Once upon a
time we had a cricket bat, my brother and I.
We loved
that bat.
It was our
first deuce bat, after all.
I remember
the night it was bought, about 25 year ago. It was a momentous day in our lives.
It came out
of the blue, without warning. Just like that. Wrapped in a neat, blue cover.
Our father
took it out and handed it to us. It was so shiny. So gleamy. So new. I held it and smelled
it; it felt like new furniture. I took a batting stance; the handle was too big
for me to grip. And it was so heavy. Too heavy for my little hands. The blade was
so thick. I felt I could smash any bowler in the world. I was overawed.
We would no
longer need my skinny little bat. We were now in the big league. We owned a deuce
bat, after all.
It became
our loyal companion in the days to follow. Every evening we would take it out
from the little space behind our mother’s almirah, which became its permanent
shelter for the next ten years.
And then…Hours
after hours, days after days, it would exchange hands between me and my
brother. I would await my turn eagerly. To hold the bat. To feel the heavy thud
of the cork ball on its face. Ball after ball… Over after over …
In the
initial days, I would generally be out bowled in the first ball itself; flailing
wildly at thin air and unable to lift the bat quickly enough.
“One more
ball, Bhaiya. Please, one more ball,” I would plead.
When our
matches would be over, I would quietly wait for the time my brother wouldn’t be
around. That is what I eagerly looked forward to the most. Because that is when
I was the king.
With the bat
held in my little hands, I would progress to play shadow cricket. To someone
watching me from a distance it would have appeared an odd sight – a skinny boy
wildly swinging his bat in thin air on his verandah.
But in my
mind, I was batting at Lord’s and Eden Gardens, and the Melbourne Cricket
Ground and the Kensignton Oval. I was smashing Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis,
and Courtney Walsh and Glen McGrath…No bowler was spared by the wrath of my new
willow. I would pulverize them all over the ground.
Cover drive.
On-drive. Straight drive. Flick. Cut. I played all the strokes with deft precision.
I was the
king, you see. No less than Don Bradman and Sachin Tendulkar. Better, in fact.
Often, a
situation something similar to this would arise:
I dance down
the track and thump a six off Shane Warne over long-on to bring up my triple
hundred. The crowd goes wild. “Bhavesh!!! Bhavesh!! Bhavesh!!!” They are delirious
with joy for their hero. I hold my bat aloft, beaming in pride at having become
India’s first ever triple-centurion. Oh, what a feeling!!!
“Chiku, stop
waving your bat around like a lunatic. You will break something. Come back
inside,” a female voice would break the glorious sequence.
And so it
would continue.
In the years
to follow, the bat took several poundings, strewn with little red and green smudges
all over its blade. I would often sit down and clean it with oil. My brother
and I even taped the rubber on the handle after it had torn away. We loved our
bat. It was a deuce bat, after all.
We grew
older and slowly the bat took a backseat. It would rarely come out from its
confine, the little space behind our mother’s almirah. Sometimes at night,
however, when I would be troubled or stressed after scoring another single-digit
score in my Maths exam, I would take out the bat and transform into the best
batsman in the world again.
It was
refreshing. Me and my bat and the world I created with it. No one could enter it.
And I loved this world.
Unfortunately,
however, about 13 years back we shifted from our old home to a new place. My
life had changed by then. I was an adult and was dealing some rather
distressing situations in my life. In the commotion and confusion of that
unfortunate phase I thought we had lost our bat.
To be honest,
I had forgotten all about it. When I actually remembered it, it was too late. Nowhere
to be found. A beautiful part of my childhood. Gone forever.
My heart
would wince in regret every time I would recall our beloved bat over the past
many years. But life had to move on. And it did…
Until
earlier this week…Life took me back to my glorious past again…Just like that.
My father
had planted himself on our shelf in the terrace; rummaging through the contents and trying to
rearrange stuff. Much to my annoyance he kept calling out to me every five
minutes, handing me down dusty and moldy items that I held with a scrunched
nose.
“Chiku…Come
here and take this down,” my father called out to me for the zillionth time.
Grumbling to
myself, I went out. He was handing me down our giant Sony television carton that
has been a part of our life for close to 20 years now.
I coughed
and sneezed as I placed the carton down on the floor. As I was rubbing the dust
off my hands, my eyes suddenly fell on the inside of the carton.
There was
dust everywhere. There were little, torn bags filled with cobwebs. But…Lying
quietly on top of them was a dust-covered deuce bat.
Have you
ever found something from your past totally out of the blue? Something you had
almost forgotten but which was an integral part of your childhood?
Well, this
was that moment for me.
Almost in a
daze I picked the bat up. It was like everything else had become a blur. Just
me…And the bat…
“Chiku…Hand
me the bags,” my father’s voice broke my reverie.
Taken aback,
I quickly flung the bags at him and ran inside. With a soft cloth, I progressed
to clean the bat meticulously; a swarm of memories coming back to me while I
wiped the surface.
I gripped
the bat firmly. It felt nice and perfect. My heart suddenly began thudding in
my chest. It was as if something warm was frothing inside.
“One more ball, Bhaiya…Please, one more ball”, I could hear the distant echo of a little
boy inside my head.
“Chiku…Stop
waving the bat around,” a female voice was calling out to me next; very
distant and yet so near.
I wiped my
eyes and concentrated on my stance.
Cover drive.
On-drive. Straight drive. Flick. Cut. I could still play all of them with great
precision.
I dance down the track and smash one straight down the ground. “Bhavesh!!! Bhavesh!!!
Bhavesh!!!” The crowd goes hysterical, chanting my name. I raise
my bat aloft and acknowledge their cheer.
After about
twenty minutes, when I had exhausted myself with my shadow cricket, I took the
bat inside my room and placed it right next to my mother’s almirah. There was
no place behind it now. So this would have to do.
I have promised
myself to take better care of it now and never lose it out of my sight again. Until
I am ready to pass it over to someone worthy, maybe.
But for now,
it will stay with me. And I will indulge myself with it whenever I can.
I must. For
my own self. For my brother. And for our
childhood.
Because this
is no ordinary bat.
It is our deuce bat, after all.
