Rediscover

Somewhere a cock crowed listlessly, age robbing the sheen of its vigour; the early birds twittered noisy-melodiously; the leaves wept silently, their dewy-tears sparkling as they caught the morning’s first rays; a door clicked softly, almost apologetically—as though it really didn’t want to butt into the canvas that nature so effortlessly fashioned. A pair of alert eyes scanned the surroundings stealthily while the hand that held the door now prodded a pair of glasses that refused to sit straight on a very long Pinocchio-nose. The other hand, however, lay still; too still. Suspiciously still, as though it were bound by an invisible cast. Gradually, one hand, eyes, the nose, and the man, Prof. PK, relaxed as the glasses sank back to the original crooked stance, relieved. He coaxed the creaky gate to open silently, and almost skipped across to the road, when a familiar voice boomed from the neighbouring window,
“Professor!”
Abruptly, the professor turned around, his eyes squinted at the window and stiffened, his legs went stiff, his face cold and stiff, his glasses crooked, yet, yes, stiff, his right hand clenched and stiff, and his left invisible-cast-held-hand open and loose. And something round and red as a cherry dropped from the now-loose arm-pit, and bounced once, twice—
“Professor!” the neighbour roared again, oblivious of the stiffening and the bouncing, “Where are you going? And that too, morning-morning?”
And out of the blue, Pinocchio-nose sported a hundred guilty wrinkles, and the professor’s ears drooped causing his glasses to sway dangerously, and he went—
“Ah? Um. Morning-morning? Ah!”
And that was precisely when he lost it. Before he could realize it, his invisible-cast-held-now-loose hand rose slowly and raised the little finger at the window.
“I have to pee”
“What?”
“A few relatives are occupying the guest bedroom and my wife’s currently using our toilet. And it is urgent. So, if you’d look the other way…”
And only the trickle of urine on dew-drenched grass punctuated a shocked silence.

*****

The clock in his office chimed four times; the fan above twirled noisily; stray papers sprayed all around his table, enthused by the fan, bound by paperweights, flapped like leashed dogs; And he strained his ears for that elusive noise—the sound of footsteps and the clutter of tea-cup and tray—his impatience growing every time his rickety chair creaked to and fro. He stood up, frustrated, unable to concentrate, and virtually jogged out of his room, when he saw the familiar rotund figure of the clerk, bouncing up towards him, tea-tray supported by raised hands, circles of sweat around his arm-pits.
“What took you so long?” the professor asked, annoyed.
“Eh?” the clerk asked, uncomprehending, for as far as he knew, he was well on time, a couple of minutes before time, in fact.
“Has Yuvraj come on to bowl?”
“Eh?” the clerk groped, very perplexed. The second last thing one would expect to be questioned about when on the verge of being on the receiving end of an uncalled for reprimand is a question about cricket. The last thing, however, would be Yuvraj Singh’s bowling.
“I said-- Has Yuvraj come on to BOWL?”,
“No, sir” he stammered.
“Is he stretching, at least trying to grab the captain’s attention?” the professor seemed agitated.
“I didn’t observe, sir” he said, then gradually finding his feet, “He should come on in a few overs, once the powerplays are over”
“Oh” the professor said, wiping his crooked glasses with a hand-kerchief, “Anyway, place the tray here. And make sure you call me as soon as he comes on to bowl”
“Yes sir, I will surely do”
An elephant’s demure amble replaced the springy bouncing as the clerk made his way back. ‘Yuvraj Singh’s bowling’ he thought, and snorted, ‘Even his father won’t get half as worked up as the professor over that'

*****

“Amma!” she hissed, skipping into the kitchen, and whispered excitedly, “Come with me! You have to see this!”
“What is it?” she asked, wiping the sweat off her brow.
“Shhh! don’t be so loud! Just come”
And so they tip-toed to the dining room and peered into the adjacent living room from behind the door.
‘One, two, three…’ the Professor was muttering to himself, trotting almost comically on the carpet, counting his steps, his face screwed up, immersed in concentration, oblivious to the pair of curious eyes that were trained on him. He raised his right arm in an extravagant yet fluent swing, continuing to jog, when his wife realized she could no longer bear it--
“What are you doing?”
“Ah? Er. Um” he mumbled, guilt-wrinkles adorning Pinocchio-nose once again.
And his mind went into auto-pilot.
“I am planning to take classes. Er. Some form of dance. Just practicing”, he barely whispered the last two words and slumped onto the sofa, perspiring profusely, much more from effort than fear. He closed his eyes. And relaxed. The world went strangely silent. An orange glow lit up behind his shut eyelids and he felt happiness and contentment overwhelm him. His wife looked at the smile on his face and saw her questions vanish, her anger die down. It was a small smile, yet it said so much each time that it surprised her: regularly adorning his face for the past month-and a half, it seemed to say different things at different times—today it was deeply satisfying, that of a successful artiste whose thirst has been quenched; last week, it had been fiery and passionate; the week before, an enthusiastic one. And yet, at some level, they all seemed to say the same thing, for essentially it was the same smile—one of a man who had rediscovered a small lost flame, who had found joy doing a little something that was more than just little for him.

*****

“We simply call him— the Magician” said the wicket-keeper, nodding his head seriously, a faint trace of pride in his voice.
“What rubbish!” the batsman said, taking his guard.
“Oh, if you don’t want to believe, don’t believe! But, I am telling you, he is unplayable. He’s been with us for almost two months and there hasn’t been one batsman who has come close to mastering him. He can spin it like anything. Even you won’t be able to touch his bowling”
The last sentence hurt the batsman, but he bit back a retort. He simply smirked, looking at the bowler. It was hard to believe anyone who looked like that could bowl, let alone spin the ball. With an air of supreme confidence he took his stance, taking one sweeping look at the field. He decided to hit it hard and straight, a thousand feet in the air, a thousand feet past the fence.
“Left Arm Over” announced the umpire.
“He practices his magic at the crack of dawn, and he watches others and learns. Magic, Magic” the keeper whispered, loud enough for the batsman to hear.
The bowler trotted to the crease gracefully and raised his bowling-arm in one quick, efficient motion, his bowling style reminiscent of a famous Indian middle-order batsman. One last look at the boundary, and the batsman was on his way, a couple of steps down the track, bat raised, eyes trained on the flighted, lip-smackingly teasing ball. And he paused for he was there, but the ball wasn’t, and he knew it was all over, yet he swung his bat wildly in the direction of the tossed, magically withheld ball. And he walked from half-way down the track, where he was embarrassingly stranded, straight ahead to the pavilion, refusing to look around, to see the jubilant keeper gather the ball, the bails lifted off the stumps in one sweeping flourish.

And the fielders went “Magic, Magic” as they jumped like maniacs; the small crowd, who had come to see the Magician perform his tricks, roared; the batsman shook his head in disbelief, the umpires exchanged glances, as though emphasizing the inevitability of it all; and the Magician celebrated in style, exchanging hi-fis with his teammates (who half-hoped touching his hand would rub off some of the magic onto them) as crooked glasses, perched comfortably on a long nose that sported wrinkles of joy, glinted in the rays of the evening-Sun and a familiar, content smile that had followed the Magician around in recent times like a faithful pet, lit up his face.