The Playground Lives
The pursuers are relentless. The pursued are determined. The sun is relentless, the sweat persistent. Yet neither side wishes to give in. The chase must therefore go on.
The pursued are hardened criminals, outlaws posing the gravest danger to peace and to society; although minutes ago, I might have never believed. The pursued are the defenders of the law, the pure bred, the protectors of peace and the destroyers of evil. Or so you have to believe. And they use all they have at their command to dislodge and conquer the other side. Come stand at my side and have a closer look. The heat is building up!
The chased have just scored a major victory on the law enforcers. They have deviated midway and have hidden into a security guard tent inside the park while the killers await them a little down the road. They have no idea that their quarry has vanished into thin air! Clever! The mercenaries meet at the point where the prey disappeared. They have no plan. The captain is furious. Orders are barked. The strong command imperiously. Their word is wisdom. Their word is law. The small and the weak run at the command. They are now searching the basement of a house under construction. All in vain, I know. I can see it all.
And then it happened. The pursued erred. One of them, the taller the mightier one has grown overconfident. He steps out of the safe hiding place. The enemy spots them. They are dispersing now. The mercenaries are capturing them one at a time, breaking their strength. I can see a lone warrior being chased by all four killers. Poor soul has got no chance. The moment he is captured, he turns as ferocious a killer and a chaser as he was an outlaw. The change of heart and of sides has taken a second only. And finally the game ends. Curtains on another successful and energetic round of Chor-Police in my colony!
My attention is caught by the shouting emanating from the game of cricket getting hot inside the park. The setting is remarkable. I have to marvel at this. The stumps, for instance, at the non-striker end are nothing more elegant than a single small brick kept vertically. I am yet to see a batsman getting run-out at this end, and yet all throws are invariably directed at this while the keeper at the other end frets in vain with his three proper stumps getting bored. The batsman does his net practice with a few stones being thrown by the fielder at mid wicket, who is collecting them from the flower beds right behind him. These flowers are the lovely centre-piece of the cover field. The leg-side boundary being 1/5th as far away as the off-side one, the fielders there are in constant battle with the shrubs and branches sticking at them from behind. Any more they move toward the pitch to escape this torture and they’ll end up playing the bowler themselves. The most amazing location is of the pavilion. A stone bench sits just paces beside the non-striker’s stump, under a majestically flowering tree laden with orange-red blossoms. The location is simply…logistically brilliant. You just have to step down and take hold of the bat at the pitch!
The spin bowler who just chucked his keeping comes in a well imitated characteristic walk-up much like Warne’s and his arms make a huge arc. He is tall you see, the tallest of the lot. The ball sails 12 inches above the head of the small batsman struggling to lift the bat valiantly to that height to belt it away. He misses. Some careful chap finds that this qualifies for a no-ball and shouts so. The batsman is lucky it is one of the older guys. His word is wisdom. It is a no-ball. The game goes on.
What’s that? The ball has just been hit high and is sailing towards the cover fielder, flying above the flower bed. The fielder in blue knickers is a chubby but determined chap. He will get it. The whole assortment of cricketers, tall and short, watches with teammates egging him on. He lunges forward. He dives. His hands close on the ball. The fingers have it caught securely. Nevertheless, the dive must go on. He bursts into a flower bed with dirt flying high and petals showering on him at his glorious effort. ‘That’s a catch’, shout the teammates, all jubilant. ‘Get out you ruffians’, screams the gardener from the other end of the park, water dripping from the hose, sweat from the brows. And the game goes on.
And amidst all this chaos the lone plump cyclist in blue knickers can be seen doing his diligent rounds of the park. He comes on his vehicle, face draped in a dreamy look of ecstasy, with head and torso swaying from side to side as he pedals. The feet fit just right into the cycle. He will have to abandon this bike soon, but for now he is heady, oblivious to the ruckus going on around him. An on-coming motorbike makes him nervous. He sways from side to side. Now the motor-biker is nervous. And yet they manage to get past each other without incident. The pedaling and the swaying go on.
As the sun sets and the mosquitoes descend on my colony in full arms, I cast a long look at the spread of houses and the park and the trees growing in it. This is the playground that bred me some years ago. And it still goes strong. Only the dogs have vanished. I have done each one of those remarkable and marvelous acts here that I see being repeated zealously today. The light fades and I decide to walk back inside from the roof top I am standing on. The playground will continue to live, even with a changed countenance. Only the players will change. It will live on!
