Stalking the Sehwags

I can’t say what number the Sehwags live in, but I know, like me, they’re in Hauz Khas. I have never had the urge to stalk the Sehwags. He’s one helluva cricketer, and that’s it for me. I doubt until he scores a triple or one of his mind altering doubles many people notice him; at least not like they would notice Sachin or Yuvraj. Sure, at the Kotla it’s only Sehwag square, but then that’s his ilaqa. Sehwag, in spite of his Ed Hardy t shirts, is a plain clothes’ cricketer. He is a sportsman and not a shoshebaaz.

A Drug

Jatman’s 284 in progress is a bummer. Ever since stumps, I’ve been on edge. It’s like being weaned off a drug way too soon. I did the walk, drive, dinner, chats, they don’t work. The mind heads back, to some trainspotting version of the innings. My thoughts are disjointed – I go back to early day’s when me and a few guys started to get high on Jatman. He was Viru then, sometimes he was Sehwag, but mostly Viru.

Back then he wasn’t so hot, even on the blogs except for a few bored members, mostly soulberry and straight point, everybody smoked one of the fab four. That was the accepted high.

I’m in a kebab joint, they’ve got big boss on. At subway it was a match re-run but the special was a paneer tikka. Next I’m at a sweet house, and I’m thinking, what sweets would sb offer at his blog.

Our own

I get it, again, it’s like a Eureka déjà vu moment rolled into one. Sehwag urf Viru urf Jatman is one of our own, Delhi’s own. My mind’s racing how broadcasters should dub in Haryanavi or Jat tongue – as an ode to Jatman. How Udham Singh should resurface on MTV, for a Jatman special. I need a refill. I need more of the same tomorrow morning.