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sirenjose · 4 months

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Analysis of Ganji Gupta

Ganji was born in India during a time when Britain still ruled over it.

Britain came to India after a sea route connecting Europe to India was found, and Britain initially came due to the economic prospects of trade, but eventually this turned into the desire to acquire territory.

The British presence in India began with the establishment of the British East India Company (the British government having no authority over them at this time). Initially, the focus was trade and acquiring goods such as silk, cotton, spices, and more. Trading posts were established and British communities developed, but eventually they started to meddle in Indian politics and transformed from a trading company to a ruling one. It was at this point that the British attitude towards Indians degenerated (a sense of superiority vs inferiority formed, biased views regarding non-western cultures arose, British disdain increased, and so on). Racism, frustration from the British forcing their own way of doing things (including the English language) on them, policies benefiting the British, and so on contributed to the Indian Rebellion of 1857 (aka Revolt of 1857, First War of Independence, or Sepoy Mutiny).

As a result of this rebellion, the British East India Company was replaced by the British Raj, which was when the British Government took direct control from the East India Company, with Queen Victoria later proclaimed Empress of India. Britain continued to focus on profit and change beneficial to themselves, which led to subjugation and exploitation, and their views of Indians did not improve (still viewed themselves as superior, believed in stereotypes as well as believed Indians were in need of British guidance and governance to civilize them and bring them modernity).

This background is important for Ganji as it is clear this is what he experienced, especially due to Ganji’s 1st letter.

Ganji we know grew up with a talent for cricket, which was the “British national sport”.

His 2nd deduction implies he was a “prodigy”, with many people who knew him recommending him to participate in the regions “open tournament”. We know from Ganji’s trailer that he received “Love, Happiness, Hope and Pride” from playing cricket, showing how much he enjoyed the sport and how much it meant to him.

According to this same deduction, combined with Ganji’s backstory, we knew he was a “kind, obedient, and friendly” person, “mild-mannered” (aka gentle and not given to extremes of emotion, which is curious considering later on in Ganji’s story), quiet, and well-behaved. One of Ganji’s backstories states this event (where he was recommended to participate in the Open) took place when he was 16 years old.

During this competition, we know he was skilled enough to earn 12 consecutive wins. The next game after those 12 was a semi-final with the British Royal team. It does not say if Ganji won or lost that match, nor if he won the competition in general, but we do know he was skilled enough to receive an invitation from the Royal team to join them and an offer to help him train. As the deduction uses the word “exception” and applauds him for his performance, I’m assuming he did manage to at least defeat the British team and could’ve won the competition too, but it’s impossible to say for sure right now.

We do know that Ganji saw this invitation as a “good chance” and he “looked forward to a better future”. As a result, he left India with the British Royal team, where he stayed at the Queen’s Guard’s manor. Unfortunately for Ganji, it isn’t until he has arrived that he realizes the truth: “he discovered that no one here cared about him at all, and that he was just a toy that was called away for entertainment when the Guard had a little fun. No one knew where he came from, and no one had seen his family. He was struggling alone in this strange place”.

This was echoed in Ganji’s trailer, which says: “Yet when I was brought here I finally realized, These gentlemen simply needed a proper toy to play with. The funny thing is they were far from gentlemanly themselves. All they longed for were our submission and servitude”.

The terms “submission and servitude” tell us how Ganji was treated while in Britain at the Queen’s Guard’s manor. This is further emphasized by Ganji’s deduction 5, which states Ganji was only given 1 day to train, while 2 others (Oliver and Willie) were given 3 days to train. As that deduction says, despite how Ganji hoped for a better future from this opportunity, the “other sided” ended up only being a “mirage”.

Considering Ganji’s earlier invitation and how he is now being treated combined with only being given 1 training day, it seems the British didn’t want Ganji to be outstanding, which potentially could relate to the feelings of superiority discussed earlier. They didn’t want to feel inferior to someone like Ganji, and thus could further explain why they didn’t give him much training time. In the trailer, we see him picking up balls, and if this was all he was allowed to do, that’d further hurt his ability to train and improve. Lastly, Ganji was only allowed to train on Sundays, and back then, this was seen in Britain as a day of rest, when people didn’t work. This could’ve included cricket as well (there are instances of people being prosecuted for playing cricket on Sunday), which shows how much the Royal team tried to hinder Ganji’s ability to train, meaning he likely wasn’t being trained very professionally.

(If the room we see Ganji in before the fire in his trailer is the one he was given upon arriving at the manor, the state of the room could further show how the Royal Team felt about Ganji. The only identifiable items in the room are the cricket ball, as cricket is what he enjoys, and a blurry picture that we can see Ganji in, which could potentially have been of his home and thus ties to his desire to return to it.)

This fits with Ganji’s design notes which say “his social status and the agenda of politicians did not allow him to have obvious extraordinary talent”. It is because of this the design notes say Ganji’s gentle personality was forced to change into “a personality that takes strong measures to fight against fate”. (It is also right after this that it mentions Ganji being “manic”.)

Going to Ganji’s 1st letter, it further reveals how people thought and felt about Ganji and others like him. The part where the author says they need to “take the lead so that the rest of us may get the chance to educate the foolish” fits with how we earlier discussed the British felt they had to govern and civilize the people of India for their own good. This is emphasized with how later the letter says “If it weren't for your insight, he would have spent his life in the mud without ever being touched by the empire's light” and Ganji getting “the chance to lead a civilized life”.

This letter describes Ganji as a “gift” with his “only desirable qualities” being his “average cricket skills and humble personality”. Their sense of superiority is clear hear considering they call Ganji’s skills “average”, yet we know he was talented considering he at least managed to receive 12 consecutive wins in the competition, while the comment about Ganji being “humble” could tie in to how Ganji in his trailer says they just wanted “our submission and servitude”.

Despite how badly Ganji was treated, the one exception was the son of the owner of the Queen’s Guard’s manor. We know he was friendly to Ganji based on Ganji’s deduction 6, which is title “relieved” and shows that the kid thought Ganji was “brilliant” and asked Ganji to play with him. It is possible Ganji is the one who feels “relieved”, and that could be due to actually finding someone friendly in this place. In the JP and CN versions, it potentially has the kid use the term “big brother” for Ganji, so altogether, the kid was likely being honest about his feeling regarding Ganji’s skills and honestly just wanting a real playmate (rather than a toy like the others saw Ganji as).

In this same deduction, it mentions a “well-made board” that has Ganji’s name carved in it. As this is the deduction that involves the son of the manor owner of the Queen’s Guard, it is possible this board was a gift from that kid, and that board may have actually been a bat for cricket.

Going back to Ganji’s 1st letter, it mentions a “Duke Elgin” and a “Viscount”. Based on the mention of “the Viscount’s prominent father” and how this Viscount “demanded” Ganji to “take classes with him instead of just playing cricket with him”, it’s possible the “Viscount” could be the son of the owner of the Queen’s Guard’s manor. We know this boy asked Ganji to play cricket with him due to how cool and talented he thought Ganji was, so it could also fit he might also ask Ganji to take classes and spend other time with him. I’d like to imagine Ganji enjoyed spending time with the boy, as taking classes and playing cricket with him was likely much better than being treated as a toy by the others or languishing along in his poor room.

Ganji continues to play cricket, despite his anger, though he does form a relationship with this boy. If Ganji was 16 during the Open when he was invited to join the Royal Team, and Ganji is at least 21 in game (as he can drink Demi’s dovlin), he was likely subjected to the mistreatment of the Royal Team and owner of the Queen’s Guard’s manor for a fair number of years at least. As we know, he was never able to meet his family while he was at that manor and he was forced to “struggle alone in this strange place”. The “last straw” came one day when he received news “bad news” about his hometown, with his deduction 7 saying he’d received a letter saying “Go home and save them!”

It is soon after this that a fire breaks out and burns down the manor of the Queen’s Guard. The only survivor was the owner’s son and Ganji.

This is also the same time that in his backstory trailer it says “Stop being nice to everyone. I need a new identity. I want to go home. Perhaps that is the only place where there's still hope”.

