Growing up India is typical in every household. As soon as brother and me became a little sane, one of the better birthday gifts was the plastic green cricket bat and the plastic red ball. Then one day, dad told us the story of cricket. He described a summer of '83 when the country got up from the slumber of the ordinary. And roared in unison. It gave the goosebumps.
Over the next two decades we caught the images of that day. We grew up with our own men in blue. We realised that no, cricket isn't just a game here. When India played, the common man took a break from his own struggles. We all declared a personal holiday. It was ok not to study on the day of a match (Ma understands sometimes).
With all the CWGs, 2Gs and parliamentary affairs, there's little to feel proud of. The newspaper takes exactly 5 minutes to flip and you wanna pull your hair apart. A li'll extra minute spent on the details, you wanna go back to your life even more. Atleast you'll try to be a better citizen. Yeah, there was this odd olympic gold medal, Saina, the year without a terrorist attack or the happy bollywood movie.
As we gear up for the big day on Saturday, there's a silent prayer on every lip. We wanna be happy. Laugh endlessly. We don't wanna feel bad about life in general. It'll go on nevertheless. But we wanna take a break. Scream Indiaaaaah! Indiaaaaaaaaaaaah! We wanna win!
Its been 28 years. By the time its another four years, I'm gonna have a kid of my own. I'm gonna tell them the story of cricket. I'm gonna describe a summer of 2011.