And now let us rush inside. For it is time for the progeny of the mosquitoes of my time to now play here. It is their playground too you see!
The pursued are hardened criminals, outlaws posing the gravest danger to peace and to society; although minutes ago, I might have never believed. The pursued are the defenders of the law, the pure bred, the protectors of peace and the destroyers of evil. Or so you have to believe. And they use all they have at their command to dislodge and conquer the other side. Come stand at my side and have a closer look. The heat is building up!
The chased have just scored a major victory on the law enforcers. They have deviated midway and have hidden into a security guard tent inside the park while the killers await them a little down the road. They have no idea that their quarry has vanished into thin air! Clever! The mercenaries meet at the point where the prey disappeared. They have no plan. The captain is furious. Orders are barked. The strong command imperiously. Their word is wisdom. Their word is law. The small and the weak run at the command. They are now searching the basement of a house under construction. All in vain, I know. I can see it all.
And then it happened. The pursued erred. One of them, the taller the mightier one has grown overconfident. He steps out of the safe hiding place. The enemy spots them. They are dispersing now. The mercenaries are capturing them one at a time, breaking their strength. I can see a lone warrior being chased by all four killers. Poor soul has got no chance. The moment he is captured, he turns as ferocious a killer and a chaser as he was an outlaw. The change of heart and of sides has taken a second only. And finally the game ends. Curtains on another successful and energetic round of Chor-Police in my colony!
My attention is caught by the shouting emanating from the game of cricket getting hot inside the park. The setting is remarkable. I have to marvel at this. The stumps, for instance, at the non-striker end are nothing more elegant than a single small brick kept vertically. I am yet to see a batsman getting run-out at this end, and yet all throws are invariably directed at this while the keeper at the other end frets in vain with his three proper stumps getting bored. The batsman does his net practice with a few stones being thrown by the fielder at mid wicket, who is collecting them from the flower beds right behind him. These flowers are the lovely centre-piece of the cover field. The leg-side boundary being 1/5th as far away as the off-side one, the fielders there are in constant battle with the shrubs and branches sticking at them from behind. Any more they move toward the pitch to escape this torture and they’ll end up playing the bowler themselves. The most amazing location is of the pavilion. A stone bench sits just paces beside the non-striker’s stump, under a majestically flowering tree laden with orange-red blossoms. The location is simply…logistically brilliant. You just have to step down and take hold of the bat at the pitch!
The spin bowler who just chucked his keeping comes in a well imitated characteristic walk-up much like Warne’s and his arms make a huge arc. He is tall you see, the tallest of the lot. The ball sails 12 inches above the head of the small batsman struggling to lift the bat valiantly to that height to belt it away. He misses. Some careful chap finds that this qualifies for a no-ball and shouts so. The batsman is lucky it is one of the older guys. His word is wisdom. It is a no-ball. The game goes on.
What’s that? The ball has just been hit high and is sailing towards the cover fielder, flying above the flower bed. The fielder in blue knickers is a chubby but determined chap. He will get it. The whole assortment of cricketers, tall and short, watches with teammates egging him on. He lunges forward. He dives. His hands close on the ball. The fingers have it caught securely. Nevertheless, the dive must go on. He bursts into a flower bed with dirt flying high and petals showering on him at his glorious effort. ‘That’s a catch’, shout the teammates, all jubilant. ‘Get out you ruffians’, screams the gardener from the other end of the park, water dripping from the hose, sweat from the brows. And the game goes on.
And amidst all this chaos the lone plump cyclist in blue knickers can be seen doing his diligent rounds of the park. He comes on his vehicle, face draped in a dreamy look of ecstasy, with head and torso swaying from side to side as he pedals. The feet fit just right into the cycle. He will have to abandon this bike soon, but for now he is heady, oblivious to the ruckus going on around him. An on-coming motorbike makes him nervous. He sways from side to side. Now the motor-biker is nervous. And yet they manage to get past each other without incident. The pedaling and the swaying go on.
As the sun sets and the mosquitoes descend on my colony in full arms, I cast a long look at the spread of houses and the park and the trees growing in it. This is the playground that bred me some years ago. And it still goes strong. Only the dogs have vanished. I have done each one of those remarkable and marvelous acts here that I see being repeated zealously today. The light fades and I decide to walk back inside from the roof top I am standing on. The playground will continue to live, even with a changed countenance. Only the players will change. It will live on!
And now let us rush inside. For it is time for the progeny of the mosquitoes of my time to now play here. It is their playground too you see!
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