This matches with Ganji’s last deduction, which is “a letter to home” that he wrote to his mother, saying that “everything’s fine with me. I’m coming home soon”.

Right after the fire starts in one of his backstories, it says Ganji became a “manic patient, often falling into uncontrollable irritability”, so it seems the fire and around this time is when he is first said to be manic. His deduction 9 has a diagnosis saying “Mania, easily irritated. Avoid looking at fire. Suggest locking all windows and doors and staying at home alone”. It is because of his worsening mania that is says people stayed away from him and called him a “thug”, but Ganji only cared about going home.

Once again returning to Ganji’s 1st letter, the end of it talks about getting info on Ganji’s “hometown and the extraordinary spice extraction”. The mention of spices fits our earlier discussion on Britain’s interest in India in part for its spices. This info about Ganji’s home and spice extraction is apparently helpful to whoever this “sir” is and an “upcoming mission” he will be going on. This same “sir” is apparently someone responsible for the idea to bring Ganji to England (though for now I’m thinking he isn’t the Queen’s Guard’s manor owner, who I think is the Viscount’s father).

Considering the talk about Ganji’s hometown and the obvious interest in its “spice extraction”, this could mean this “sir” is someone behind whatever “bad news” came from Ganji’s hometown, and likely the “bad news” and “upcoming mission” had to do with their clear interest in its spices. And if they wanted info on Ganji’s hometown, that could mean one of the few reasons they invited Ganji over was for that info so they could exploit his hometown for the “spice extraction”.

(One side note about Ganji’s 1st letter, but in the CN and JP versions, it says this “Sir” is someone who is recovering their health in “Delhi”, which further shows it’s not the owner of the Queen’s Guard’s manor, who we know was in Britain. It’s possible, if this is someone capable of going on missions and is mentioned regarding “we need… people like you to take the lead” that this “sir” is someone higher up in the government regarding rule of India, who could order a mission to Ganji’s home for it’s ��spice extraction”).

Next is Ganji’s 2nd letter, which unlike his 1st (which happens before the fire) his 2nd happens after the fire. We hear he tried to board a freighter. Likely he was attempting to stowaway to return home, but he was caught and taken away by someone working for Duke Elgin. Ganji was placed in a detention center, where he was examined. They mention a “strange scar on his forehead”, which potentially came from the fire that burned down the Queen’s Guard’s manor. We do see Ganji with the owner’s son while the fire burns the manor, so if he had to go in to rescue him, that could have been when.

Considering how they say Ganji, besides his scar, seems “as strong as ever” to me kind of feels like they’re still talking about him like an object or one of their possessions.

After this, the letter mentions how Ganji would be “quiet during the day” but would go “mad” at night, with him “either holding his head between his hands while slamming it against the wall with a pained expression plastered across his face or attempted to snatch the candles used by the guards to keep the place lit up. He only settled down once we locked him in the darkness of the dungeon. But once the next day arrived, he was back to normal again”. It was due to this behavior that the author states he went to purchase “strong sedatives” (to be used on Ganji if he went out of control). During this time while the author was away, Ganji was able to escape despite the guards around him. Despite this, the author believes Ganji will return as they still had several of his possessions, including “medical records, an invitation, and that "treasure" of his.

It says the part with the signature had been “burned off”. If Ganji was messing with candle fire while in the detention center, it’s possible he did something similar to this letter if he got ahold of it (unless it’s nothing important).

The mentioned “treasure” is likely the note from home that reads “Come home, child”. Considering it says “child”, there’s a chance this could’ve been written by his mother. We know Ganji’s written to her himself before, so him receiving correspondence from her would make sense.

Another treasure we know Ganji owns is his accessory Cozy Fleece, which is a sheep toy “given to Ganji when he was young” and said to be “one of the several treasures in his luggage”. This was likely another item given to Ganji by his mother, when he was still home, and thus why he treasures it. Another potential treasure could be Ganji’s bansuri accessory, which has the description that mentions its music helps to recall his hometown.

As for the medical records, it says that the patient is suffering “severe homesickness” and displays “impulsive behavior during times of extreme depression or anxiety”. This means that Ganji’s “mania” is caused by his “severe homesickness” in moments when he’s suffering from “extreme depression or anxiety”. That could mean, with Ganji already being homesick for years before the day the fire started, Ganji’s “last straw” when he received bad news about his hometown now makes sense why the fire likely started then. That “bad news” triggered his anxiety and severe homesickness, depressed him when he realized he was stuck at this manor with no quick way home, before then making him impulsive and “manic” in his desire to go home as soon as possible. Whether or not it was on purpose or an accident, it is possible one of his “impulses” resulted in the fire starting, or a confrontation that triggered his irritation causes it to accidentally begin. Maybe a bit of sanity returned to him afterwards, and that could be when he rescued the boy as we see him with the boy during the fire in Ganji’s trailer. But for now, information is scant on the specifics of this event.

Potentially after escaping detainment could be when we see him living by himself like in his other backstories. It’s possible he was in hiding from those that had captured him. We don’t know for sure whether he returned to them for his treasure (it’s possible with how important his note from his mom likely was). We know from Ganji’s backstory that it says he “lived in a cold room with little furniture for years” and “seldom stepped outside during the year”. He had no friends, always looked solemn, and people found it “difficult to get to know him”. Ganji is described as “peculiar and lonely”, and someone his neighbors “loved to gossip about”.

His backstory mentions “random loud noises coming from his room”, which could tie to the behavior he displayed at night in the detention center, when he’d hit his head against a wall.

Regarding Ganji hiding in his room all the time, this connects back to his deduction 9, the diagnosis that suggested “locking all windows and doors and staying at home alone”.

The part about “avoid looking at fire” implies, whether or not he did it and whether it was on purpose or accident, it implies he’d been deeply affected by the fire that burned down the manor. Maybe because of all the feelings (and irritation) he had from how long he spent there, being mistreated and never being allowed to train. Maybe because of the boy he’d formed a relationship too and how this fire took away his home and family, just like Ganji was without his home and family. Maybe any conflict he had if he was somewhat responsible, whether accidentally or on purpose, as his trailer does mention wanting those “gentlemen to repent for their sins” but also because this was a place he’d had such high hopes for regarding his future and now it’s turning to ashes, as well as was a place he’d suffered alone, away from his family, for a long time, but more conflict because Ganji was deep down still a “kind” person (and maybe regretted not saving more people, or regretted if he had a fit of anger and its consequences that day that causes all these events). Just another boy, like the son of the owner of the Queen’s Guard crying at the sight of his home on fire, that was crying out for his family and home as it was threatened or attacked but Ganji unable to do anything about it.

The backstory continues by saying he kept his appearance “hidden” whenever he went out, which could relate to if he was in hiding from the people who’ve been trying to capture him in his letters, or to the mistreatment he potentially receives if people knew where he was from, or to hide the scars on his face from people if he knew how they’d react upon seeing it (as they did describe his face as “horrifying”). It also fits with how his trailer said he needed a “new identity”.

Despite how they treated him, Ganji was said to give “softly spoken words of appreciation to the neighbors’ trivial kindness”, which seems to connect to Ganji’s original personality (as he was described as kind, friendly, and mild-mannered before he came to Britain).

Others debated the reason for Ganji’s behavior, suggesting “regret” (tied to the fire that ended his training with the Royal Team, as other people wouldn’t know the full truth about his feelings towards the Royal Team) or “cautiousness” (from living in a foreign country). Unfortunately for Ganji, everyone decided that Ganji had “a lot of secrets” and “might bring trouble to the town and decided to stay away from him”.

The last thing we hear about Ganji is he still dreamt of returning home, and eventually received an invitation from the manor, offering a “huge reward”, enough for Ganji to use to go home, and he “decided to take the risk”.

Side note regarding Duke Elgin.

I couldn’t find any “Duke” Elgin, but I did find an “Earl” of Elgin. The 9th Earl of Elgin, Victor Bruce, was the Viceroy of India.

I don’t think this is the exact same “Duke Elgin” but it could be a basis for the character (for Netease when designing this).

