Final Tuesday, whereas ready for my order at a packed Kolkata teahouse, I caught myself halfway by means of a canopy drive. Not in concept, however in motion. A full, fluent, swish flourish — wrist gentle, eyes on the imaginary ball, elbow excessive sufficient to make even the legendary Ramakant Achrekar proud.
There was no bat. There was, sadly, an extended queue of patrons who had braved the April warmth for an early morning cup of Darjeeling tea, toast, eggs, baked beans and desserts — an English breakfast to rejoice the Bengali Noboborsho (New 12 months). A baby stared, puzzled; the mom ostentatiously shuffled him away, as if insanity is likely to be contagious. And my niece — who had, till then, walked beside me with affable tolerance — selected, fairly all of a sudden, to develop a raging allergy to embarrassing uncles.
I’d prefer to faux that this was an remoted, spontaneous match of imaginary sporting prowess that I’ve by no means really possessed. However males — significantly Indian males — are stricken with such sports-induced derangement. We have now achieved worse.
We’ve delivered Wasim Akram’s in-swinging yorker between gunny sacks of basmati rice and towers of Surf Excel. We’ve shadowboxed in workplace corridors, or jogged down an airport terminal like we had been operating between wickets — bag in a single hand, boarding go within the different.
We’re the boys in linen trousers pretending to be Sachin Tendulkar with no bat and no disgrace. We’re Virat Kohli taking part in the pull shot on the pavement of Park Road, totally sure that we’ve dispatched Jofra Archer by means of the mid-wicket boundary. Our arms whirl, hips rotate, and the laptop computer bag thumps in opposition to our ribcage because the scooterist hoots and passers-by ogle.
Ladies, in the meantime, appear oblivious to such a illness. My sister has by no means lunged throughout the eating desk to copy P. V. Sindhu’s smash, and my mom is but to fling the rolling pin like Neeraj Chopra’s javelin — regardless of the difficulty we create in her kitchen. My associate, although, had mastered a Jonty Rhodes dive, flinging herself right into a Mumbai native with an agility that means Olympic potential.
They view our imaginary athleticism with affected person bewilderment, grateful to not have caught the sickness, whereas we rehearse historical past in fluorescent hallways and danger our rotator cuffs to honour heroes who won’t ever know our names.
“What are you doing?” they ask, half-laughing, half-concerned.
“Practising,” we are saying.
“For what?”
We don’t know. For nothing. For all the pieces. For the second when somebody, someplace, recognises the genius of our kitchen-floor footwork and says: “You possibly can have performed for India.”
We received’t. Clearly. Our knees crack. Our shirts pressure in opposition to our muffin tops. We are able to’t run with out groaning. However inside our heads, each hall is Eden Gardens, each lunch break is a World Cup closing, and each cowl drive within the workplace pantry is worthy of Harsha Bhogle’s exuberance.