No Ball

Harry Singh was playing at the crease. It was a hot summer day. Beads of sweat had popped up on his forehead. His palpitations were shaking the whole stadium. His lips were mumbling in a silent prayer. And then came the delivery. The ball rushed towards him. His heart almost burst out of his bosom. He swung his bat, squeezing every ounce of energy he had in that shot. The wood met the leather and the ball leapt towards the boundary. The crowd waited at the precipice of expectation. And then the miracle happened. The ball crossed the boundary. The crowd roared "Chauka, chauka". A smile now lighted Harry's face. His hard work had paid off. It was his first boundary outside of match-fixing. Harry lifted up his bat thanking God and the crowd. But then suddenly, an eerie silence gripped the crowd. Harry was startled. He looked towards the Umpire. The Umpire, a certain lady by the name of a certain Ms Singh aka Ms Cruella, was lifting her hand. Her heart, like her ear rings was crafted out of pure zirconium with a melting temperature far above than any mortal could aim for. Furrows wrinkled his forehead. He prayed for the impossible. Her hand went up but instead of a horizontal sweep, indicated a NO BALL. Harry's heart stopped for a second but then came back out of a stubbornness and resilience he himself did not know he possessed. Silent tears flowed down in small rivulets from the back of his eyes to his heart, the salt in the tears agonising the pain from the gashes on his heart. The chauka was a no ball.

The sad part is that there is no third Umpire to appeal to. For now, the man with balls has been given a No Ball.

I know the above metaphor is messed up. My knowledge of cricket is marginal at best. It is probably not even factually correct but I hope people get the idea. I could not resist the temptation. This ain't no whining. It is prose.

But that is ok. I know there will be other balls and perhaps other chaukas. But tonight is the night of the No Ball.