If I may call you ‘bro’.
Illustration/Uday Mohite
He dropped a catch
He dropped a catch,
it seemed easy,
from the comfort of an
armchair,
looked like a dolly,
seemed like a sitter,
but alas, no,
it slipped through,
the cheers,
morphed into jeers,
it was a sinking feeling,
a game changer,
we’ve come to expect the backlash,
the trolls,
mindless, spineless, anonymous,
rats in a sewer,
multiplying, not getting fewer,
looking to vent,
devil sent,
and it’s a match,
at a league stage,
but they took it a step further,
they changed his page!
His Wikipedia page,
Yes, that’s wicked,
called him ‘Khalistani’,
mercifully not ‘pro Pakistani’,
said unspeakable things,
the troll’s vitriol,
the hate, unabated,
our death-over bowler,
facing death threats,
for a dropped catch.
Who needs enemies
when you have fans like these,
we dropped a catch,
and he will drop more catches,
but he’ll win us matches.
Go for it, Arsh.
Go deal with the harsh.
Bye Bye Cy
Bye bro Cy,
If I may call you ‘bro’.
We never met…
But Bombay city,
is six degrees of separation.
I feel I knew you,
played cricket with your cousins,
I know your sister,
I know your brother,
Mumbai is a small city.
Though our paths never crossed,
I feel I knew you,
I watched your career,
with respect.
The sojourn,
the slow burn,
you were the underdog,
Tata vs Mistry,
I was impressed by your grit.
Then, you went out of the public eye,
and then this accident,
this tragic end,
a bend
on the highway,
and the chatter,
the narrative,
of seat belts,
and air bags…
They’re trying to shift the blame
‘The Merc was speeding’, they claim
‘120 kmph per hour’,
‘The car covered 20 km in 9 mins’, they say.
But what they don’t say,
The four lanes that suddenly became two, in a minute,
The road condition, the potholes,
bad bridge design,
death waiting to happen,
the petty details,
the pettiness,
while the gas bags,
preach about airbags,
Bye, bye Cy.
Rest well.
Rest well.
I didn’t know you,
but I’m sorry for our loss.
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Rishi Lost
Rishi lost,
Rishi lost.
It’s a sad Tory,
a sad Tory.
Instead of hope and glory,
Rishi lost,
Rishi lost.
Sure he’s not desi,
but here’s what I’m thinking,
as we descend into chaos,
maybe someone of Indian descent,
to lead us,
cat among the pigeons,
freshen the atmosphere,
remove the toxicity,
blunt the edge.
Yes, it’s illogical,
totally illogical,
but I’m done…
With the vicious uncles,
preachy, pedantic, patronising,
pointing fingers at me,
promises made,
compromises made,
Rishi lost,
Rishi lost.
It’s a sad Tory,
a sad Tory.
Give me freshness,
young men with hope,
young men with hope.
Liz Liz Liz
One Liz comes,
one Liz goes.
Goodbye, Elizabeth Alexandra Mary,
welcome Mary Elizabeth Truss.
In them, UK trusts.
She was a queen,
of stature.
She reigned,
and knighted,
delighted,
majesty, grace,
the face of royalty.
The end of an era,
Que sera sera.
Goodbye, Queen Elizabeth,
Rest in peace.
New Blood
Fed’s almost done,
Rafa not as hot,
Djoko, won’t take the shot,
the holy trinity,
can’t play till infinity,
new blood,
Sinner vs Alcaraz,
new match up,
a new rivalry.
Borg-Mac.
Fed-Rafa.
Rafa-Djoke.
They’ll win slams,
but that boy Carlos,
The birdman of Alcaraz.
Rahul daCunha is an adman, theatre director/playwright, photographer and traveller. Reach him at rahul.dacunha@mid-day.com
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