It doesn't feel right seeing Adnan Sami Khan and Jermaine Jackson jiving in a pop video tribute to Bombay (yes, Raj, I will call it that, boo hoo)a year after 26/11. What does Jermaine know of the city? What does he know of India? And seeing Adnan holding the Gateway of India between his index finger and thumb just looks wrong. I see where he's going, trying to salute the city's spirit and all he's earned from it once hopping across the border. It smacks of gimmick. But more so it leaves an awkward taste, given how strained relations have been between India and Pakistan. A Pakistani, who has earned so much fame and money since landing in Bombay, holding a symbol of the city, just in front of the scene of that horrific attack? Doesn't feel right.
We each have our field of dreams. The space where we first really took to cricket, where we played the game because we just loved the sound of ball (rubber, tennis, cork, whatever) on ball, where we could square-drive like our heroes (Dravid, for me) and mimic bowling actions and try our hands at legspin or left-arm pace and try to intimidate and flourish, and where we could - for an hour, a day - escape the drudgery of school and chores. Maybe it was a parking lot or a sandlot, a maidaan , an open field, a side street, a gulli , a stadium, an terrace. You know what I'm talking about. For me, that field was a beaten up, run down former tennis court tucked away between the magnificent deodar and handsome Indian Chestnut tree and sturdy Himalayan Oak and serene maple trees. A little piece of heaven where in days of yore British, American and Canadian missionaries spent sunny summer afternoons playing tennis and rounders but which by the time my buddies and I took over had withered