Squat, visored knight, armoured in storied deeds,

Uses his bat’s butt-end to shift his box,

Takes guard, gardens for invisible weeds,

Looks up, thanks Dad, ignores two wheeling hawks

No higher in their heaven than him on turf…

Buoyed by devotion’s thermals, desis surf.


A hundred runs, two hundred, maybe three,

Will help delete the demi from their god

Give us this day a valedictory

Explosion, oh, let Bombay’s sacred sod

Be his last proving ground, his portal

To that rare rank: Certified Immortal.


Immortals can’t cite age as an excuse,

Swan songs must scale the summits of their pomp;

To fail is to invite unhinged abuse

From second-hand men who dimly romp

Through heroes’ lives and will go starkly mad

Without that brilliant youth we never had.