Eden in the springtime

Catches win matches, they say. And if the safe hands are those of Jhonty Rhodes, Azharuddin, Murlitharan or Mahanama, they make history. So...

Catches win matches, they say. And if the safe hands are those of Jhonty Rhodes, Azharuddin, Murlitharan or Mahanama, they make history. So, when an out-of-this-world catch is made to look so easy, the commentators gloat over the player8217;s perfect balance, lightning reflexes and ability to move both ways, at the same time taking care to show the replay from every possible angle.

And if the same Azharuddin or Murlitharan spills a sitter, a virtual diatribe is let loose. 8220;My, my, what a disaster! Azharuddin, of all the people in the world!8221; Care is again taken to focus the camera on the dejected player. 8220;He has to make up for the damage.8221; And it8217;s as if Azhar heard them. Because the next moment he is down in a flash, sending the fastest of runners on his way. Needless to say, the run-out dismissal is replayed again and again. The commentators make amends for having said too much too soon. All forgotten, forgiven, the game goes on.

But that8217;s international cricket and all the excitement that goes with it. The gentleman8217;s game in lanes, by-lanes and street corners may not be played to packed stands or under floodlights but in no way lacks in action and fun.

It takes me down memory lane to a little game being played with no less fervour.

Spring was in the air in the beautiful Vale of Kashmir. Nightingales and cuckoos sang merrily, stirring the chinars and poplars out of their winter slumber. Daffodils, jasmine and narcissus yawned at the music and the playful teasing of naughty butterflies.

Nature was at its best and so were we, a group of 10 to 12 cricketing fans I, my brothers, our next-door cousins and colony friends trying to make the best of the last few days of the winter break. With school only a week away, homework could wait. Our huge it looked so huge in those days front lawn our own little Eden Gardens 8212; played host to both nature and cricket, and the Shankaracharya mountain behind our house, were the imaginary stands.

As my stylish back-footed cousin square-cut a low one, I ran after the cherry only to encounter two butterflies playing hide and seek. For a brief moment I forgot the game and lost sight of the ball. Another boundary scored and my sloppy work came in for stick.

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I was moved to a different position. The cherry whizzed past again. Again I took off, wondering how the confounded thing always found me. This time I landed on a thin sheet of ice and slipped, in the process pushing the ball closer to the rope. Rival scoreboard moved. I was proving too expensive.

Marching orders followed. By now there was no more field placement left, so I was put in no-man8217;s land. The new arrangement, however, suited this nature lover as I was now closer to nature than cricket. I was there simply because I happened to be a boy and to play cricket was my birthright.

8220;Catch it,8221; yelled the talent. 8220;Catch it, in this no-man8217;s land.8221; The darned thing had followed me yet again and landed safely in my cupped hands. My first catch in years! Six runs, signalled the gardener-umpire. 8220;And careful with my flowers,8221; he thundered at my right foot for having overstepped the rope and undone some of his hard work in the flower bed

.The years have rolled by. Now, whenever I take off from my job in Delhi to visit my home town, I often sit in the front verandah and my memories come flashing before my eyes. Nothing has changed. Eden Gardens still stands. Shankaracharya never moved. But the tall poplar that once served as our wicket is gone, uprooted by a winter gale. So has the gardener-umpire. Yes, players have changed. 8220;Watch out,8221; yelled my nephew.

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He had wielded the long blade to send the cherry hurtling onto the elevated verandah for a huge six, missing me 8220;again by metres8221;.