These were individuals appointed by the British monarch. They represented the British government in India and exercised authority over British India on behalf of the British crown. Victor Bruce served as Viceroy during 1894-1899m which was a particularly troubled period in Indi’s history, and his tenure was not seen as a successful one. During his administration, there was economic and social unrest, a famine, bubonic plague, and the Tirah campaign (Afridi Frontier Rising). This campaign took place in Northwest India and involved the British seeking to restore control over the area after an uprising occurred (with 1 of the challenges they faced being the mountainous terrain).

I don’t think this is exactly where Ganji is from, but this event, as well as all the other issues occurring at the time, could relate to or be a sort of basis (to Netease) for whatever did actually happen to Ganji’s hometown.

Apparently the “bansuri” is a flute connected to north Indian music (with the venu being connected to the south), which could mean (with how the Tirah Campaign happened in the Northwest) Ganji could be from somewhere in the North part of India.

#idv #identity v #ganji gupta #batter #idv ganji #identity v ganji #idv batter #identity v batter #sirenjose analyses and theories

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msclaritea · 1 year

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The British Empire Was Much Worse Than You Realize | The New Yorker

March 28, 2022

A red lion from the British royal coat of arms holding a globe.

Liberal imperialism, Caroline Elkins argues, gained resilience from its ability to absorb and neutralize objections. Illustration by Ben Jones

"At the height of the British Empire, just after the First World War, an island smaller than Kansas controlled roughly a quarter of the world’s population and landmass. To the architects of this colossus, the largest empire in history, each conquest was a moral achievement. Imperial tutelage, often imparted through the barrel of an Enfield, was delivering benighted peoples from the errors of their ways—child marriage, widow immolation, headhunting. Among the edifiers was a Devonshire-born rector’s son named Henry Hugh Tudor. Hughie, as he was known to Winston Churchill and his other chums, pops up so reliably in colonial outposts with outsized body counts that his story can seem a “Where’s Waldo?” of empire.

He’s Churchill’s garrison-mate in Bangalore in 1895—a time of “messes and barbarism,” the future Prime Minister complained in a note to his mum. As the century turns, Tudor is battling Boers on the veldt; then it’s back to India, and on to occupied Egypt. Following a decorated stint as a smoke-screen artist in the trenches of the First World War, he’s in command of a gendarmerie, nicknamed Tudor’s Toughs, that opens fire in a Dublin stadium in 1920—an assault during a search for I.R.A. assassins which leaves dozens of civilians dead or wounded. Prime Minister David Lloyd George delights in rumors that Tudor’s Toughs were killing two Sinn Féinners for every murdered loyalist. Later, even the military’s chief of staff marvelled at how nonchalantly the men spoke of those killings, tallying them up as though they were runs in a cricket match; Tudor and his “scallywags” were out of control. It didn’t matter: Churchill, soon to be Secretary of State for the Colonies, had Tudor’s back.

Imperial subjects, of course, sometimes found their own solutions to such problems. A hard-line British field marshal, atop the I.R.A. hit list, was gunned down in Belgravia in 1922. Tudor, worried he would be next, made himself scarce. By the following year, he and his Irish paramilitaries were propagating their tactics for suppressing natives in the British-controlled Mandate of Palestine, Churchill having decided that the violence-prone Tudor was just the fellow to train the colonial police. A letter from Tudor to Churchill that I recently came across crystallizes all the insouciance, cynicism, greed, callousness, and errant judgment of empire. He opens by telling Churchill that he’s just commanded his troops to slaughter Adwan Bedouins who had been marching on Amman to protest high taxes levied on them by their notoriously extravagant emir. This tribe was “invariably friendly to Great Britain,” Tudor writes, a touch ruefully. But, he adds, “politics are not my affair.”

Tudor had cheery news to impart, too. Not only could the Mandate be a “wonderful tourist country,” but prospectors had discovered vast sums’ worth of potash in the Dead Sea valley. Should Britain appropriate the resources and increase the policing budget, its difficulties in the region would “smooth out,” he told Churchill, assuring him that Palestinians would be easier to pacify than the Irish: “They are a different people, and it’s unlikely that the Arab if handled firmly will ever do much more than agitate and talk.”

In the twentieth century’s hierarchy of state-sponsored violence, Hitler’s Germany, Stalin’s Russia, and Hirohito’s Japan typically take top spots. The actions of a few European empires have invited harsh scrutiny, too—Belgium’s conduct in Congo, France’s in Algeria, and Portugal’s in Angola and Mozambique. Britain is rarely seen as among the worst offenders, given a reputation for decency that the Harvard historian Caroline Elkins has spent more than two decades trying to undermine. “Legacy of Violence” (Knopf), her astringent new history of the British Empire, brings detailed context to individual stories like Tudor’s. Visiting archives in a dozen countries over four continents, examining hundreds of oral histories, and drawing on the work of social historians and political theorists, Elkins traces the Empire’s arc across centuries and theatres of crisis. As the sole imperial power that remained a liberal democracy throughout the twentieth century, Britain claimed to be distinct from Europe’s colonial powers in its commitment to bringing rule of law, enlightened principles, and social progress to its colonies. Elkins contends that Britain’s use of systematic violence was no better than that of its rivals. The British were simply more skilled at hiding it."

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popquizhot-shot · 2 years

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Six!

Summary: It's India vs England. World Cup.

It's canon that Steven loves cricket, so here's a blurb for all my desi girls<3 I'm a hyderabadi telugu-speaking person, so this is going to have hindi and telugu in it okay? Translations next to the words, beware we have some swears

tagging: @whatagaydumbass @luvsersi @messers-moony-lupin @just-laufeyson

"Babe, don't you think you're overdoing this?" Steven gestured to the face paint and jersey you were wearing.

"What do you mean? Steven, it's the World Cup, it's a huge deal! Come on, it's starting!" you exclaim, patting the sofa as he sits down, stunned at this new side of you.

"All right." he sits next to you and kisses your temple.

"I can't believe we're watching cricket." Marc groans from the mirror.

"Shut up Marc." Steven replied, eyes glued to the screen.

-------

"YES! HELL YES, VADA PAV YOU ABSOLUTE TREASURE!" you scream as the skipper hits a six.

"Who the hell is 'Va-da pa'?" Steven asks, immensely confused.

"Rohit Sharma, bubba." you kiss his cheek.

"But why do you call him Vada Pav?"

"It's his nickname, love. Look at the TV."

---

"PICCHODA!(idiot, dumb fellow) WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOU DUMB IDIOT, WHY ARE YOU EVEN IN THE TEAM?"

Steven and Marc both watched you, stunned. You were normally so sweet, and to hear their sweet girl shout profanities in a rage was scary. And a bit endearing but that's not the point right now.

"I love her." Marc grins as you hit your forehead in exasperation.

"Yeah, I know, mate." Steven keeps his eyes glued on you, concerned.

------

"Go, go, go, go, go come on, Bhuvi get him out it's the last wicket come one, get him out get him-YES! JUST YES, GOD WE'RE CHUTNEY'ING YOU GUYS." you shriek in happiness and whistle as India wins the match and Steven groans.

"We just thrashed you guys." you laugh as you fall back onto the sofa next to Steven.

"Yeah. You did." Steven replies, his eyes soft, "I've never seen you so hyper like this. I love it. Marc does too."

"Aw thanks, bubba. I love you, and Marc too." you prop yourself up on one elbow and kiss his cheek, letting your head fall onto his chest.

"Chuntey'ed you guys." you murmur.

"Sorry, what?" Steven asks.

