"Reality Bites" is the answer to those people who either find reality boring or lack true inspiration. Many are moved by fiction, but hardly do they ever learn from it, and all because they consider real life to be boring and more complicated that fiction. True, reality is complicated, but hardly boring.
Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.
Thus, Reality Bites is an attempt to enlighten the massed on how I see the world (I might start a blog specially on this), and how it inspires me. The very complexity of the world lies hidden at the heart of nature, of spirit and of dreams. Audience have it easy as writers give them clues. But for us common folks, we need to learn to read between the lines. But when we do so, we find out the baffling true nature of the world, and a story so grand, a struggle so heart-wrenching that makes our own lives worth living for.
So consider this: If reality was a movie, you are the characters in it. Don’t waste your time doing pointless things that might bore the audience (unless you love to do it, obviously). Go out there and make life amazing!
So my story's below. Feel free to submit your own experiences.
Even if it's just a bit of writing practice.
A tale of an audience is never interesting, yet watching the world spin before you transforms you into something magnificent.
India is a country where celebration has no end. For the slightest happiness the Indians would party as if there is no tomorrow, and Cricket is probably one of the biggest joys of their lives. Miles apart they’d cheer and drink for every run their idols make or every wicket they take, and even the strongest of typhoons couldn’t shaken their joys.
It was after thirty long years that their country had any prospects of winning the World Cup, which was normally taken home by the mighty Australia. Never losing, never faltering, the Australians thrashed every team that ever stood their path, every prodigy that had any chance of beating them, always towering against the world with pride. With them coming in early to face India was intimidating. But tables turned when we managed to defeat these titans. India reached the Semi-Finals, up against their bitter rivals: Pakistan.
A storm or doubt and fear had fallen over the nation. So they beat Australia, but what if that was pure luck? Many prayed, many cheered. Hundreds stood crowded around a single television set. Even the passers at the street had somehow forgotten about their business, just to see this decisive battle taking place on TV at various shops and Cafes. And even the most culturally indifferent city, that is Pune, couldn’t resist staying home or quickly tuning to their radio to know what happens in the stadium. And at the heart of the indifference was I, who found Cricket boring altogether. Yet, I couldn’t take my eyes off the TV screen as my boss watched with keen interest.
India had played well, clinging to the end, with two-sixty runs and nine wickets, hindered only by the limited overs. Pakistan was already over a hundred runs with merely two wickets.
“They would no doubt catch up,” said I. “Kapil Dev brought us the cup thirty years ago, but this is impossible for India to beat.”
“It’s too early to assume,” said my boss. “We need to beat the first five batsmen and the match is ours.”
“How come?”
“Common sense, the rest are all ballers,” he chuckled. “They can’t bat well.”
The clock ticked and dusk fell. Crowd joined in and expanded as every TV spot in the city was occupied. One wicket down and people whistled. One bowled and they cheered. Another catch and out. Excitement gripped us. Will they make it?
“This is bad,” said boss. “He needs to go down, and fast.”
The camera panned in to Pakistan’s captain, Shahid Afreedi. It was as his aura could be felt beyond the screen that people trembled at his sight. Some players from India were nervous, and they had every right to be so. Shahid never believed in playing safe and went perfectly for bigger fish. Several sixes, several boundaries. Each swing of his bat shook and terrified and stadium, but his enemies did not falter. He dared and waited for another ball, and conquered that too. Six wickets and massive hundred and seventy runs, and going. He had half-century in mind. No, full century! Another swing aiming for the boundary, confident that it would make it.
But it didn’t. A player in a cap dived for the speeding ball that his his chest. Ignoring the pain he stood up and tossed the ball before Shahid could take any more runs. The man was Nehra, and fearlessly gazed down the stadium towards Shahid as if daring him to go for the boundary again. Shahid took the challenge.
Another ball delivered, and another hit towards the boundary, obstructed only by Nehra again. Another swing, and another save. Though intimidated, Shahid had a Plan B. Gazing towards Nehra he tapped his bat in position once. Twice. Thrice. The ball was launched, straight towards Shahid, who swung the bat in a strange stance. Nehra was ready for the ball, which never came. Shahid grinned and ran for his runs, in case someone takes control. The ball still flew in mid air, at the opposite side of where Nehra stood, almost going for the boundary.
Almost. A player, Sehwag, ran in and caught the ball before it touched the ground. Shahid was out.
The best batsman was gone, but there still weren’t any guarantees. Though the rest to come weren’t competent batsman, they could play safe and beat India with enough overs. One went down with a simple catch, another with an LBW, and another with a bowled. It was two-hundred and three runs to nine wickets, and I felt confident that Pakistan couldn’t make it. But then he came.
Misbah, the titan batsman that Pakistan kept for last. But even for him gaining sixty runs was unthinkable. Plus, the overs were running out. That was when I saw the fire in the eyes beneath the helm. He was determined. He wouldn’t falter and go down easy. To him this was a battle, and valiantly stood his ground. If playing safe wasn’t an option, it was all or nothing.
His first swing took India by surprise as the ball flew for a six, which was an excellent shot. The second one missed, but the third again went for the boundary. His companion runner, a mere baller, played safe to let Misbah take the shots. And yet again, he played. One swing sending the ball dodging from the fielders’ hands, another ball too high to catch. The crowd at the stadium cheered, while the crowd besides the cafe saddened. Though rival he was, there was something about him that I admired. Excitement gripped us yet again as he achieved over thirty runs on his own.
“Let’s pack up,” boss grinned confidently, as knowing victory was imminent. “It’s over; we’ve won. His might alone can’t handle those of several determined Indians.”
Soon enough as I switched the lights and computers off as boss was still engrossed in the match, outside at a nearby slum hundreds of men, women and children held flags of India just waiting for the moment. Only one over left. This scared Misbah. He would either lose as the overs ran out or he gave it his all.
And sure enough, some mystical strength possessed him. The ball flew fiercely towards him, and swing sounded close to that of a cannon as it impacted with the ball. It flew, higher and faster than anybody who had any hope of reaching it. And it descended, like a meteor. Silence stung the city at the sight. It was a boundary. It was --
Someone managed to catch it before it touched the ground. Silence stung harder and more viciously to anybody who noticed. The man in the hat inhaled deeply, a bright smile playing across his face. He lifted his hat and tossed it to the sky. The man, as they recognized him, was Sachin Tendulkar, the best All-Rounder in India.
The day was one. Any grief, any doubt was lifted off our shoulders. Yes, even the indifferent city of Pune rejoiced in the flood of lights and smell of gunpowder. A stampede of children ran through the streets, waving flags and screaming praises for the nation. Many folks danced and played drums, joining in the celebration. Shopkeepers left their shops to happily vent their excitements. Bike gangs rode in groups, announcing the great victory. If this was the case with Pune, imagine the nation at large. Imagine a whole country, laughing and dancing in triumph, enjoying the moonlight! Imagine the fields, and the mountains, the police stations and offices, villages and parliament: all of them, singing in the name of victory!
The noise didn’t cease for hours more as I arrived home. Even my father, who hates anything crazy, was excited at the thrill and excitement that victory bought us. It was then that I realized that no matter what our differences, no matter how bitter our enemity with neighbours, companies, families or individuals, if there’s one thing that made the nation any friendlier, it was Cricket. Such things, no matter how crazy, will always bind the world in fraternity, even for those who aren’t even remotely interested in Cricket.
Finals draw closer as India faces off against Sri Lanka. Thirty years have we waited for this historical moment. Will India take home the cup? Or will it yet again taste defeat? Only time, and sheer skill and determination, will tell.
