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

Adrift

There wasn't a moment in England, when the weather chilled out to something normal and consistent. No, England was a country of rain, cold wind and poetic cruelty. It was fitting, that cricket with its cruelty came from England. Fitting that it was in England, his career came to an end. Set the mood atleast. He doubted he would be feeling as dramatic, had the weather not been this chilly breeze, whipping around him from where he sat in the balcony of his suite. Typical English weather- upsetting. Goosebumps were pricking at his arm as the cold seeped into his jersey, the same one which he had been unable to take off hours after the match was done. The breeze was strong and persistant and this close to convincing him to retreat into the warmth of his room. But if England was persistant, so was he, much like the lone mosquito buzzing around his head despite the strong wind and Mahi's half hearted attempts to flap it away. That little mosquito was determined to brave the conditions and possible death to have its meal. Mahi almost admired it for its dedication, letting it live far longer than necessary. Despite everything, that mosquito was determined to make most of its short life, even if it resulted in death. It was living every second of its cursed existence. And for Mahi, there wasn't anything as magical as just living life.

There was nothing as exhilerating as breathing in every moment and running like the wind along the nimble boughs of life. Everything shined brighter the moment you acknowledge your own existence, the colors popped out when you truly open your eyes. People say that humans have two lives, and the second one begins the moment you realise you only have one. Perhaps he was an exception to that saying, perhaps he only ever had one life, for as far as Mahi could remember, right from his childhood, he couldn't think of a moment where he wasn't just a little bit in love with life.

It would be a lie to say that this disposition of his, removed all sorrows from his life. Living every moment, he had realised from the time he had first felt pain, brought a unique intensity to every single wound life was bound to give him as it gave everyone. Was it normal for his heart to tug this hard against his chest as if trying to rip itself out? Was it normal for every little misunderstanding to dig itself that deep a grave in his soul? Was it normal that after losing so many people to time, to life and sometimes to himself, he somehow found it in himself to lose more? After failing so many times, after scarring so many times, shouldn't he be immune to it now? How could this void in him still have the ability to grow? Shouldn't he be used to it?

But no, the beauty of pain too had to be appreciated. Not just appreciated, he had to learn to revel in pain to be able to move forward. He had to let himself feel every prick of his nerves, to let those broken bones grow stronger when they healed. There was no joy that came easy, that came without pain. If anything, pain enhanced joy, it made you grateful for the little bits of happiness, it made every victory sweeter. Still it would be a lie if he said he didn't hate this particular aspect of life. He rubbed the fabric of the jersey again, trying to commit every woven thread of it to his memory. After a lifetime of being tethered to it, it was time to set himself adrift.

This pain though, this had been in the works for practically his entire career. The day he had worn that coveted blue jersey, he had known he would one day have to take it off forever. He would have to put it down and never be able to wear it again on the field, whetherit was by his choice or someone else's. In the early days that knowledge helped him breathe through his initial failures. The desire to never take it off made him give every bit of cricket he had within him, out to Vizag on that faithful day of 2005. When he had finally given up on test cricket, it was the thought of never wearing that jersey which had brought him to uncharacteristic tears. He had spent the entire night in that shirt, unable, unwilling, to take it off as if wearing it longer would fulfill his heart. When they had burned his effigies, his house, in retaliation to their failure of 2007, it had been this very jersey which had made their anger make some sort of a sense to him. He had never dared express it to Dada or any of his seniors; but in the end despite the senselessness of the vandalism, seeing the blue of India suffering because of him had felt like a crime. And it had been this very jersey that had him hurting over what felt like a betrayal from his people. He had committed a grave error but it felt a little like his own family was denying him the humanity of making a mistake. Perhaps that too was his mistake, considering all those unnamed faces, his. They weren't. They had just lost one match, not the Cup at that point of time. It is said that the excess of anything is toxic. So high was his desire to not fail further, so determined he was to not make a mistake, that he became indecisive. The team might have lost, but he felt as if he, more than anyone else, had done the most damage.