Off to cover The Circus today. Bangalore-Delhi, Delhi-Mohali, Mohali-Delhi, Delhi-Mohali,Delhi-Bangalore. Cringe at the thought of how many DLF Maximum sixes and Citi Moments of Success we're all going to be inundated with for the next six weeks. Imagine the folks in Dharamshala. Lovely little ground, sleepy little town, quaint scenery, and against the backdrop of that awesome mountain range you'll have Samir Khochar, Angad Bedi and Ayushmann flashing their enamel while Ravi Shastri bursts a few hundred more blood vessels asking - nay, demanding - downtown Dharamshala whether they're ready for the toss. Those poor monks. It's enough to force even the most tranquil ascetic pick up his robes and make for the plains. Ah, the bedlam in Goliath. More updates from the road.
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