"Love you guys." you smile innocently.

this is so not my best work, but hope you like it<3 please comment and reblog<3

#steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant fluff #marc spector fluff #moon knight #marc spector x you #steven grant x desi!reader #desi!reader #desiblr #steven grant #marc spector

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megumi-fm · 5 months

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19th Nov || day114/150 ICC Men's Championship brainrot

Personal

👟 lots and lots of walking 🌱 breakfast and picnic with friends 🥛 water [6/6]

I didn't get any work done so im not sure how reasonable this is to include this in my 150dop list but lucky for me I make the rules so I'm adding it in here. I think i would like this post with my other dop posts because sometimes productivity is about goal setting and inspiration and I think I learnt/realized something very valuable from watching the Cricket World Cup this year (brainrot under the cut)

I come from a family, a community, a country obsessed with cricket, so it's no surprise that when our team makes it to the finals, we all stay home to watch, hoping, praying, eagerly awaiting the trophy. To add to it all, the matches were held here, at home ground, and we had won by huge margins up until the finals. I could go on about what a bummer yesterday's match was or how most members of our team would be retired by the time the next world cup comes around so they'll never get this close to victory again or the emotional outrage of the nation as a whole but you know what? I actually want to talk about the Australian Men's Cricket Team.

Australia is one of the most successful teams in one day international cricket so far, winning 6 out of 13 total world cups, and being the only team to win a championship in every region the game has been played in. They are frustrating to play against, and from the moment we realized that they might get qualified for the finals, a lot of us started panicking.

Unlike India, Australia did not start the tournament with a win streak. They weren't used to the pitch of our stadiums and it affected their first couple games. Their first match was against India and their second match was against South Africa (for which they were heavily criticized for their poor fielding) and they lost both by huge margins. But once they started getting the hang of the game on our grounds, they were performing immensely better. They won every match since their third, steadily improving on all aspects of their game.

I wasn't paying too much attention to their team until two games before their finals when they were playing against Afghanistan. The latter had put up a good score in their first innings and Australia was struggling to keep up in the second, only to end up losing a lot of wickets. The score was 91-7 and it really seemed like they were gonna lose because all their strong batsmen were out except for Glenn Maxwell.

At this point things started to take a turn. Afghanistan started getting overconfident or overeager or something and it was showing in their messy fielding and dropped catches. To add to that, Glenn Maxwell was hitting phenomenal shots left and right. Despite struggling with horrible muscle cramps (to the point where he kind of convulsed and fell to the ground in the middle of the game), Maxwell refused to leave the ground and he singlehandedly managed to score 200 runs, winning Australia the match that would qualify them for the semi-finals. The crowd loved him, we cheered him on as he hit the winning shot.

It was at this point that something hit me, something that I kind of knew subconsciously about Aus but was never able to pinpoint- the hunger. In every subsequent game i noticed how they played- with so much eagerness for the game, like every ball was their last. And while they have phenomenal batsmen and bowlers, their true hunger for the game was revealed in their fielding. They run behind the ball even when it seems long gone, they sprint like athletes to block boundaries and dive in for catches and run outs. It's the one thing that sets their game apart compared to every other team- that hunger, that eagerness. Finals or otherwise, they have their eyes locked in on the ball, and they do everything in their power to learn how to play it in a way that works best for them.

(Also can we talk about David Warner for a second- this man is 36 and lunges towards the ball at such batshit speeds, bringing down opponent scores by 20 or more runs every time. He is easily one of the best fielders in world cup cricket)

So when Australia was facing off South Africa yet again (this time in the Semi-Finals), they were leagues ahead of where they were when they started, and winning almost came easy. And as for the finals against India, the minute Travis Head ran and dove onto the ground like a maniac to get his hands under the ball and get Rohit Sharma out, a lot of us had realized it. Australia was taking home the world cup yet again.

(oh and Travis Head also went on to score 137 runs in the second innings and won player of the match. What a phenomenal cricketer)

So yeah. A success story through and through, thoroughly inspiring that Aus learnt from their two losses and turned them into massive wins the next time. What a tournament. What a game. What a team. I aspire to be that hungry for learning, that enthusiastic to improve, and that engrossed in every task I do.

7/final 42 // like the Adidas motto, life is not a spectator sport. a question running through my mind- what makes me hungry?

#2023dop #final42 #100dop #accountability #personal

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warningsine · 6 months

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NEW DELHI, Nov 3 (Reuters) - India's capital New Delhi was wrapped in a thick layer of toxic haze on Friday and some schools were ordered closed as the air quality index (AQI) plummeted to the "severe" category.New Delhi again topped a real-time list of the world's most polluted cities compiled by Swiss group IQAir, which put the Indian capital's AQI at 640 in the "hazardous" category on Friday, followed by 335 in the Pakistani city of Lahore.Regional officials said a seasonal combination of lower temperatures, a lack of wind and crop stubble burning in neighbouring farm states had caused a spike in air pollutants.Many of New Delhi's 20 million residents complained of irritation in the eyes and itchy throats with the air turning a dense grey as the AQI hovered around 480 in some monitoring stations.An AQI of 0-50 is considered good while anything between 400-500 affects healthy people and is a danger to those with existing diseases."In my last 24 hours duty, I saw babies coughing, children coming with distress and rapid breathing," Aheed Khan, a Delhi-based doctor, said on social media platform X.There were fewer people in the city's parks such as Lodhi Garden and India Gate, popular with joggers.Residents snapped up air purifiers. One service centre for the appliances said there was a shortage of new filters and fresh stocks were expected on Monday.

Officials said they saw no immediate improvement in the air quality.

"This pollution level is here to stay for the next two to three weeks, aggravated by incidents of stubble burning, slow wind speed and cooling temperatures," said Ashwani Kumar, chairman of the Delhi Pollution Control Committee.

Farmers in the northern states of Punjab, Haryana and Uttar Pradesh typically burn crop waste after harvesting in October to clear their fields before sowing winter crops a few weeks later.

This year, attention on the worsening air quality has cast a shadow over the cricket World Cup hosted by India, with financial capital Mumbai also suffering from a spike in pollution levels.

Delhi hosts a World Cup match on Monday between Bangladesh and Sri Lanka.

A concentration of toxic PM2.5 particles, which are less than 2.5 microns in diameter and can cause deadly illness, was 53.4 times the World Health Organization's annual air quality guideline value in New Delhi on Friday, according to IQAir.

While junior schools in the capital were ordered shut for Friday and Saturday, they were open in the suburbs and children boarding school buses were forced to wear masks that had been put away since the end of the COVID-19 pandemic.

Poor air quality also caused respiratory problems, irritation in the eyes and restlessness in pet animals.

"Breathing trouble can develop into pneumonia or other ailments in younger animals. If possible, avoid taking pets out on morning walks for a few days till the air improves," said Prabhat Gangwar, a veterinarian at animal welfare NGO Friendicoes.

#delhi #india #news tag

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blackknight-100 · 9 months

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A quick Independence day story

Or, the story of how a football club became a part of Indian Nationalism.

This is not necessarily an Independence Story, but it's interesting nonetheless. Lots of Indians have watched Lagaan - the 2001 hindi film directed by Aamir Khan, where Indian farmers of Champaner had to defeat the local British in a cricket match to be exempt from three years' taxes. And while it is not a true incident, it is based heavily on the story of Mohun Bagan A.C.

Mohun Bagan A.C. is one of the oldest football clubs in India. It was founded in 1889, and quickly gained popularity in Bengal and beyond as an all-India football club at a time when the sport was dominated by the colonists.

It was not easy to set up this club - it was self-organised and self-funded, naturally, not many star players were attracted to it. Yet, it won the Cooch Behar Cup in 1904, and in the next year defended it, while simultaneously winning the Trades Cup and Gladstone Cup. In 1906, Mohun Bagan was invited to the IFA Shield, which was, until then, an All-English Football Tournament.

Mohun Bagan did not have much success in the IFA Shield. English teams were better trained, had better equipment and were well-funded. A group of dirt-poor Indians with nothing but grit and motivations could not hope to beat them. For five years, Mohun Bagan was thrashed by the english teams in IFA Shield. Scathing criticism erupted - was this Indian rabble even worthy of participating in the Tournament? It became another way in which the English looked down upon Indians.

Desperate, Mohun Bagan approached the famed 'Slippery Man' - Shibdas Bhaduri - who agreed to help them. Shibdas Bhaduri was known to be a legend - even so, not even Indians had much hope for this football club by 1911. But Mohun Bagan A.C.'s story had just begun.

