Remember those days in the colony when not every house had a TV but no one wanted to miss a cricket match? Friends, and sometimes even strangers, would gather at someone's house with a TV to watch the match progress. Everyone was opinionated, everyone knew best, everyone had a strategy, everyone ridiculed someone, some became supremely superstitious, no one agreed with the batting order or selection committee, everyone agreed with the umpire when the decision was in favor but some suspected a conspiracy and invariably blamed him for being 'partial' when an unfavorable decision was reached. By the end of the match, everyone sulked or rejoiced together. But no matter how it ended, a few strangers had now become friends - unified by cricket.
I'm wearing a rather striking shirt, one that makes me feel like a clown fooling around in a graveyard. Roving eyes latch on to me and make me too conscious of myself. Checkered in red, grey, black and maroon, I've excused myself into donning it and looking silly for two reasons. It's Friday and…more importantly, the last working day of the year. Tailored half-a-year back, I never had the courage to wear it, not until today. It's that time of the year when it's time to reflect on the events that transpired. Last year ended on the worst possible note. Dad had expired and I was numb with shock. The repercussions rippled halfway thought this year. Things were so abysmal initially that I had lost the will to live. Acrid in everything I did, I was immensely angered by time phlegmatically flowing through its cadence. It was as if Dad meant nothing to anybody. What right did people have to live the way they always had when Dad was no more? Why was much of the world still