Indian Talent, Global Content
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The Interpretation
'Once more you cite Dravid to make your point and that will really be the last nail in this...,' she faded herself out, nursing a rising storm on the inside but careful not to let it reflect in the sound waves that carried her voice. But did they carry...? ... As far as him? 6 feet away, on the French window again, not smoking that cigarette, the stub wet from 15 minutes of moisture off his lips. She knew that moisture; she couldn't erase those marks on her neck, just under her ear; not from her memories, the only place where it still hurt. Rahul, much like his namesake was the 'Wall of Defence'. His defence was silence. An unnerving silence, a calm silence; though she could shake from the tremors it raked up inside his quaking body. She smiled unknowingly for a brief second... and then at the thought that followed, she let that smile linger, evidently; knowing that he would not climb his wall to inquire as to the origins of her smile. Her second thought was we're so alike. I don't let my emotions break the frequency of my sound waves; he doesn't let his unbearable silence bear on the skin of his body. We're so alike! Aren't we? His thoughts echoed hers; one mind apart; but if only those echoes could travel. They would bring his wall down. They would break her fall down. They would... but they didn't. 'What about it then? You know just as well as I do where that resolute defence comes from. He chokes himself up. You told me that once and I quote verbatim, “he suffocates on his own negativity so much that the world could not touch him with a bargepole of light. He digs his own grave and then lies under it until the rain washes away an inch of ground.” Didn't you say that? Then why Rahul? Every time we do this, we are eroding the ground we stand upon. Why...' His face has only turned a fraction of a degree, but she caught it. Well caught! He thought - like Dravid in the slips, on any given Sunday. He smiled this time. It vanished as soon as it appeared. 'The body speaks just as loud as words. Does mine not speak to you? Are you listening?' He didn't want her to answer as soon as he finished saying those words. ‘Do you think we should…,’ she shook her head with the lightness of a feather, which knows exactly where it’s travelling and uses the air only to float through. The last swing of the shake, he recognised, was inertia. Are we running on it too, maybe that is why we’re running out on power? She broke the run of thoughts, ‘so I’ll call him?!’ He nodded. She had a way with rhetoric; she could make it sound like a genuine question without compromising on an iota of assertion. Not that she masked it, she was too honest for that; but she had a rare talent to inflect the tone just so there was still the right dose of question in it. He had always analogised that to Rahul Dravid’s back foot defensive shot to the short pitched delivery; the one where he would instinctively take the lower hand off the bat so the ball would hit it and fall to the ground like a bird hitting a wall, or on a less sadistic note, a ball of wet sponge hitting it. It wasn’t that he was inept at the pull shot, but Dravid being Dravid, the gentleman cricketer, would respect the bowler’s effort as well. Here, his thoughts raced ahead of him lighting up a Gestaltan inference; wasn’t he of the opinion that Dravid was submerged by his own technique? That if only he had the improvisational ability of a Sehwag or a Yuvraj, his game wouldn’t come at the cost of his technique, but it would become the strength of it? Backward deploying that inference to her… ‘I’m not perfect. Neither is this but I know I want to give this everything. I don’t want to let it go in the hope of something better that might come along. I don’t want the option of a one-dayer and I don’t want the adrenaline and money of T-20. I want this test match. ’ Her frequency perfectly clear, her pitch perfect, the intonation as if set to the ‘exact’ settings by best sound designer in the business, coming through a digital filter in her sound box, which read and understood the intended emotive expression and delivered the right calibration to the sound output. It wasn’t so calculated in its source; only in the output. Pitch a good length ball outside off stump and watch how his foot comes to it, the back arches, the bat comes down at just the right moment and after connecting, the back foot stays parallel to the ground for a second allowing for follow through, eyes steady on the ball, coursing through to the ropes, sans a fielder in the deep. It was not calculated every time; it was delivered by instinct; by years of practise, which made it second nature. That was her. She cared, she was the mother, the child, the friend, the lover, the mistress, the muse, the wife, if ever there were to be one… why shouldn’t there be one? Was he too un-Dravid-like to accept the inevitability of a test match career? Did he only want the one-days and more so the T-20s? Was he fickle, was he a fiddle? His head tilted and she saw it there. That look! His eyes would turn soft, kind, gentle. He would look at her like that for short moments; lying naked in her arms, as much like her child as her lover, as a father – all three looking with wonderment into the eyes that gave a reason to be better, to be worthwhile, to be meaningful, to come home. She wasn’t romantic enough to live for it; real people didn’t live for those things. But they lived by it. These little knick-knacks kept them together. Maybe they read lines on blank paper, but then what is life, if not the result of an interpretation! They looked at each other at the same moment. Suddenly, the buzzing whirlwind of random, directionless, molecular thoughts froze. There was silence. There was coherence. There was clarity. There was comprehension. There was unison; in the physical and the cerebral. The interpretation had yielded a singular action yet again.
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