Mohun Bagan won the first IFA match against St. Xavier 3 to 0, stunning critics. In the next match, despite the opposing Rangers getting 3 penalties, Mohun won 2 to 1 - a win largely accredited to goalkeeper Hiralal Mukherjee. The tides among Indian supporters began to turn. Mohun Bagan was no longer the jokester club sustained on the Englishmen's pity.

Astonishingly enough, this so-called mockery of a football club found it's way to the quarterfinals, where they thrashed the much reckoned Rifle Brigade 1 to 0. Already, Mohun had defied expectations. In the semi-finals, Mohun Bagan had a close call with a 1-1 draw against the Middlesex Regiment. That, people believed, would be the end of Mohun Bagan's blistering journey. It was not.

In the replay a few days later, Mohun Bagan swept their english counterpart 3 to 0 and blazed into the finals. By now, Mohun Bagan was no longer just a football club - it was, in essence, the representation of the struggling Indian masses. For the finals, over 60,000 people showed up at Calcutta Maidan to see their home club face the East Yorkshire Regiment.

The Indians of Mohun Bagan had shabby clothes and no shoes. The Englishmen were spick and span in their bright boots and uniforms. It was the scene of Lagaan's farmers facing-off their Englishmen.

The first few minutes of the game saw an English goal, and the next few had Mohun Bagan levelling the game. It was a 1 to 1 situation. For the next fifty-something minutes, each team tried to desperately score - the English because they had a point to prove, and the Indians because this was no longer just about football.

Two minutes before the ending, it was Bhaduri - the man, the myth, and the legend - who scored a second goal. When the whistle blew - it was Mohun Bagan's victory at 2-1. The scene beggared belief - a rag-tag rabble of barefooted Indians defeating the highly acclaimed English players. The victory did what even the Swadeshi nationalists could not - it proved that the English were not invincible. It was not a football club's victory, it was a victory of Indian nationalism. Even today, July 29th is Mohun Bagan Day in India - in memory of the club, it's desperately determined players, and of course, Shibdas Bhaduri's excellence.

(P.S.: All data about matches have been taken from Google)

#india #indians #independence day #independence day stories #mohun bagan #lagaan #desi tumblr #desiblr #happy independence day

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crictrackercricketscore · 2 months

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Financial Powerhouses: Unveiling the Richest Cricket Boards

Cricket, a sport enjoyed by billions, generates immense revenue, and at the helm of this economic landscape sit the powerful Cricket Boards. Leading the pack is the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI), boasting a staggering net worth of $2.25 billion. Following India is Cricket Australia (CA) with $79 million. Their cricket stats, including consistent performances and a strong domestic league, contribute to their wealth. England and Wales Cricket Board (ECB) and Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) follow closely, highlighting the sport's financial strength in these regions. Cricket tips from experts can inform investment decisions related to leagues and sponsorships. Understanding the financial landscape empowers fans and players to navigate the exciting world of cricket.

#cricket match #today match score #cricket scoreboard #today cricket match #india cricket #social tracker #india match #india next cricket match #cricket stats #social media tracker #cricket tips

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huwujiu · 2 years

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The Beggar

Word Count: 4.6 K

Sanjay hated India. He was Indian by birth, but had lived in the United States since the age of five and was an American citizen. He had become a wealthy entrepreneur in northern New Jersey, owner of a dozen apartment buildings, a chain of coffee shops, and two hotels. Although Hindi had been spoken in his home, he refused to speak it after the age of eight or so, and had long since forced every word of the language from his memory. He was proud to speak American English, not the clownish dialect of the Subcontinent that Western comedians loved to ridicule.

Although his parents were both reasonably devout Hindus, Sanjay was not. He regarded a religion that worshipped elephant-headed gods and phallic symbols an embarrassment to civilization, and permitted no Hindu images in his own house. Neither were Bollywood films, cricket matches, or curry welcome in Sanjay’s family. He ate like a Westerner and enjoyed Western forms of entertainment, and made his family do likewise. His wife, a fellow business major he had met at Penn, was of a respectable lineage of Brahmins – of the Boston, not the Indian, variety. Sanjay’s two high-achieving children had never been to India nor met any of his distant relatives still living there. He had no desire to subject any of them to the cultural pressures that his Indian family members would exert – to go back to India to marry a proper Indian woman, to consult an astrologer in order to determine a career track, and so forth. His son was a high school track star and his daughter had made the honor roll every single semester since starting Middle School.

And now Sanjay was back in India, sans family, for the first time since he had boarded that flight to New York with his parents almost forty years earlier. A major international conference of hoteliers in Delhi had finally drawn him back, although it was his wife who had persuaded him to go. Such conferences often afforded opportunities for networking, and even Sanjay had to admit that many of the most successful hotel managers in the United States were Indian. But he notified none of his relatives in India of his visit, and vowed not to leave the opulent, air-conditioned confines of the Oberoi Hotel in what passed for a swank neighborhood of Delhi. Though it had been four decades ago, he still remembered the smells, the noise, the chaos, and above all the heat and humidity of India, and he had no desire to experience any of them again. Sanjay was also mortally afraid of diseases, and knew that the streets of India’s cities literally teemed with filthy beggars carrying all kinds of contagious pathogens. So while most of the other foreigners at the conference took advantage of downtime to tour the city, Sanjay locked himself in his room watching CNN and BBC – the only Western channels available – and running his businesses via the Internet.

But on the next-to-last day of the conference, the featured speaker – along with the breakout sessions and workshops based on his presentation – were all cancelled unexpectedly when the speaker came down with dengue fever. To compensate, the conference organizers announced an all-expenses-paid day trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. Five state-of-the-art air-conditioned buses had been chartered, and competent tour guides were retained to ensure a thoroughly sanitized experience. And Sanjay, who had not left the hotel for six days, decided reluctantly to go along. The Taj Mahal, after all, was one of the few things India could justifiably take pride in (he thought). As long as his exposure to the streets of India was kept at an absolute minimum, he was willing to risk the trip. Besides, several friends he had made at the conference, whom he was cultivating for possible future dealings, were taking the trip, and he had no desire to be the only foreigner at the conference who missed the chance to see the world’s most beautiful building.

His newfound colleagues chattered happily as the huge bus cut its way through Delhi’s tangles of traffic. From his window, Sanjay could see what he regarded as India’s human refuse: beggars (many of them deformed), unkempt autorickshaw drivers, untouchables sweeping sidewalks and gutters, street urchins, homeless men defecating in public, and mangy street dogs living off the mounds of garbage that filled every vacant lot. Even through the tinted window-glass, from within the deliciously air-conditioned confines of the bus, Sanjay felt that old revulsion. How could so many hundreds of millions of people be content to live like this, choking on one another’s exhaust fumes and sewer odors? Even on the highway, the traffic was unspeakably clotted, with horns blaring and the tiny Bajaj autorickshaws weaving amongst the larger vehicles, holding up everyone else. As the miles went past, Sanjay began to doubt the wisdom of coming on this trip.

Hours later, the buses pulled up not far from the Taj Mahal, along a broad, thoroughly Indian avenue that somehow always got cropped out of the promotional photographs of the place. Sanjay saw with horror that they would indeed have to walk several blocks through Agra’s crowded streets to get to the grounds of the Taj itself – several blocks of heat, exhaust, obnoxious touts, and revolting beggars. He considered staying in the bus, until the driver shut off the engine and the outside heat began to creep in through the vents and open door. With extreme reluctance, Sanjay got off the bus with everyone else, where the late morning heat and humidity hit him like a physical wave. He felt his pores open wide and begin spurting sweat down his back and chest. The near-tropical sun rays caused his scalp to prickle. And his composure began to fray amid the insistent clamor of dozens of touts and hawkers, who had descended on the bus the moment it stopped.

The guides, who spoke impeccable English, began their spiel about the history of the Taj Mahal, whose white minarets loomed over the scorching chaos of Agra like pristine mountain peaks. They walked towards the gleaming towers, threading their way past hundreds of vendors with their goods spread out on dusty blankets or crammed into makeshift wooden stalls amid drifts of discarded juice cartons and banana peels.

