The most vigorous exercise my body has ever experienced, is on one fine day, when I attended three clinics and one lecture, bouncing from one ward to another and took down notes for 6 hours continuously (my idea of a marathon). I was blissfully unaware that the captain of the final year girls' cricket team had fallen short of one player, the cherished yet the most dreaded spot— the seventh woman.
The seventh woman has to have no special skills, just the ability to hide her inability to play good cricket. One has to practice fielding with the rest of the team and then stand in a position where the ball is least likely to head. I felt relieved when I heard this gameplan. Like a lipoma which needs no excision, I sighed peacefully. The only hindrance would be a few catcalls of "Amitabh" from the sidelines, which now I am completely used to ( and which is much better than "double-battery" or "fawdi"). The other hindrance would of course be the fact that I have to play cricket, if the ball chose to pursue me.
Shweta, Luci,me,Jasmeen,Karuna,Nirali. Shikha is missing.
In the first match, I proved to be an excellent example of inattentiveness and ineptitude. In the second match, I was a fair example of the same. The highlight of the second match (the semifinal) is that less than halfway through our batting, five wickets had fallen and I was on my way to the pitch. After snatching a few juicy tips from the boys ("Sambo, you have to give the strike to Karuna, ok?" " Try hitting the ball, ok... remember you have to hit the ball." ) who seemed to take my myopia too seriously, I did hit the ball and rotated the strike to Karuna.
Mahesh had bunked his clinic to watch this hoopla, when he suddenly began counting the opposition team players. (I don't know why.) He realised that we were seven and the opposition had eight players on the field. A beautiful argument ensued with one of the opposition players breaking into tears. (I don't know why.) The raada lasted for a time duration in which the whole tournament would have been finished with. Eventually a solution was worked out, which my uncricketing brain can never possibly understand, and keeping my batting un-skills in mind I was swiftly replaced by the team captain. Like a lipoma which has been excised, I sighed peacefully.
We lost the match. But it had been fun! I started wondering, why on earth did I resort to tricks— like sending a gullible batchmate to replace me and hide behind Harrison's second volume in the library, in the first place. My fears that my team would lose because of my presence were assuaged by the fact that my presence was as good as my absence. Like a lipoma which never existed, I sighed peacefully.
For all of the future sporting events, if I am compelled to volunteer, I have the "altered hearing" trick up my sleeve.
" So, Sambo, coming for marathon?"
" Mera-thong ho ya tera-thong, kya farak padta hai ?"
