The choice

It was my pride's last chance at survival. The Indian cricket team were to take on their neighbours across the sea in a do-or-die battle. Many scenarios were possible and the most likely that India would qualify in what was a mid-night match by Indian Standard Time. I had to watch it, I just had to.

But the next morning's happenings were decided already, by fate or by my father, I still wonder. Tradition went too far on some occasions and this time, it did. Some pooja at home because some relative had died 300 kilometres away, ten days back. I don't wish to dwell on the bitterness it caused but I couldn't help it. I had to get up at six and yet had to sleep at one.

I decided to go for it, decided to do both things. It's not a decision I regret. I had two choices. Pooja or match. My heart cried out "match" while my father wouldn't let that happen. I created the third choice, "both of the above" and it came off.

I got what I wanted, I watched the match and I gave my respect to the man who had passed away. I did what I wanted to do, but the things didn't happen as I wanted them. My India lost the match and I hardly slept owing to my brooding over the failure and I hardly got up for the ceremony. And after all this, I went to my friends house, came back more dead than alive.

Knocked out for fifteen hours, I was.