And there were beggars, of course. Dirty-faced urchins clamoring for rupees and pencils. Women dressed in rags, clutching infants against pancake-flat breasts. Victims of hideous birth defects and crippling diseases, displaying their monstrous deformities in hopes of eliciting greater sympathy from well-heeled tourists. Sanjay felt sick, unwilling and unable to give money to any of them, knowing that if he did, he would instantly be mobbed by others, as many of his more naïve traveling companions were finding out. Also, Sanjay had no desire to come into direct physical contact with anyone who could possibly transfer to him some hideous disease. All of which, he told himself, was more than enough reason to keep his distance and give to no one.

But inwardly, his Western-cultivated conscience nagged. He was rich and successful, having enjoyed opportunities these wretched souls could never begin to comprehend.

Suddenly he noticed, seated apart from the others under a small peepul tree, a sadhu dressed in a dirty orange dhoti. His hair was tangled and filthy, and his torso emaciated. He had gotten this way, Sanjay reflected, by having renounced family, job, and friends and adopting the mendicant lifestyle of a Hindu holy man, as ordinary Indian professionals sometimes inexplicably did.

He gaped at the man’s legs, or what was left of them. All of his toes were gone, and what remained of one of his feet was horribly eaten away. Several fingers were missing also, and unsightly sores covered his legs and arms. The man was suffering from an advanced case of leprosy. Sanjay knew that leprosy first robbed the body’s extremities of the ability to feel pain, resulting in fingers and toes worn away by unwitting self-abuse. In places like India, rats often accelerated the process, chewing away at unresponsive leprous limbs while their owners slept.

Sanjay noticed that the brass tray on the ground in front of the leprous holy man had more than the usual scattering of coins. Most Hindus were especially likely to give to beggars with an aura of piety, to bolster their own karma. Sanjay’s gaze lingered on the sadhu a split second too long. The man had noticed Sanjay and was looking directly at him with coal-black eyes. Sanjay wanted to look away, but the man’s eyes held him, imploring. The beggar spoke no words, but Sanjay knew what he was thinking: Come here, rich man, son of India. Open your pockets, buy me another few days of sustenance. You whom the gods have blessed, share your substance with a brother.

Involuntarily, Sanjay put his hand in his pocket and took hold of a crisp 1000-rupee bill. He took a half-step forward before a wave of revulsion stopped him short. He let go of the bill and withdrew his hand from his pocket. Glaring at the beggar, he shook his head and stepped back. The man’s face fell, and turned to look at another passerby, who tossed a ten-rupee coin on the tray.

Sanjay hurried forward to keep up with his group, still feeling sick. For some reason, he was no longer able to hear what the guide was saying. The hubbub of traffic and teeming humanity, in combination with the burning sun, was overwhelming his senses.

“Hey, sar, you, come here!”

Too exhausted to resist the wiles of yet another tout, Sanjay turned toward the voice. A small, slender Indian with eyes that seemed a bit too narrow was gesturing at him.

“You too hot. Come inside! Have cool drinks and A/C!”

Sanjay’s eyes followed the man’s pointing finger. Over the entrance to what looked like a very dark little restaurant, a grimy sign in Hindi and English advertised “cool drings” and A/C. Gratefully, Sanjay made his way into the establishment, which proved to be as deliciously dark and cool inside as the sign promised.

The man pointed at a table. This time of day, there were no other customers, which suited Sanjay just fine. He sat down, and the man brought him an ice-cold bottle of Mirinda. As he drank gratefully, enjoying the too-sweet liquid sloshing down his parched throat, he noticed several other men, who evidently worked behind the counter, watching him closely with smiles that made him a bit uneasy. But he finished the bottle and leaned back, savoring the stream of cold air pouring out of the A/C unit directly above his head. He thought about the cool, dry airplane he would be boarding the following day that would take him back to civilization, and felt his eyelids drooping irresistibly.

Many hours later, Sanjay awoke. He had fallen asleep somehow, but he did not remember dreaming. It had been more like oblivion, and for a moment, he was unsure who he was. Then memory returned. He remembered the cool drink inside the air-conditioned shop, the men watching him….

Sanjay groaned. He felt the thick, humid Indian air and smelled the awful smell of offal. He opened his eyes weakly, his head throbbing, and saw that it was dark out. He was lying on his belly on some rough surface, and in his limited field of vision he could make out what looked like a pile of garbage inches from his face.

He tried to move, but his limbs felt numb, doubtless an after-effect of whatever drug they’d given him. Then he felt something touch his back, and heard a strange voice humming what sounded like a mantra in Hindi.

Appalled, Sanjay struggled to move, and managed to roll partially over, realizing as he did so that he was completely naked and covered in dirt. In a panic, he rolled again, over onto his back and what felt like more refuse, some of which oozed pulpily against his bare skin. He shuddered, partly at the garbage and partly at the vision of someone kneeling over him, someone gaunt, with lank, tangled hair, who held a small round object in one hand. In the background, an orange streetlamp glowed, giving enough light for him to see that he was lying in an alley amid piles of garbage.

The figure kneeling over him straightened slightly, allowing the light from the lamp to reveal his features. Sanjay shuddered. It was the leprous sadhu. The man smiled at him and, reaching out with a clawlike hand with only three remaining fingers, daubed some kind of ointment on his chest.

Sanjay tried to scream, but only a gurgle came out. He shook his head, but the hand continued to apply ointment, doubtless some kind of horrid ayurvedic concoction.

Exerting all his strength, Sanjay convulsed his body, jerking his head backwards and moving his arms for the first time. In his effort to get away from his ghastly caregiver, his head knocked into a pile of garbage, causing it to cascade onto his face. Since his mouth was open attempting to scream, some of it fell into his mouth, including some unmentionable piece of discarded meat that seemed to have things wriggling in it.

Choking and retching on the refuse, Sanjay tried to sit up, spitting out the foulness as best he could.

Finally, he managed to croak at the sadhu in Hindi that he thought he had forgotten, “Door jao! Go away!”

The man withdrew his hand, and Sanjay managed finally to sit up, still spitting. With one hand, he waved angrily at the sadhu. “Door jao! Mujhe akela chhod do! Leave me alone!”

The man stood up, his expression unreadable, and slowly backed away. When Sanjay gestured again, the sadhu turned and limped painfully up the alley, disappearing around a corner.

With the sadhu gone, Sanjay was able to focus on his predicament. He was stark naked and covered in garbage, and his mouth was full of the foul taste of unmentionable filth. Not only that: his back and chest were covered with ointment that the sadhu had applied with his leprous hands.

Sanjay stumbled to his feet, dizzy from the smell of garbage and the after-effects of the drug. He looked frantically around for his clothes, but everything was gone. His clothes, cards, money, passport, everything had disappeared. He groaned in despair and sank to his knees, fully aware of his predicament. The buses had long since left without him, and no one knew or cared where he was. He was covered in filth, looked and stank like some street person, and didn’t have a stitch of clothing on him. He, Sanjay the man of means, was in serious trouble.

Suddenly he noticed a dhoti lying beside him on a comparatively clean patch of ground. It was old and frayed, but folded neatly. He realized that the sadhu must have left it for him. Gritting his teeth, he girded himself with that most Indian piece of clothing, and stumbled down the alley towards the orange streetlight, still gagging.

Emerging from the narrow cul-de-sac, Sanjay realized he was no longer on any familiar street. In the humid, clouded dark he could make out no landmarks. He knew the Taj Mahal could not be far off, but in which direction? The dimly-lit street wound past mostly silent padlocked storefronts and grubby concession stands, now all but abandoned except for a few scrawny stray cats and – something else. Sanjay could not see any other human beings aside from a bearded man sleeping on a piece of cardboard across the street, but he could see constant, furtive movements in the dark corners and interstices all around him. He caught a brief glimpse of baleful red eyes and a narrow, whiskered snout that whisked back into the darkness as he turned to look. Rats! Sanjay felt a shaft of terror. There were rats all around, larger and far more aggressive than the feral cats, prowling fearlessly in search of anything – anything – to consume. Some of these monstrous rodents might have been snacking on the fingers and toes of the leprous sadhu, he realized. Or perhaps they had grown fat and predatory on some abandoned waif too small to fend them off and too slow to outrun them. As it was, they had already apparently sensed that he was no threat, and had begun emerging from the shadows, some to forage without regard for Sanjay’s presence, and some simply to perch atop the refuse and stare at him.

