THESE are difficult times for Pakistan for there is gloom everywhere. Bruised pride can be swallowed but battered pride is impossible to digest. It is hard to discern how and what went wrong with our grand expectations to rule the world of cricket. Pakistanis everywhere feel cheated since cricket was the one arena where we used to stand tall with our heads held up high.
These are times when everyone wants to vent their anger. There is opinion galore wrapped in indignation. Voices are coming from all directions, and if you lend an ear to them, the objects who saw the World Cup debacle from close quarters have now ended their silence. Let’s hear out these wafting sounds, that may help us lift our sagging spirits and mellow our red-hot rage.
VOICE 1: “I am Inzimamul Haq’s bat. I need no introduction as the soft-drink advertisement says it all. These days, I have reinvented myself and am defending my boss against rotten apples, instead of cricket balls. There was a time when I was destined to become an auctioneer’s dream after retirement. The balls feared me as I mercilessly clobbered them. My master detested anything hurled at him. For this reason, I have also been used in hitting spectators as well as fellow team members. I aided him in his job and used to smack the ball with an intent to banish it from Earth. I had developed utter disdain for these round-shaped ugly objects. My assault was so ruthless that the balls used to lose their shape and were permanently disfigured.
“However, that was yesterday. This year, in South Africa, everything changed and my master became lean in body and ability. The devious creatures known as cricket balls started whizzing past me. It felt like a blind man’s stick. Even when I was able to hit a ball, I could not smack the rascal. To add insult to injury, they started teasing me by seeking refuge in the enemy’s hands, sending my master on the long walk back that he hates so much. While passing me, the balls also started to hurl insults at me. Just the other day, a new ball called me ‘dead wood’ while another called me ‘broomstick’. At times, they even used foul language.”
VOICE 2: “I belong to the small but growing community known as laptops. We belong to the high end of our society and our users are generally people with talent. For the last one year, I have been ‘possessed’ by Pakistan’s cricket analyst. It has been a love-hate relationship. I do not like novices and beginners.
“They gave me to someone who got himself the job without knowing the difference between a mouse and a rat. Regarding the love part, I enjoy the travelling. I have become a perfect globetrotter, travelling with the cleverest of freeloaders on the planet, who managed to board most of the flights taking off from Pakistan at the State’s expense.
“We laptops are classy objects. We like to be owned and used for complex financial analysis. When someone uses us to play childish games, it makes us mad. I have often ‘hanged’ myself in protest. During the World Cup in South Africa, my operator kept playing games with me, an insult to our race. I would not be able to face the desktops because of the abuse I went through. He even tried to erase my memory and purloin my processor, but I survived. Believe you me, the only analysis the guy did was when he produced an MS Excel graph of his weekly earnings, and e- mailed it to his wife. They say my owner is about to lose his job, which brings a smile to my monitor. Finally, no more Tetris, Need for Speed and Laura Croft. How the latter would have helped the Pakistan cricket team is beyond me, anyway.”
VOICE 3: “I am the headgear of one of the most generous batsmen in world cricket. A true bowler’s darling, shall I say. I sit atop Shahid Afridi’s head while he is at the crease, which means 15 minutes at the most. I wish I could say that I am the protector of one of the greatest brains around. I come under flak from my ilk for trying to be his saviour. What good is a serpent if he has no treasure to guard? Others opine that it is only because of me that the blow that can cure him once and for all is kept at bay. In my humble opinion, he is a lost cause.”
VOICE 4: “I was a newborn and only two overs old when the men in green adopted me on March 1, 2003, in South Africa. Life held great promise for me. I was a ball yearning for a future. I knew I had been given in the safe hands of the fastest bowling trio who would take good care of me. They were kind and by using their skills, were expected to protect me from the savage willows of the world. But on that day, they bowled as if they were over and done with their respective careers. They gave the impression that they have played badminton all their lives, instead of cricket. What a cruel world! I was only 10 overs old, but I felt like an octogenarian. They had worn me out before my age. My skin was shedding and I could not face the world of bats anymore.
“After what seemed like an eternity, I reached the age of 30 overs, and I saw the troubled soul in the white coat looking at me kindheartedly. His heart had melted and he let me free. But those ruffians in green wanted me to stay on, so that my soul was subjected to further humiliation. I want my epitaph to read thus: ‘A stolen childhood and deprived youth, courtesy the men in green’.”
VOICE 5: “I am the pen of the mightiest cricketing power in the country. My greatness lies neither in my pedigree nor in the ink, but in the greatness of my owner (or so I gather from his soliloquies). His instructions transfer from his brain into mine, and I let out his flawless decisions on paper. With one stroke, I have bestowed honour to ordinary mortals such as Sikander Bakht, Waqar Younis, Richard Pybus, etc, allowing them to draw fat salaries.
“Let me confess that I am a bit impish. Foreign coaches and players have to thank me for drawing mammoth salaries, since I have always added a couple of zeros of my own accord that my boss did not intend. Since the master’s mathematical skills are also pedestrian (amongst other things), he ignored them as he believes that ‘ducks’ do not contribute to the total. After the cup, my master’s greatness lies in tatters. People are calling for his head. Other regional pens, specially those owned by journalists, have been highly critical of me for not resisting the blunders of my boss. The names that he wrote, they say, bear none of the immortal attributes that heroes are made of.
“I await the day with dread when my master will ink the word ‘resignation’. It will be a death sentence for me, my blue blood will flow out one last time. My only hope is that he continues till cricket is eventually buried.”
In Pakistan, squash has followed hockey into oblivion and now cricket is on its deathbed. Organizing the inaugural World Cup of kite-flying is the only hope left for us.
THESE are difficult times for Pakistan for there is gloom everywhere. Bruised pride can be swallowed but battered pride is impossible to digest. It is hard to discern how and what went wrong with our grand expectations to rule the world of cricket. Pakistanis everywhere feel cheated since cricket was the one arena where we used to stand tall with our heads held up high.
