Gautam Gambhir: An Underrated Prodigy

No, we do not wish to see that face— the sadness in those handsome eyes and the evergreen glee drained from his smile, as SRK stands upfront at the Chinnaswamy balcony in a sleek black tee-shirt, clapping a gentleman’s consolation clap for all the hard work put in by the boys to reach to the semi-final, only to be outplayed by their long-term nemesis.

(For representational purpose only)

Despite a win against the Sun Risers in a rain curtailed eliminator, KKR clearly came into the match as underdogs against the high-flying Mumbai Indians with their momentum unsettled after a string of losses at the near end of the league stage. With wickets stumbling right from the start on a sluggish Bangalore pitch, KKR never seemed to be out of the doom that the Mumbai Indians had been to them in a decade of play. So, no, there won’t be any cartwheels this year, no charming kisses to be blown from the strands that set the crowds to a frenzy or little AbRam going around the ground with daddy darling waving his little palms to the exalting audience. All said and done, KKR this year with their experimentative game plan had left for us a lot to cherish: Lynn’s fury at the start and then coming back from an uprooted shoulder to provide all the entertainment, Robin’s consolidated cricket, Narine’s blistering cameos with the bat and the unfailing trap he always sets for the batters. 

While Pandya’s wide slash went past a diving Yadav on the third man boundary hauling Mumbai Indians to their third ever IPL final, and the camera quickly spans over to an ecstatic Rohit Sharma embracing all the player and support staffs in their dugout, my heart painfully goes out to the man who had been at the receiving end of everything bad and unfortunate despite his best efforts in this long tournament--Gautam Gambhir. Walking out of the park with his shoulders hung low, a grim shadow across his face, one of nation’s very best yet tragically underrated, I wonder if we could have done better to this man. With the team touring England for Champions Trophy in the coming month where they will be battling out on faster, bouncier pitches, this decision to pick Sharma ahead of Gambhir, despite his poor run in this IPL and even longer episodes of his inconsistency at the top of order, forever playing recklessly without a care in the world, feels in the heart like a stupid, unforgiveable comedy of errors.

For how long shall Sharma be backed for his once in blue moon carnage of 264 on a flat-as-highway Kolkata turf? For how long will the selectors wait before pulling the plugs on their beliefs of Sharma and Dhawan giving India a belting start, who like Rohit had also been a victim of inconsistency in the recently concluded England series and a strangely lucky cynosure to selector’s eyes? For how long shall GG be kept waiting on the lines, bearing the brunt of neglect and dubious choices, who at 35, from what I feel, like Sehwag, Zaheer and Dravid, is already at the brink of a hurtful retirement to a revered career?

© Sobhan

The History of Our Being

This motionless Agra sky

like a chalky dust hat,

hangs from the finial of Taj.

Its enormous yellowing dome

roofs the mausoleum

like Time’s blessing palm

frozen over History’s head;

housing deep under

in sacred stone chambers,

the ivory remnants of star crossed lovers.

In its huge curvy shadows,

Yamuna passes like a muddy brook.

Dark and ash grey;

awash with the spirits of dead,

rolling on eternally with

sea dreams in its quotidian waves.

Coils of sunshine drip from the alcoves,

of soot wrapped minarets where

birds return for the night.

Behind, in the Shalimar,

Chrysanthemums have closed their eyes,

wilted under the sun;

and the sighing willows at the distance

brush the grin of admirers and

fog cameras, with the charred sulphurous

breeze of a bustling city.

Yet, on a full moon night

invariably the pavements fill up –

amazed laughs dribble

through gaping mouths,

watching the wonder reborn.

In the cascade of silver light

as the shadows slowly recede,

the heavens send down a million-stars blush

and lovers clutch hands in longing

watching their reflection in the pool,

for Taj redeems from the dark

draped in the blue of night, and dazzle –

like all the jewels of the universe

heaped at once by the banks of Yamuna;

of a painter’s luscious dream

conceived in the eyes of his muse;

and a poet’s beautiful thinking hand,

ink smelling, love-loss smelling, hope smelling

striding the pages in a lyrical delirium.

Fragrant wind pants through the

archways, honouring dead poets

whose verses float on the bejewelled walls,

engraved in sensuous calligraphy;

stopping at the foyer for a while,

beneath the echoing marble sky,

delving into an indecipherable hush-hush

with the ghosts of dead lovers,

before rushing headlong out to the gardens.

I look out at the wasted earth of our being.

Deserted meadows of fruits trampled to dust,

and thorny hedges growing in the alley

where I remember having pulled you aside

to kiss your lips, to touch

your smooth midriff.

In the clearing of trees where

in a hammock we splayed out,

lowering our eyes to the blemishes of sun

and napped—my chin to your nape,

your waist to my stomach,

two human commas, pausing

their life sentences to be each other’s;

now lies a deep abyss, filled with burnt out

suns of solitary days.

I wonder if you will ever return

with a full moon in your thoughts,

and replace the fallen crown of our legacy.

Trust me for once, if you do, no heath will be too

arid for flowers to bloom again,

no sky too morose to cast a blessing rain.

And in the clearing we shall lie all over again,

chasing gold deers and swimming in rivers,

inspiring this new generation with our old, eternal love.

In this deep ravine of longing,

will you not seek to redeem our pride

by restoring our history with your forgiveness,

for the world to swoon, like Taj Mahal on moonlit nights?

© Sobhan