Destiny, Kismet and 140

Destiny sits on a stool, in front of a white easel, a palette of colours, a glass of coloured water, several brushed forced into a cup and couple of scrap fabrics ornamentally stacked across a work desk. She gently picks up a brush, her eager fingers groping the long wooden handle, and dips its mane into a bottle of lush green, before lavishly painting her canvas. Yes. Green will be a beautiful background. Longingly, as she recovers from her breakup with Logic, she gives a brown streak in the centre. She gives it a careful, calculative look. She feeds the streak bit of cream and makes its hip broader. The three Fates are driving her, Destiny insane, walking all over her like queen bees, and trying to put them in place, she forces them into the brown streak- the three old hags who have changed lives now lay pierced, mildly subdued. She looks out of the window, and sees children playing on the lawn, a white, cloudless sky looking down and nearly conceding a blush of blue or two. She wiggles her brush in the glass of water and sees the brown paint dissolve into lighter, milder and softer shades of itself. When the mane is clean of hues, she gives it a bath in a bottle of ivory paint, and watches the bristles lose themselves. The scene out there has an extraordinary effect and there are thirteen white blotches on field. As she looks at it again, she gives the blotches limbs. As she delicately draws the last limb, she sees the sun kiss the bushes, change the sky crimson, and eventually slip into the unknown, she hears her throat screaming for the flavour of tea, she feels her stomach do somersaults, she smells an inexistent aroma, and she tastes her parched tongue. Minutes later, she’s sipping a strong cup of tea, playing with a cherry, her eyes hovering around her living room, almost in a scary fashion. The crimson of the sky and the blood of the cherry oozing out from her restless hands has an influence. She drops the cup halfway through her sipping session, and draws a cherry in the hands of her favourite man(or rather the most proportionate)on the canvas. There’s still the white from his nails though, and they stitch themselves around the cherry. Satisfied with the red on the canvas, she goes back to her tea, blowing ripples on the surface, watching the brown liquid create ripples. She loves that colour- the muted power of Brown, and decides her idylic masterpiece needs some of that strength. One last draught of the hot flavour sinks into her throat and she runs back to the stool, to draw a rectangular slab or two between two hands…with a long handle, so that the hands can drive, flick, swing and have some fun.

Somewhere much farther off, Kismet sits fiddling with her beats. In a state of great gaiety, she wills the World to scream, cry, rally, cheer, sigh, laugh, shout, exhilarate, hoot and shriek almost all once, because she wants the emotions on Destiny’s palette to play music. In a state of great ferocity, she slams on the drum like a fearless savage- because she wants the muted power of Brown to time itself beyond the boundary, to higher volumes where the World will disconnect the madness for the beat drop. In a state of great enlightenment, she gives a gentle tap- yes, this will be when the blood of the cherry spills over the three Fates and knocks one gush across their wrinkled cheeks. In a state of confusion, she lets the wind blow over her and her Music silently- because the World needed a blast of deafening silence to help them recover from the lyssophobia of this crazy cacophony.

Somewhere even farther off, you stand, stripped of any excitement, stressed with Life’s whims, wanting the Fairy Godmother to gift you glass slippers, make you the Cindrella of the night and help fall in love with something anew. Fortune walks in and splashes you with rouge off Destiny’s palette, lipstick off Destiny’s priceless cherry and lines your overwhelmed eyes with Destiny’s brushes and their bristles. From a commoner to a queen, a little saturated by this vim, you walk to the ball, and as you tread carefully on the glass heels, you hear the sounds of Kismet’s gaiety travel your eardrums, the noise of Kismet’s ferocity bleed through your eardrums, the resonation of Kismet’s enlightenement meditate in your eardrums, and as you wait for the Silence to kick them all out, Kismet and Destiny choose that moment to caress each other’s brilliance, and something called “Cricket” takes you for a spin on the floor, and you are simply speechless.

******

140 years. 140 since that masterpiece on the easel and we still can’t get enough of it. Can’t get enough of trying to cook a broth of speculation about the brown strip of 22 yards, can’t get enough of admiring the three stumps standing there like fuss babies, can’t get enough of those pristine white flannels, can’t get enough of that red cherry trying to carve a niche, in and out of the stumps, can’t get enough of calculating how many milli-inches of fat the bat needs to shed. Let’s face it : we obsessed fans probaby won’t ever get enough of it- even if we bat for as long as Che.

140 years. 140 since that soulful rendition on stage, and we are still not over it- not over those jazzy whoops and wheees in the ground from painted faces, not over that sonorous beat drop where the bat clocks half-a-dozen, not over that wreckage of the three sticks sinking and digging up the mud, not over the silence of a quiet moment where he helped him up, not slightly over the cliched commentary. Deal with it : we swing ourselves to that music much better than how Umesh Yadaav struggles with a bouncer, trying to kill it desperately.

******

Destiny and Kismet came together to create a timeless classic, and with every thriller we see, we are struggling even harder, to come out of this illusionary sport that’s taking us to places of heavenly delight. Sometimes, when we just sit at the table, wanting Cricket to reinvent its tuxedo, maybe we should think again about changing the blood of the cherry to a sunset pink…but hey, let’s face it- its better, this bloody way!

*******
Dear ol’ test cricket, happy 140th…maybe I’m late, but you had me in, at stadia all over the globe!

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