Got to find help, Sanjay thought. He had no money, no clothes, no identification, no food, and no water – and no way to obtain any of these unless he could locate and convince some good Samaritan to help him. The nearest United States government office was hours away, back in New Delhi, and he doubted that the local police would be willing to help. But he had to try. He turned and stumbled painfully forward, and the rats followed. He heard the obscene rustle of dozens of tiny claws and scaly tails as he willed his legs, suddenly and inexplicably racked with shooting pain, to propel his filthy, exhausted body up the street. Each step he took produced agonizing pain from the soles of his feet to his thighs, and he wondered in his terror whether the knockout drug he had been given was responsible.

Unable to support his weight, he leaned against a dusty, shuttered shopfront, willing his legs not to buckle. The rats chittered triumphantly, and he felt several furry bodies brush against his ankles.

“Get away! Back off!” Sanjay was shocked at how weak his voice sounded, and how ineffectual his flailing arms were. The rats were all around him, their eyes glittering red in the dim light. Some of them were nearly the size of woodchucks, and they all clearly sensed that Sanjay was no threat. There were at least thirty of the bristling brutes now, some of them sitting up on their haunches, watching and waiting.

Sanjay turned, still leaning against the wall, and resumed his slow, lurching progress. The pain in his feet and legs, he noticed, was giving way to a strange numbness that made him feel as if his feet were no longer attached, and that each step was into a sort of bottomless liquid. There was no reassuring contact of sole upon stone or hardpan, no contraction of muscle and tendon propelling his body weight forward.

There was, momentarily, an odd tickling sensation somewhere near where his right ankle used to be. Glancing down, Sanjay saw two rats gnawing at his lower leg, just above where the Achilles tendon was anchored. He saw spurting blood – his own – followed by a surge of furry bodies drawn to the smell. Sanjay screamed in horror and lashed out with his other foot, kicking savagely at the rats, which withdrew a few paces, squeaking and hissing threateningly. Why can’t I feel any pain? What is happening to me?

Sanjay looked around desperately for anything that might fend off the ravenous little beasts, and noticed a street-sweeper’s handmade broom leaning against a dirty garbage cart. As it was the property of someone of very low caste, it was unlikely that any of the local merchants or other residents of this particular street would touch it. Sanjay, however, was long past caring about such niceties. With a clumsy sweeping grab, he snatched the broom and began smacking the street threateningly. The rats knew better than to come within reach. They withdrew a few meters, but they did not abandon the chase. And there were more coming, dozens more, swift dark shadows converging down the street from both directions.

“Help!” Sanjay began calling desperately in English, his mostly forgotten childhood Hindi no longer adequate to the purpose.

A few paces ahead of him, he saw a stirring in a dark doorway. A slender arm flashed into view, beckoning wildly at him. Sanjay wobbled forward, no longer caring if he was being lured into a den of thieves. Slender gray fingers grabbed his hand and pulled him through the dark doorway, and a heavy door banged shut, cutting off the awful whisper of rat’s feet. Sanjay thought he could hear some of the little brutes scrabbling at the door, trying to dig underneath or gnaw through. But the wood was thick. It might just be the blood vessels hammering in his ears.

He turned to his rescuer. It was the sadhu, holding the dirty stub of a candle and staring at him with something like pity. And there was something else in those dark eyes, perhaps a bit of fatalistic satisfaction.

“Thank you,” Sanjay said unsteadily. “Dhanyavaad.”

The beggar raised his hands and pressed the leathery palms together, along with what remained of his fingers, but said nothing. He turned silently and headed off down a narrow dark passageway, and Sanjay had little choice but to follow.

His legs and feet completely insensate and feeling detached, Sanjay stumbled heedlessly after the beggar, sensing that upon him alone his survival now depended. He heard rather than felt a sickening crunch underfoot. Looking down, he saw that he had trodden on an empty bottle that had shattered underneath his lacerated bare foot, one of the razor shards slashing his right big toe almost to the bone. The toe gushed blood over the damp floor, but no sensation of pain was forthcoming. With a moan, Sanjay hurried forward behind the shrinking light of the beggar’s candle.

They came to another door, which looked to be of very ancient workmanship, probably from long before the Raj. Sanjay knew little of Indian history, but he had read somewhere that, before the British came, the Moguls had been masters of India. They had built the Taj Mahal and, by all appearances, the massive bronze door in front of them as well, which was covered with what looked like Persian writing.

The beggar pulled on a tasseled rope, and from somewhere within, a bell bonged dully. The door swung open, pulled by two men in turbans. Seeing their open sores and missing digits, Sanjay realized that they, too, were leprous. The sadhu walked through the door without looking back, seemingly indifferent to whether Sanjay followed or not. The two door attendants waited impassively. Sanjay looked over his shoulder at the inky black tunnel behind him and thought of the rats. Beyond the door, he could hear the murmur of voices and see light from a few dim electric bulbs.

Squaring his shoulders, and trying to ignore the pitiful condition of his feet and legs, he walked through the door as steadily as he could. Trying to ignore the heavy sound of the door closing behind him, Sanjay looked around at the people inside.

He was in a dilapidated hall of some kind, its vaulted stone ceiling supported by crumbling pillars. The odor of decay and filth was overpowering. The beggar – his beggar – was facing him, and dozens of others like him were spread across the dirty tiled floor, staring silently at the newcomer. They were young and old, men and women, some dressed in the saffron garb of sadhus, others in filthy, threadbare rags. All were gaunt and undernourished. And every single one was visibly leprous.

Sanjay recoiled at the sight of oozing sores and missing fingers and toes. The floor on which his bare feet stood – the feet he could no longer feel – was doubtless covered with whatever nightmare pathogen was responsible for their condition. He tried to back away, but felt his legs buckle beneath him. He fell backwards, flailing helplessly, his head smacking the floor hard. He blacked out for the second time.

Sanjay came to almost immediately, jarred back into nightmare awareness by the touch of many hands and the jabber of whispering voices speaking Hindi. Or was it Hindi? The throbbing in his head seemed to have distorted the sounds, but he recognized none of the more or less familiar cadences of his long-neglected native tongue. In his addled condition, the whispering sounded like demented, incomprehensible gibberish.

He opened his eyes and struggled to sit up, feeling the filth on the floor peel off his bare back. All around him a ring of intense, lean faces studded with gumdrop-black eyes drew back, and the whispering subsided. His head was full of pain, but his legs and arms seemed to float on air, bereft of all sensation. Sanjay looked in the direction that he knew his legs must be, and screamed. Though the cut toe had stopped bleeding, it still hung at a crooked angle, clotted with gore. Two more toes had turned a deep purple color, and his feet and lower legs had also turned patchily purple, with several open breaks in the skin oozing blood and pus. Somehow, he realized with a sudden, fierce certainty, leprosy had invaded his body. With inexplicable speed, it had deadened the nerves in his feet, legs, and hands, rendering his limbs helpless against the merciless forces that tore, abraded, cut, and severed. He was no longer, he grasped numbly, Sanjay the prosperous American businessman, proud husband and father of four high-achieving children. He was a nameless, destitute leper among his own kind.

He felt a warmth on his chest, and saw that someone – possibly his beggar, who sat closest to him, staring intently into his eyes – had rubbed more of the foul-smelling ointment on him. Touching his forehead, his hand came away grayish-white; he had been doused with vibhuti, the sacred ash.

