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