MS Dhoni and the useless one shots I like to come up with

Mumbai Stops And Looks

Mahi considered the heavy piece of metal in his hands, a contemplative frown on his face. A World Title. Granted it came in an unknown format, but according to Ajit, they were not realising the depth of their achievement, that they hadn't yet realised the weight of their victory. If you asked him how he felt about it, well he felt pretty great. He felt like he had won something but also like Ajit said, he didn't truly feel like he had won a world championship. None of them did except their eldest teammate, it showed in their attitude towards the trophy itself. While all of them had partied all night, taking turns to celebrate with the trophy, now that they were traveling, it had been passed around like a hot potato too difficult to hold. Ofcourse nobody was handing it off to any BCCI official as long as they could. The way they had been sent without even a full support team, no preparation and not much thought, had made even their rookiest members, just a little miffed at their governing cricketing body. But within the players and their scant support staff, the glorified piece of metal was being passed around in intervals, they would much rather wear their medals. It was rather heavy after all, Mahi mused, shifting its weight to one hand, they really were not ready for its weight.

He sighed and looked up, they had been brought to an abrupt stop in the middle of the boarding bridge citing some security issue. Everyone around him looked just as tired and exasperated as he felt. They were supposed to do a victory lap to wankhede, give some pointless interviews and showoff their victory before being allowed to book a flight home. Personally, Mahi was really looking forward to that very last bit, he had a terrible headache building in his temples and he could feel his throat itch forewarning a bad cold. He had been sort of sick through the last few games and thankfully nothing had truly broken into a fever but now that he was winding down, he just knew that his next few days were about to be wrecked.

Irfan turned to him with a groan.

"Can't you go ask them to hurry up? You are the Indian Captain, your words will hold weight," he gestured, frustrated at the bustling security team and the airport officials that seemed to be scurrying with a harried urgency.

Mahi scowled resentfully at being reminded of his recent promotion, he was still mid-a-very-silent-and-probably-one-sided-war with Jammy Bhai about it, before answering "Me nagging them will only stress them out more, can't you see how worried they look? Must be some major scheduling error or something that they need to sort out,".

His friend groaned again, not satisfied with the response, "We have a freaking long day ahead of us, I just want to go home and sleep,".

"Its raining pretty heavily, I don't think there will be many people out there after all. We can book early flights," he tried placate the guy. It really was raining steadily, since the last half an hour they had been waiting, first in the plane and now the boarding bridge, it hadn't slowed down even the slightest bit. They really did have a chance to go home as soon as the formalities were done. Irfan too looked out of the window, biting his lip.

"Is it bad that I am almost sad that there won't be too many people out there?"

Mahi looked at him exasperated, "Didn't you, five seconds ago, cry about wanting to go home? Pick a side man,".

Irfan held up his hands, "I do, I do. Trust me. But you know...".

"No I don't," Mahi replied bluntly.

Irfan sighed, "Always have to spell it out I swear. I just mean that it would be nice you know, for a change people will be loving us and not wanting to kill us. I mean, you especially have to know how that felt like. Don't you want them to love you the same amount they hated you?".

A humorless smile played at his lips. He, as Irfan had quite tactlessly pointed out, did know how it felt like; the shame, the pain, the betrayal, the fear, the anger, all of it. At the end of it all, all that remained in his heart for public opinions was disdain. Because at the end of it all, his terrible failures did not justify them attacking his house, his family. What Irfan was describing was redemption, and truly, the people he needed to redeem himself infront of, were not nameless faces with fickle hearts and temporary love. Those people were the people he had hurt when he had failed; his captains, his idol, his teammates.

"I don't want anything from people who would just as likely throw stones at me as they would flowers," he replied finally, hefting the trophy a bit higher.

Irfan huffed and turned away shaking his head, "You are a strange man,".

To annoy him further, Mahi shoved the trophy in his hands, "Here hold this, I will go see if I can help them out or something,", with that he walked off grinning to himself at the useless protest that followed. Weaving through officials, staff and players alike, he made his way to the gate, humming mindlessly to himself. There was a bit of a crowd at the very threshold of the passage connecting the boarding bridge to the airport, held back by the glass gates and the airport officials alike. Media, he guessed. They must be trying to catch some exclusives. Their head of security was standing just outside too. If he could just ask how much longer it would take, he thought as he walked up to the man, he could sate the crowd of very tired and very frustrated young men with him. As soon as he pushed the glass door open, a roar of noise very nearly made him lose his footing. The crowd which had seemed content just loitering infront of the passage, surged forward, forcing all sorts of staff to rush to hold them back. The head incharge, whipped around and quickly pushed him back towards the bridge, shutting the door and with it muting most of the din.

The man was saying something about going back and waiting, but Mahi's eyes were on the crowd. There were no professional cameras in sight, no large mics. None of the men and women infront of him were ID'ed in those large media passes. Instead they held bags, neck pillows, a walkman for music, a child they were trying to manage while waving and screaming excitedly at him. They weren't media, Mahi met the eyes of the poor man incharge of somehow getting them safely through the day, they were fellow travellers abandoning their travel plans to catch a glimpse of the World Cup winning team. He felt a tinge of the phantom weight of the trophy he had just shoved into Irfan's hand and Ajit's words echoed in his mind.

"You have not realized what you have achieved,".

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Some cities sleep. Life moves through them at a sedate pace. Others walk, brisk or stroll. Life moves with them, hand in hand, step beside step. Others yet run marathons. They move life, pushing the pace and time to fit their agendas.

Mumbai though takes it a step further. Mumbai doesn't just run. It sprints. Life thrums within it and it thrums with life. There is not a second of rest, not a second of pause. Life is a whirlwind of colors and changing time for Mumbai, every second is new. Every second needs to be something new. It has time for no one, it stops for no one. You either get with the pace and you live, you truly live. Or the pace crushes you and you fall, you fall and never get up. Because Mumbai doesn't stop, doesn't stop for anyone.

And then it does.

Fifteen men step onto its soil. And Mumbai pauses. Mumbai pauses and looks. Looks because there is something shining in their hands. It is not the piece of metal, but the glimpse of the future to come. There are people on top of the bus. Two in particular demanding attention by their theatrics. The young manstanding dangerously balanced at the very edge of the bus, curly haired with a smile that splits his face and his friend right behind him, turban on his head, some chunky metal in his hands.. The first man hollers with the people, leads the others behind him into a merry dance. The other follows him with joy, hoisting the prize high in the air.

If eyes manage to tear away from these two, attention would befall the man sitting upfront watching the theatrics with a rare smile. He is short, with a frown line already visible on his young face, the sign of a fierce man. But the fiery is gone, replaced by peace. Peace that looks like it belongs. 

A roar interrupts all contemplation of these men as another steps out from inside the bus to the top of the deck, pulled along by a young excited boy. The first thing anyone notices in the crowd of short sensible hair, is the mane of black falling neatly to the broad shoulders. But it isn't responsible for the attention the man commands as he moves to the very back of the group, leaning on the side of the bus, occasionally waving every now and then when called, but otherwise being completely discrete and watching his companions celebrate with a fond smile. There is something about him, some feeling that persists even when your eyes track somebody else. Something that makes him stick in every peripheral. Something that forces you to look, to look and see a glint, a twinkle of something else in eyes too old for his face.

It thunders, it rains. But no shelters are sought, no movement is made. Save for the bus of brilliant young men bringing a wind of change with them.

And Mumbai stops and looks.