Dear Men in Blue - II

Dear Men in Blue,

First of all, congratulations on your uber-achievement. You've been awesome. I know you've done it for me after my sincere pledge Friday night. I know many others have made similar requests to you over the past 28 years, and you did respond to all of them yesterday night.

However, this letter is not about them. This is about myself. Selfish individuals like me have hardly ever cared about others, you see.

I was maniacal on Facebook, just like the semifinal. I was baffled at Sreesanth being picked and Mendis being dropped. I was amazed at Mahela's brilliance, Gautam's diligence and Dhoni's incredible sense of occasion. I was confused at Sanga's handling of The Great Spinner.

However, when your leader (who, I repeat, is the greatest our nation has ever produced), after leading the chase like a true champion, started dishing out the final blows to the hapless Lankans, my posts got fewer and fewer in number, and in the end, I became numb. I mean, I remember the final six, I remember by brother yelling, I remember the huge roar on the telly and from outside the window, I remember my mother smiling, but I also remember myself not reacting.

How does one react to such occasions, Men in Blue? I was brought up on world cup eliminations at various stages over the years, and my reactions varied from anger to grief to despair to trauma to heartbreak. I had, over a quarter of a century, trained my brain to react to defeats and acceptance of the fact that we shall always be eliminated.

But elation? Victory? How does one react to that, Men in Blue? A part of me wanted to yell in triumph. A part of me wanted to cry out loud. A part of me wanted to pour my heart out in cyberspace. A part of me wanted to get high.

But I did none of that. I simply got inside a shell. I sat silently. I stared vacantly at the TV screen. I saw Yuvraj cry. I saw Harbhajan cry. I wanted to join them in their tears, but nothing came out. Honestly. I couldn't speak. I simply saw Shastri hand the medallions, and then the cup to you. I saw you celebrate, and take the lap.

I sat there like a zombie. Just sat there, and did nothing. My brain was clogged. I had visions of 1987 when I had cried in the bathroom. I had visions of my despair at your elimination in all the world cups I had seen. I just couldn't react, you know. I just wanted to consume, to devour, to swallow every moment of your celebration with my thirsty eyes.

Then I heard the bands and the roars and the processions and the crackers outside. I walked out. I just had to. But even then, I couldn't join in. Random cars and motorcycles and pedestrians, clad proudly in the tricolour, drinking in public and celebrating like insane, passed by me. I was the only static entity on the sidewalk. They waved at me, yelled at me, gestured high-fives and thumbs-ups at me as they passed by me. I smiled weakly and gestured back like some strange doll.

Minutes passed by. I called and texted a few friends, but there was no life in them. All I wanted was to be with someone who has borne the same amount of pain I had been through since 1987, and had felt the same level of satisfaction as I did at that moment after a wait that long and after being that loyal.

I returned home. And then, I had the most peaceful of slumbers. I had a dreamless sleep after a long time.

I woke up today morning, you see. And still that outburst didn't come. I can assure you that things are happening inside me, Men in Blue. There are multiple emotions at war with each other, competing with each other to come out and failing miserably. I have still not yelled or leapt or cried out loud to celebrate.

Forgive me, Men in Blue. I have failed you. I didn't react to your success the way the others have. I should possibly have gone out, celebrating in alcohol and gulaal and face paint and tricolour and celebrated and partied till dawn. I didn't. Forgive me for acting like such a moron when the entire nation has been celebrating. Maybe I just didn't love you enough, Men in Blue. Maybe the victory didn't mean as much to me as it had to others. Maybe I do not care for you or the game as much. Maybe I didn't crave for this moment as much.

But there's something else to this story as well, you know. Last night, as I pulled up the sheet to cover myself, I realised that if I breathed my last that moment, it would be one of the most satisfactory and peaceful deaths ever in the history of mankind. That's the best I can do for you, Men in Blue. A life whose consciousness began with the dreams of your triumph; and one that I'd be happy to end as you have achieved that.

Take my life, Men in Blue. You have achieved for me what I had wanted out of my life. There's nothing to look forward to any more after The Ultimate Triumph. Whatever happens to me now, however bad, let it be a terminal disease or a death of a dear one or bankruptcy, no one can take away the fact from me that I have witnessed a world cup triumph of yours, just like my previous generation.

Still no outburst, Men in Blue. Maybe some day I shall, at some lesser incident. This one, I suppose, has dug too deep inside. Pardon me for my limited vocabulary and writing skills. I really cannot express what you've done for me yesterday night. Believe me, I'm being honest here.

Your unworthy, possibly even ungrateful fan,
Abhishek.