When he was a kid he had seen a cricket bat only on television. Except this one time when a teacher brought it to school. Aren’t bats supposed to be made of wood? He thought. Because this one didn’t look like one. Years later, he understood that it was indeed made of willow and the illusion at the time was created by the stickers covering the bat. He was 6 at the time and ended up playing quite a bit of cricket, mostly gully cricket with friends until they finished school. The only bat he could ever afford was handcrafted by a carpenter in exchange for twenty rupees from a piece of wood he had stolen from a pile belonging to another carpenter near his house. At best, he was average and as he played more through the summer vacations every year, he thought of ways to improve but kept getting worse. And eventually, somewhere in his mind, he accepted that he is not good enough for this or even any sport.
Fast-forward 15 years, and the very idea of having his own bat fascinated him because he had a job now — one that allowed him to buy any fucking bat he wanted. A Kashmir or even an English willow, who cares? He’s got the big bucks. He could buy a dozen balls if need be, or more. All of this went around in his head a few months after he saw adults and even some kids playing in the complex. Maybe he looked easy enough to approach, and people often invited him to join. They probably noticed his quiet athleticism. Or perhaps he simply looked like someone who wasn’t trying too hard. He joined a few times, but over a few weeks, he slowly drifted away, returning to himself and occasionally drifting back into the dynamic. Soon came winter and people started to vanish from the mornings. One day, his Kashmir willow arrived. He didn’t realise how heavy it was until someone told him, nearly a month later. By then, he had hit many a ball into the walls, deflecting back for hours. It almost made the bat feel lighter than usual when he defended balls, because of the amount of power and flex he had been generating to strike them as they came back faster after hitting the wall. In some strange, unexpected way, playing the actual game seemed easier than hitting the walls. But he didn’t know that yet. And so he kept hitting the walls.
To many eyes, it looked crazy — A cricket bat and a ball belong in a team game and yet here is someone, on a cold winter morning, hitting balls brutally to the walls. Onlookers had quite a few questions — Why a Kashmir willow for hitting tennis balls? Why waste a perfectly good grip just to exercise power? And why play a team game alone, isn’t it boring? Why the anger? But was there actual anger? Nobody knew but there were various interpretations. Maybe judgement too. A few even enquired when presented with a moment of opportunity. A man who had seen him a few times asked — Still playing alone? The guy, however, didn’t even know why he was doing what he was doing. He had just bought a bat and a lot of balls and didn’t know where to find people to play with on a cold winter morning. Perhaps it was a good thing, for he could still be a fool, for a bit longer, playing it alone and often missing the ball that came soaring back after hitting the wall.
Some familiar faces showed up: the students, and a few others who played competitively. They dared to play on a freezing morning, especially on Sundays. The only day of the week they could play properly because of school and jobs. As time went by, more people joined in. People had seen him alone from a distance; now they were standing much closer. Something strange happened, though, beyond the actual game of cricket. There were triggers, often! He was easy but brutal in shot making. Totally quiet and yet revealing when he bowled. Still, but moved explosively, and dived on the concrete as if he saw a thick covering of grass. But who did he trigger, and what was the trigger? It was the most skilled — the seniors, the respected ones. Ones who had already made a name for themselves, having played competitively. A person who has a reputation has to consistently maintain it too. He cannot afford to be a fool. But the irony was — How do you protect your identity and skill in front of somebody who doesn’t seem to care much about what he’s doing? He is very effective and yet looks nonchalant, keeps hitting boundaries but doesn’t make eye contact with the bowler. He tricks good batsman and simply returns to his bowling mark while the rest of his team celebrate and sledge. He gets out and keeps walking, looking down. It almost seemed like he was not there, despite finding himself at the center of proceedings. How do you beat someone like that? And the bigger players, from their perspective, just didn’t seem to know how to locate him. Where was the hook? Every once in a while, he didn’t play, he returned to himself. And the people who finally seemed to be getting an idea of him felt slightly confused. His disappearance raised a number of questions. The main ones being — Why is he wasting good talent? What determines whether he will play? Will he come back?
He moved from activity to activity, one game to another, from stillness to intensity, sprinting one moment and breathing uncontrollably the next. Sometimes he would fall and wouldn’t get up, lying flat on the ground. Usually people witnessing such an act would say — Who’s this fool? But about this guy they didn’t. Not even quietly in their heads. Because they’ve already seen what he’s capable of. And so this one is no fool. Except that he is. He is a fool in his head. Such a fool that he starts from scratch, falls like a child and gets up like an adult. He doesn’t see who sees him or what it is that they witness when they watch him. He doesn’t even know he’s worth seeing. He is immersed and the very immersion is attracting attention. But he is not aware of that, not yet. And the only time he falters is when someone stops and says to him — You’re breathtaking!