A kinda cricket detox

8 days in Goa, and though I dragged my laptop dance along, I didn’t quite get jiggy with it. I did spy some cricket. There were random bursts when least expected, like you or me being picked to play for the Royals.

On the premises – Shastri’s wife. No Shastri jokes, this was his wife. Then there was Bhajji. What can I say, we didn’t run into each other, our holidays were spared. Then came a corpo herd in the Volvo – and they were playing in the park, corpo games in the dark – this was freaked out, because there wasn’t enough light to play, but they had commentary – “that’s gone across the boundary for four”. Surely something to do with sales targets.

Then Martin’s Corner – where Agarkar appeared, thankfully only on the photographs. And Thank You Sachin! For eating here too and being photographed. How the staff shamelessly posed with him, even I grew wary of them.

Palacio de Deao – the Portuguese blast house from the past, where a nutty Goan family restored an 18th century home with a chamber pot in place. And as I steered through this time machine, I walked into a room, with a tottery four poster bed, and three stumps by its side. I froze. Yeah, the couple had kids. They played cricket.

I wanted to speak with the 18th century kid, photograph the stumps, I had my camera, but I did none of that. I just stood and stared at the stumps. Wow, what stumps. So damn outta context. What is context? What is cricket? Where am I? Who am I? Jesus Jones.

And a few days later I watched Raina and Kohli do the Aussies like I was knocking the sea god's offerings at Zeebop. If you’re off cricket, there gotta be a reason for it. Get stuffed.

Also read: Nohit Sharma's Guide to Goa