Hardik Rajgor

L ast ball, three runs to win. I was the captain of the fielding side, positioned at mid-off. Our pacer Zeeshan Khatri  bowled  a yorker, the batsman managed to block it, and the ball trickled straight towards the bowler. He could have just taken the ball, strolled towards the stumps, clipped the bails off and won the game for us. But he was all of nine years old and attempted a direct hit at the bowler’s end. It turned out to be an overthrow that flew past me for a boundary and we ended up giving away a match that was sitting on a platter. United Sports Club had lost to Poisar Gymkhana in this nail-biting Under-10 cricket match and all us, red- cheeked boys did on our ride back home to Mira Road is cry. I didn’t know it then, but it was my first lesson in leadership, teamwork, coping with pressure, and dealing with failure. And only sport could teach it to me. “I want to play  cricket  for India,” was every child’s dream in the era of Sachin Tendulkar, and I was...

A s long as cricket is watched, written, and talked about, people will reference Yuvraj Singh’s heroics at Kingsmead, as the southpaw bludgeoned six sixes in an over. It is the most astonishing moment of play that most of us will experience in our lifetime. Yuvraj Singh played it, Ravi Shatri narrated it, and fans across the world lived it. No one will ever forget what it felt like to be in that moment. As Yuvraj Singh calls curtains on his international career, his lasting  legacy  will be the delivery of such unforgettable moments, whether it was Natwest 2002, World T20 2007, or World Cup 2011. There are very few sights in world cricket as pleasing as Yuvraj Singh with his trademark shuffle and beautiful backlift, getting to the pitch of the ball and effortlessly caressing it through covers for a boundary. Seemingly a gentle, almost lazy push, the ball would fly past the infield and no fielder had the audacity to move a muscle. They had the  privilege  of stan...

I f you are a crazy rich Indian with frequent flier points that can get you on to any flight you desire, the best place to watch a  World Cup  game is undoubtedly Lord’s. If you are a city slicker, you’ll probably swipe your card and catch the match with your bros over beers in a plush SoBo watering hole. And if you are an everyday Indian, you’ll flock outside an electronic shop to-and-from work to get an update on the game. But let me commit a cardinal sin here (almost like stating that  MS Dhoni  should not be called out for “lack of intent”): The best place to watch a cricket match in India is not a stadium or a pub, it’s a men’s salon.   By men’s  salon , I don’t mean those big, branded franchises where your barber is more qualified than you, and you call him a stylist, not a hajaam. I’m talking about that dingy cornershop near your house, which has posters of  Salman Khan  from  Tere Naam  plastered on the walls, towels drying o...

I am a  liberal  and I am alarmed at your choices, India. I cannot recognise you anymore. You have ushered in the dark days of democracy. Why did you vote for Modi? A vote for  Narendra Modi  is a vote for hate. A vote for Modi is a vote for a Hindu Rashtra. A vote for Modi is a vote for a regressive and backward India. A vote for the Trinamool is not a vote for a dictatorial Mamata Banerjee. A vote for the Congress is not a vote for a riot-accused  Kamal Nath . A vote for the Samajwadi Party is not a vote for dynasty. A vote for the BSP is not a vote for a corrupt Mayawati. But every single vote for BJP, regardless of the candidate or the rationale behind the vote, is a vote for Pragya Thakur. The poor in the village might have voted for the BJP because he probably got access to electricity, water, or toilets. The urban youth might have voted for BJP in the hope that he might get a job. Maybe those living in  Naxal -affected Chhattisgarh voted for ...

M y mother and father both studied in Gujarati-medium schools, but made it their life’s mission to enroll me in a private  English-medium  school. The end product of that is a  Gujarati  who can neither read nor write in his mother tongue, and is labelled “angrez ki aulaad”   every time he has to read a signboard in the language of his forefathers. I can never forget the image of my father beaming with pride after my application to the prestigious Holy Cross Convent  School  in Mira Road was accepted, in the mid ’90s. Even in that era, when an English education would seem routine to most of my peers, I was the first in our family to go to an English-medium school and everyone was excited. They couldn’t wait to hear all the fancy  English  words, phrases, and sentences I would be speaking at home soon – my parents might have been more excited when I said “A for Apple” than they were when I said my first words. My English education was th...