As school life is nearing the borderline, and with each passing day I am inching towards the ‘adult’ lot, my pen makes me realize why life was bliss when I was a kid.
Life was bliss when after a nice chiding by the teacher at school, you walked into your room, and your face immediately enlivened on seeing your MRF bat with a Britannia sticker (yes, my bat was an amalgamation of both Sachin Tendulkar and Rahul Dravid).
Life was bliss when you stormed out off the room after learning‘karele’ is what you’ll have to eat today, only to be stopped by your Mother who gave you two rolled paranthas, daubed by Kissan Fruit Jam, which you gulped down in no time (yes, Kissan was more relished than Butter Paneer).
Life was bliss when you went birthday shopping with your parents and returned with a light blue shaded jersey, that read – ‘Dravid 19’ (yes, ‘Dhoni 7’ came quite late).
Life was bliss when you woke up paralyzed, halfway through the night, after an incubus, and the huge poster of Rahul Dravid kissing his cap that graced your bedroom door, caught your attention. You were re-assured of everything being alright and you crawled back into your bed, to have a good night’s sleep (now you know why I call him my Watchful Protector, my Silent Guardian).
Life was bliss because along with your parents, friends and family, there was a pack of guys who owned you, who inspired you, constantly, and who imbued in you a belief to become whatever you wanted to be, the way they did, ‘cause they were just like you!
There was a short, curly haired, five foot something, who was the only one you hero worshiped, next to your Father. You had heard narratives of people ‘dancing down the aisles’ from his famous Sharjah blitz. You had even braved splintering your ankle as you had climbed up your neighbor’s wall to watch the Indo-Pak clash of WC, 2003, because your house had a powercut. You saw Shoaib Akhtar steaming in, and Sachin cutting him for a six over backward point. You were overpowered, and just then your nearby resident misreckoned you for being another mango heister. You had to race back home before anyone could know what had happened.