Why? Why me? The despairing thoughts crowded into his throbbing head. From somewhere outside his head came thoughts from some Other. He felt the powerful will of the sadhu, his sadhu, contending with his own, vigorous and in deadly earnest, despite the man’s ravaged body. Why not you, son of India? Do you believe yourself apart from us? It is our blood in your veins, the tainted blood of ten million lepers, the most wretched of all, the refuse upon which your world has been built. Why not you, and all your family, and all of your friends and colleagues, those with whom you have gotten rich and enjoyed the fatness of the earth, while we suffer in darkness?

To this Sanjay had no reply. He moaned and tried again to stand, but it was no use. The ring of feral faces around him pressed closer, the eyes darkening and features seeming to narrow in the dim light. The whispering began again. They were human rats, nothing more, Sanjay thought. Like foul vermin they lived in hidden places, scavenging from the living to prolong the living death that their disease had visited upon them. They were the foul night soil beneath every street, plaza, highway, and building, the raw face of vicious, untamed, predatory nature that even a hundred generations of progress had not wholly eradicated.

The faces around him seemed to swim and coalesce, shrinking and darkening, and the soft whispering rose in pitch. Dark eyes focused on Sanjay’s unprotected legs and feet, and shriveled hands reached out eagerly, pawing at his flesh. Yet they were not hands but tiny claws, Sanjay realized, and the faces behind them were no longer recognizably human. He saw blunt gray snouts and broken whiskers where noses and cheeks had been, and dirty gray fur in the place of dhotis and tee shirts.

Sanjay shrieked and tried to crabwalk away from the chittering mob, but he found his retreat blocked by a column. Then they were upon him, pressing his torso to the floor for the final time, swarming over his legs and arms. His last coherent impression was of the vaulted, skylike ceiling above him, not heaven but the covering of what was to be his tomb.

And then the chewing started.

#horror #india #beggar #horror stories #original writing #original fiction

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chilled-ice-cubes · 1 year

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once again invested in cricket maths sir just said he’ll order pizza next class if India wins the next match 💪 cmon virat its time to get that bread

#anya.txt #yeah virat is the only one whose name i know

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kkginfo · 2 years

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IND vs AUS Test series: Preparations for Test series with India from now..Aussies to Chennai for training..Is 18-year-old dream possible? | KKG INFO

Australia will visit India in 2023 for four Test matches. Earlier, some players will come to Chennai for a ten-day training camp in August. There is also a player associated with India. IND vs AUS Test Series: The Australian cricket team will tour India in February-March next year to play four Test matches. The series is crucial for the Indian team for the finals of the 2021-23 World Test…

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swamyworld · 5 days

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'At KKR, I needed guidance but...': 'Hurt' Kuldeep Yadav scratches old wounds, regrets his time with 2-time IPL champions | Cricket

Kuldeep Yadav May have transformed into India’s best all-format spinner today, but not too long ago, the left-arm wrist spinner’s confidence hit rock bottom. After taking five wickets against Australia in the Sydney Test, Kuldeep had to wait two years to play his next Test match. Frequent appearances in ODIs and T20Is have kept him in the reckoning, but not being able to represent India in the…

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abishekmuses · 5 days

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Cricket, The Game of Life and The Awkwardness of Adult-Kid Relationships The joys of cricket are so manifold, so generously giving and utterly unconveyable through such mere things as words.

Where would one even start. Say I was to explain the emotion that is cricket - where would I start? where could I start?

Would I start by explaining the beauty - nay, the poetry - nay, the geometry of a sweetly timed cover drive.

Could I possibly explain to someone that feeling - that indescribably pregnant feeling that hangs in the air and in heart of the ardent fain on the first morning of a test match - and you have nothing on schedule for the day and all you plan on doing is watching the cricket.

An in form Tendulkar picking the gaps in a packed off side field with surgical precision. Dhoni finishing things off with a six. Dravid frustrating fast bowlers with his stoic defence, session after session. The ebbs and flows of a test match - the way the fuse catches fire sometimes in the last few sessions of the 5th day.

The achingly long passages of play where nothing happens and commentators turn into philosophers - giving us metaphysical musings to ponder about. The sheer poetry of watching over after over go by languidly - the scoreboard ticking over.

The dopamine rush of a sudden flurry of boundaries or wickets. Oh the joy of leather making contact with willow. The sound. The feedback. That inimitable feeling of timing the ball exquisitely and knowing the moment it leaves the bat that it's headed past the ropes.

Oh how could I begin to explain all this?

How could I tell them about "Ashes to ashes dust to dust - if Lilee won't get you, then Thommo must"

or the feared West Indian pace quartet.

Would the names Marshall, Garner, Holding, Roberts mean anything to them? Hell, would the name VIv Richards mean anything to someone who isn't also taken by this most exquisite of afflictions.

Would they think you're merely a lunatic when you say that cricket does a bloody job of acting as a metaphor for life?

Expansive, take-no-prisoners style vs circumspect outside off stump?

Compact technique vs see ball hit ball.

Monastic marathon innings - 15 ball wonder-cameos . Oh would they see it?

The first morning of an ashes series.

The magic of Mccullium's last test innings.

The unreal events of Headingley 2019.

India vs Pakistan.

Oh I say.

The G Version

I want to talk about my love for cricket with you. It's romance. It's love. it's beauty. It's passion. It's aesthetics. It's joie de vivre. Sometimes I feel, it is life itself. The sight of a batsman in tucked in whites, padded up, taking guard - ahhh. That exquisite unspeakable perfection of even witnessing a sweetly timed cover drive - let alone playing one. do you know what i mean?

the exquisite comprehensiveness with which cricket acts as a metaphot for life. The addictive yet ever-fresh sensual pleasure of leather striking willow. The sweet sound. The feedback through the hands. The sweet rhythm of building an innings and reaching a crescendo. The bated breaths when totals are being chased. That air of expectation and possibility when a test is about to begin and it's time for toss. those agonising waits for the next day's play to begin. The thrill of watching MSD hit last over sixes. The unspeakable joy of watching rahul dravid defend ball after ball and making bowlers feel like even a six would be preferable, given all the effort they've expended. The feeling of mastery and utter imperiousness that one feels when one pitches the ball outside a right hander's leg stump and gets it to fizz into his off stump, rattling the woodwork. Oh even phrases such as rattling the woodwork. The linguistics of cricket is a whole other treat by itself. Creaming it through the covers. hasn't troubled the scorers. He's gone for a duck. I can't remember the others but i'll try my best to remember - they are poetry - the expressions, the phrases, the idioms. Those memories of walking bat in hand, through indian streets looking for a fellow who'd oblige and bowl a few - just to feel that rush of bat hitting ball. Those memories of commentary gold - "Mccullum's at it again - he goes over extra" AHHHH Tony greig screaming "It's all happening here - SASHIN TENDALKAR" Mccullum's last test. The first morning of an ashes series. The sheer poetry of a Lord's test. The unbearable heat of Indian summers and the hopelessness of fielding for 50 overs on the face of an unbreakable partnership. The sheer ecstasy of a breakthrough. oh the ebbs and flows of test cricket - Ben Stokes on the final day of Headingley. the feared and legendary West Indian pace quartet. The audacious genius of Viv Richards that I only ever came in contact with through legends. And that of Garry Sobers, Ian Botham, Imran Khan and Kapil Dev. The trivia itself - ohh - the trivia - of how Sobers stormed into the Aussie dressing room and gave a word of warning to new boy Lilee before going on to smash him to all parts. Oh the expressions again - Took him to the cleaners. Damaged his figures. Sent it flying over cow corner. shots both sides of the wicket. two paced wickets. A bit of nip. Lateral movement on offer. Flat track bully. elegant strokemaker. Slog overs dasher. Oh God where do I start? I love this sport. Oh but the pains. The pains of loving cricket so much and getting out for a first ball duck in your first innings in years. the pain of having to pretend that never happened while you go and and field for 50 overs - watching lesser batsmen who don't quite see the poetry of it all ike you do make runs for fun. Reading about a humdinger of a test match written by an inimitably wise cricket writer - oh what a tradition - cricket writing. Mark Nicholas. Richie Benaud. Oh where do I start?

#cricket #crickettragic

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