Inspiration and photography: Caroline Dorin


This…is how I have always imagined it should be.

Wanted it to be.

The behemoth that the MCG is as a private and bespoke performance art venue. Its scale simultaneously magnified, yet distilled into a crucible for a supine form’s languid view. The roar of the 100,000 plus trapped below in the cauldron as he lies in the sun, head propped by the crocked elbow, a trail of discarded clothing tracing the path to the edge of the roof. And you can leave your socks on…

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Joyless in ’99

Published in The Cricket Monthly, February 2015 issue


Dear Cricket Monthly,

Ticketbastard is what we called them. Vermin renowned for pilfering meaty percentages of the price of tickets they sold as “convenience charges”. But their thieving ways were a hazy afterthought as I sprinted up a bustling thoroughfare in downtown Toronto one morning in 1996 to get tickets to the first Sahara Friendship Cup. I had always stuck to a principled stand that Indo-Pakistani “friendship” beamed in from neutral venues was an abomination (possibly it was to do with the trauma inflicted by Javed Miandad in 1986) – principles you couldn’t sniff a trace of as I arrived breathless at the deserted ticket outlet. Convenience charge be damned, I could have kissed the Ticketbastard lady when she handed over a sheaf of tickets for the upcoming five matches. I stood in a daze staring at them. Could she ever comprehend what it meant?

Playing Hookey for Shorty

Published in Cricinfo, February 12, 2014

The call always arrived after dinner. Located in the living room, the telephone offered little privacy. Pesky and nosy busybodies (siblings and parents) were always hovering and any spilling of the beans now that half the school day had been kissed goodbye would create mayhem. Poker face and minimalist was the way to go.

The voice never wasted time on pleasantries; straight to the point:

“Did you go?”


“How much?”



“Two flicks. One cover drive. A leg glance. Two back-foot cuts behind point. Later than God. Where were you rotting away?”

“Had a chemistry lab report to finish, dude. That son-of-Hitler professor would have killed me if I didn’t.”

“Sure. Rot in hell, will you?”

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The moth and the flame


Published on Wisden India on November 21, 2013

As I stood on my porch on the morning of 16, November, nothing seemed right with the world. The entire milieu was off kilter. The skies were a swathe of startling blue and the sun shone brightly. It was ridiculously warm. Chilly November in these parts is usually the time to look back fondly on the smells and vibrant colors of the season just passed and forcibly banish thoughts of the looming cold months. But the grass on lawns that should have long retreated into hibernation was lush green and still growing. And I spotted a neighbor mowing his lawn across the street! The sound of its motor on a mid-November morning should have added a stark discordant aural note to the surreal state I was already in.
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2 + 2 = 0

India's Sachin Tendulkar tries to avoid

Are you such a dreamer
To put the world to rights?
I’ll stay home forever
Where two and two always makes a five

So, not much of a dreamer are you? Not when it comes to matters of cricket? Well, heed my advice and start. Right about now. Now that this gong show on Indian pitches – the one originally conceived by the unholy ménage a trios betwixt the oligarchs of the BCCI, CA and CSA – has meandered to its manufactured cacophonous, yet vacuous end. This is the time to start. For there is no putting this world to right. Over the next few months, you can stay home all you want. And be cursed with ruing and mulling over the sad fact that all two and two actually amounts to is not five, but a big fat zero. Nada. Zilch.

So, dream on…
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They looked like a sequestered jury. The eleven of them congregated; eyes flicking nervously at each other, submerged up to their tense shoulders in a solution of equal parts anticipation, hope and prayer. In reality, they weren’t the jury. But the prosecution. The defendant stood behind them a ways off, staring poker-faced at his youthful accomplice, jaws gnawing away at a fossil of gum in his mouth. A mouth now dry as the hide of a bedouin’s camel. They waited together, yet separately. For the verdict to be handed out. Beamed down in fact from the glass-fronted judge’s chamber up in the sky.

And we?
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