Eternal Ephemerals

The game

The house was alive with anticipation, humming with energy that pulsed through every room. The TV blared in the living room, the sound of the cricket commentators filling the space with excitement. Maya sat cross-legged on the couch, her eyes glued to the screen, her body tense with the kind of nervous energy that came only when a match was this close, this unpredictable.

But it wasn't just the match that had her heart racing. It was this—this moment. Sitting with her family, the four of them gathered in their usual places, each one playing their own part in this familiar, chaotic ritual. Her father, in his armchair, arms crossed, pretending to be indifferent. Her mother, leaning forward on the edge of the couch, wide-eyed, a cricket encyclopedia in human form, yelling out stats, strategies, predictions as though the team could hear her through the screen. Her younger brother, Sam, sprawled on the floor, nervously chewing his nails but grinning in spite of himself.

Maya glanced at her mother, the real cricket fanatic in the house. When a match was on, especially when India was playing, her mom transformed. Usually calm, collected, and pragmatic, she became the most passionate, die-hard fan Maya had ever known. It was from her mother that she had inherited her love for the game. But there was something different about it.

Maya liked watching cricket, sure. She followed the matches, the players, the stats, and she could talk about them with her friends, analyze a good match, debate over who should or shouldn't have been picked for the team. But this—this thrill, this electric joy that buzzed through her when watching a match—only happened here, only when she was surrounded by her family.

Cricket on her own? It was fun, but it lacked something. Watching it with friends? It was nice, but she never felt this. The rush of emotions, the pulse of excitement with every ball, the laughter, the groans, the collective shouts of frustration or joy—it was never the same without them.

And right now, they were all on edge.

The game had been dragging for hours, a slow, tense battle that seemed like it could go either way. India had been struggling for most of the match. Her father had already "given up" twice, muttering under his breath that the team was hopeless, that they'd never make it past this inning. But Maya knew his routine too well. He never really gave up. He'd always peek from behind his newspaper or his phone, sneaking glances at the screen, his frustration crumbling the moment India scored a boundary.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. A message from one of her friends lit up the screen: "Where are you? We're all watching the match at Amit's place, come over!"

Maya smiled at the message, but she didn't need to think twice before responding. "Nah, I'm good."

Because she knew where she belonged for moments like these. It wasn't at a friend's house or at a café with strangers where the excitement might be there, but the feeling wouldn't. This—her family, their chaos, their traditions—this was where the magic happened.

Maya's eyes flicked back to the TV just in time to see the bowler start his run-up, the ball spinning toward the batsman. For a moment, it felt like time stretched out, everything slowing down in anticipation.

Come on, come on...

The batsman swung, the crack of the ball connecting with the bat echoed through the speakers, and then—it was flying. The ball soared into the air, straight toward the boundary line.

"YES!" Maya's mother shot up from the couch, her hands flying into the air as if she could somehow push the ball further along its path through sheer willpower.

Her father, despite his earlier declarations of defeat, was on his feet too now, leaning forward with a grin that he tried to hide but couldn't. "Finally," he muttered, shaking his head. But there was no mistaking the joy in his eyes.