Mama is dozing through the cricket on the Hindi feed, the commentary loud enough to hear next door, while on my little phone the English ones talk only of strike rates. The camera keeps showing a fielder rubbing the ball on his trousers—same motion as when I burnish clay—and I think, these are two different games, no? One of murmurs and heroics, the other of graphs and numbers. My own chasing is for the postman, hoping he brings that small tube of cobalt glaze.
#broadcast
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