Dada, our master interpreter of dreams

And a great cricket enthusiast was shocked

To find empty Green Park in one of his dreams

It was a day-and-night limited-over match

There was no morning sun, there were no long queues

The colour ‘white’ was absent

A few ‘black’ heads could be counted

Dada, in his younger days, used to be on the ground

By seven in the morning

For a match scheduled to start at ten

With his lunch box, filled with Aloo-parathas

Tap water was still safe for drinking purposes

Beer had not become the in-thing among the students

Spectators were the only cheerleaders

Dada too had his favourite cricketers

But Dada was not enough of an enthusiast

He did not burn effigies when they failed to perform

It is now the time for ‘instant’ cricket

There is no second innings, and there is no second chance

Do or die, next man is waiting for his chance

No more a gentleman’s game

Not uncommon are ugly events

On the ground, and beyond the ground

Dada thinks the game still expects grace on the ground

“In our show of assertion, how ‘ungentle’ should we become”, he wonders

Not the boards, not the chiefs, not the bookies

But the lovers of the game, being the worst sufferers

Can only stop the menace that is damaging the game

In an almost empty Green Park Cricket ground

Perhaps Dada found the answer

To halt the damage to the game of cricket