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Passions

You are all unfit to be called human beings. You are all raving maniacal blood thirsty yet cowardly aliens masquerading as people infesting earth. How you walk, eat, talk, sleep, drink, touch your near and dear ones, lead a normal life, knowing very well you had hit someone on the road and not stopped, without even calling for help, back to your seemingly normal life is beyond imagination!!!!

Doesn’t each breath you take curse you, lash out at you that you hit and left someone without helping them? Doesn’t each morsel of food you take scream at the pain of feeding a body void of any soul, and feel ashamed for keeping you alive? Doesn’t your image in the mirror spit on you, puke at the mere sight of the face and body that had no sense of any quality attributable to any living organism that can think for itself? Did you ever look at dogs on roads lick the wounds of fellow creatures, even though they themselves were never responsible for them? Don’t your hands crawl to strangle the neck that bears the mind that thought of nothing before speeding on? Didn’t the scene of hitting them haunt your dreams, replaying a million times? Doesn’t the memory of those moments flash before you every second of your waking moments, to slap them hard in front of your eyes everywhere you go? Don’t your lips refuse to mouth words of obvious deceit and lies you must have told to cover up the dent? Or are the people you confessed equally callous, patting you proudly for not being caught responsible for the misdeed?

What did you do after going home that day? Wash off your body with acid imagining the running stream would cleanse you of the stink of your own actions? Did you scrub yourself hard with coarse sand to rip off all the pores on your skin and let the guilt bleed through? Or did you try to deceive yourself with the thoughts of the person you hit get up, shrug off, smile and get on with their journey? Did you have the guts to look at the next day’s newspaper?

What surprises me is why couldn’t they have called an ambulance? Understandably they were afraid and panicked at what happened. Unless there was real reason to deliberately hit someone, accidents happen, well accidently! I once read somewhere that we all have the courage to face consequences of our actions. They didn’t have. All they had to do in the least was call an ambulance. It’s truly appalling why they could not have done that and made the least attempt to partially rectify the consequences of their actions, which could save the life their reckless behavior almost endangered.

 Yesterday I had a strange dream…(don’t tell me all dreams are strange). I saw Sachin Tendulkar in it. He was boarding a bus that I was already in. Now why would somebody who is an awesome cricketer and incidentally has made millions of dollors (or crores of rupees) have to board a commoner’s bus? Well, I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell.

Though strange, I don’t think it is difficult to understand why I saw him in my dream. We have been pounded in the media about his declining form, the (in)famous booing off Mumbai field, and from every street expert. The whole thing was playing in my mind almost wherever I went.

When I woke up the next day and remembered the dream I had, it made me think. I wondered what I would say (which was indeed I wondered even in my dream; apparently I didn’t speak to him even in dream) to him if ever (in the randomest possibility of nature) I meet him. (I’m happy with the uncertainity of the universe; it will give me a chance to meet him, albeit a very small one)

I think the first thing to say would be “Thank you!” For all the years of entertainment he provided for us. The inspiration he gave and still gives to youngsters to pursue their dream. Also the sort of dominance he had on the players. Some might eagerly grab on what I said, ‘he had’ and not ‘he has’. Well since I can only see the past and tell conclusively, I say ‘he had’. Whether he has in him still or not, can and should be answered by none other than him. He is the judge, the force and the inspiration behind himself.

People say that he did not produce a gem of an innings where he single handedly won a game for India. They judge him by all sorts of statistics, figures and match results. They ask if he has ever done something Kapil Dev did in 1983 World Cup. But let them ask again how many times could he himself repeat the feat? They forget the kinds of innings he had to play through, the kind of team he led during his brief stint as a captain and the kind of gluing force he exudes in the team.

All in all let the Man, who made himself, who strode out in every match with just not his own expectations but also of countless cricket fans, who marvelled at his timing, at his ‘perfect’ straight drive, his cuts, his pulls and the inventor of the ‘paddle sweeps’; decide which way he ends his career. If it be now, or few years later.