The number on the back
of my grey sweatshirt
bleeds blue,
everytime somebody whispers
'Game on',
my right palm immediately
flies to my left bosom
caressing the little pang
that comes with the memory
of spicy pakoda and hot chai,
the whole street of fanatics
in one living room,
while mom serves jelebis
to everyone, swatting
dad's hands for a heart attack
one bite away,
the hushed silence when
the clock strikes 8,
and a loud roar
thundering in the living room
at 8.05, when
an array of blue men
walk onto the green field
at one arm's distance,
while the tri-coloured
flag is wavin' high,
to the tune of Tagore's anthem,
chills and goosebumps
with every India, India chants,
piercing whistles and happy tears
a high no alcohol can even try... !
And now in this cold country
where 'game on' means Football
and the 8pm IST
is the time I haul my ass,
here in Pennsylvania,
to a money vending job
that doesn't care about
Cricket, or Dhoni
or the post victory celebrations
bigger than the Holi,
or the 2002 MRF bat,
bubble wrapped in the basemet
of my posh suburb house,
that waits patiently
to strike that exploding century,
maybe in a stadium,
maybe in coin de rue,
but with every 'Game On'
the 7 on my sweats
and my desi heart unrest, Bleeds Blue!
#327
Current Rank
5300
Points Earned
225 Readers have supported this Story
Rate and help Bhargava with this contest
10Points
20Points
30Points
40Points
50Points
Description in detail *
Thank you for taking the time to report this. Our team will review this and contact you if we need more information.