he camera purposely focusses on the grim faces and justly relaxes on the wrinkling three. The trio, who had taught us to deny odds and conceive miracles as possibility. The trio, who for us in our childhood were no less than the Supermans and Batmans. The trio, who had, not more than eight years ago, on their tour to the same land pulverised the same opponents with 1,496 runs from 16 completed innings at an average of 93.5. Now, people say they have paled. They look palely at each other; and at those at the stage with a look of non-existence.
Far outside the television box, life toddles normally. No grief, no sorrow. Do they not watch cricket? A woman hangs her head down — I assume it to be the bow of shame. A moment later, she picks up her face, giggling through her mobile phone. She smiles. She laughs. She doesn’t watch cricket.
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