said of the Indian muddle order.
Reading out the Indian batting scorecard
is like reading out a telephone number digit by digit.

Except for that little man,
the good thing in a small package,
the one I’m going to be telling my children about, unless-
God forbid- children by then won’t be watching cricket anymore.

And so it died cruelly, in the arms of
capricious runners-between-wickets,
tired bowlers finding bats in their hands,
and a jeering adversary, golden-haired.

Bam-bam-bam! Two ninety-nine for five,
sick, sick nick, all-out before you can say “tail-
ended”.

Brr.

(Thank you Amit, for muddle order, a beautifully coined phrase.)

A Fine Day at Mohali (What Did They Have To Drink?)

2009-11-03T11:52:00.002+05:30

It was a fine day at Mohali,
But icy in the cubicle.
Chins dripped sweat at the afternoon toss,
But my own chin sported an icicle.

The Aussies up the order
Seemed to know they had to bat,
Which is more than can be said
For the Indians about that.

For somewhere between innings,
Things went topsy-turvy I think.
Which led me to wonder
About what they had to drink.

The top and middle order
Moseyed up to the pitch,
And looking down into their gloves
Proclaimed, “Bhai, what is this?”

Then toppling quickly, wicket by wicket
They all came tumbling down,
The Aussies whooped and spat and screamed
While Kirsten found his frown.

The umpire lifted his cursed finger
Sachin’s arms were flailing
Four came in and four went out
Ricky’s ship was sailing.

Back in the stands, our bowlers stood
Like a family in a glass house.
Instead of throwing stones about,
They donned their batting gloves.

Then grimly marched the bowlers on
All dressed in pads and gloves and box
Whacking balls around the park
Ignoring their mental blocks.

No matter then, too little too late,
The Indians lost their footing.
Two for you now, and two for me;
The critics are busy computing.

But somewhere in the middle there
On that fine day in Mohali,
What lesson did our bowlers teach?,
What message came of folly?

If you cannot be batsmen and bowlers always,
Turn into bowlsmen and batsters.
When faced with your foe, become a portmanteau-
For spinners can also be whacksters.

Testing haiku

2009-11-02T16:15:00.001+05:30

Hey hello hello!
I'm testing this blog for launch.
It won't take five days.