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By:

Waleed Hussain

4 March 2025 at 2:34:30 pm

Opener turned into six -hitting contest

Mumbai: The IPL 2026 opening match between Royal Challengers Bengaluru and Sunrisers Hyderabad at the M. Chinnaswamy Stadium wasn’t a cricket contest. It was a full-scale six-hitting festival, complete with bowlers serving as reluctant ball boys and the leather sphere treating the boundary ropes like an optional suggestion rather than a hard limit. SRH, batting first after being inserted, scraped together 201 for 9 in their full 20 overs. Stand-in skipper Ishan Kishan led the charge with a...

Opener turned into six -hitting contest

Mumbai: The IPL 2026 opening match between Royal Challengers Bengaluru and Sunrisers Hyderabad at the M. Chinnaswamy Stadium wasn’t a cricket contest. It was a full-scale six-hitting festival, complete with bowlers serving as reluctant ball boys and the leather sphere treating the boundary ropes like an optional suggestion rather than a hard limit. SRH, batting first after being inserted, scraped together 201 for 9 in their full 20 overs. Stand-in skipper Ishan Kishan led the charge with a fiery 80 off just 38 balls, peppering the stands with 5 sixes and eight fours. It was the kind of knock that screams “I’m the captain now, watch me launch.” Youngster Aniket Verma (or Ankit, depending on the scorecard scribbles) chipped in with a brisk 43 that included another 4 sixes in a desperate late surge. Heinrich Klaasen added his usual muscle, but the early wobble to 49/3 thanks to Jacob Duffy’s fiery 3/22 in the powerplay kept things from spiraling into total absurdity. SRH’s total sixes: a “modest” 12. How refreshingly conservative. One almost expected them to apologize to the bowlers for not clearing the stadium entirely. Then came RCB’s reply. Chasing 202, the defending champions made it look like a Sunday net session gone gloriously rogue. They polished off the target in a mere 15.4 overs, losing just 4 wickets and winning by 6 wickets with 26 balls to spare. Devdutt Padikkal went ballistic with 61 off 26 balls — a strike rate that would embarrass a missile. He smashed 4 sixes and seven fours, treating SRH spinners like they owed him money. The middle overs turned into a personal highlight reel as he dispatched deliveries into the second and third tiers with contemptuous ease. Elder Statesman Virat Kohli, ever the composed elder statesman at 69 not out off 38, casually added 5 sixes of his own. King Kohli didn’t just bat; he conducted a masterclass in timed aggression, finishing the game with a flourish of boundaries that had the Chinnaswamy crowd in absolute delirium. Rajat Patidar and a quick cameo from Tim David ensured there were no unnecessary heart attacks for the home faithful. RCB’s six tally: a cheeky 13. Combined across both innings? A staggering 25 sixes in one high-octane evening. That’s not T20 cricket anymore. That’s aerial warfare with a red leather projectile. The ball spent more time orbiting the stadium than rolling on the turf. Ground staff probably clocked more kilometers chasing it into the stands than the batsmen ran between wickets. Spectators got an unexpected workout fielding souvenirs, while bowlers stared skyward like astronomers discovering new constellations every over. “Where did that one go?” became the unofficial match commentary.
Collective Hug The bowlers deserve a collective group hug — or perhaps therapy. Jacob Duffy’s impressive debut haul was the lone bright spot for the attack, but even he must have questioned his career choices every time a length ball disappeared into the night. Short balls? Met with the same disdain. Full tosses? Please, they were practically gift-wrapped invitations to the parking lot. Harshal Patel and the SRH death bowlers leaked runs like a sieve in the final stages, watching six after six sail over their heads while fielders sprinted futilely, arms outstretched in vain hope. The spinners fared even worse. One over from a hapless SRH tweaker disappeared for multiple maximums, turning what should have been a containing spell into a public humiliation. Krunal Pandya and Harsh Dubey were taken to the cleaners with such regularity that you half-expected the umpires to intervene on humanitarian grounds. Why bowl when the batsmen treat your best deliveries like practice balls for a batting cage? It’s almost insulting how nonchalantly these sixes were dispatched. No drama, no buildup — just clean, brutal connection followed by polite applause from the crowd and another sprint for the ball boys. Traditionalists mourning the death of “proper” cricket could only clutch their Test whites tighter and mutter about the good old days when a six was an event, not the default setting. At Chinnaswamy, the pitch played like a trampoline on steroids, and the boundaries shrank with every lusty swing. Group Therapy By the 15th over of the chase, the match had lost all pretense of competition. It became a group therapy session in power-hitting, where everyone took turns launching the ball into orbit. The six-count on the giant screen must have broken some internal software trying to keep up. If this is the tone for IPL 2026, buckle up, folks. Expect every subsequent game to threaten world records for most maximums, highest strike rates, and most exhausted retrieval staff. The real MVP? Not Kohli’s classy anchor, not Padikkal’s blitz, not even Duffy’s early breakthroughs. It was the six itself — that glorious, crowd-pleasing projectile that turned a cricket match into prime-time entertainment. Bowlers might as well start their run-ups from the sightscreen next time; at least give the ball a fighting chance. Bravo to both teams for kicking off the season with such unapologetic carnage. You’ve reminded us why we love this format: raw power, minimal fuss, and maximum entertainment. Just don’t be surprised when future matches come with a mandatory “six insurance” clause for nearby residents. The ropes are trembling, the stands are full, and the bowlers are already booking appointments with sports psychologists. Long live the six. May the aerial assault continue unabated.

The Soul of Bharat on the Big Screen

Mumbai: April 4, 2025, my heart feels heavier than it ever has. The news hit me like a monsoon storm—Manoj Kumar, the towering legend of Bollywood, the man who painted patriotism across our screens, is no more. At 87, he slipped away at Mumbai’s Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital, leaving behind a reel of memories that flicker in my mind like a projector that won’t stop spinning. As a movie fan who grew up with his films, I’m not just mourning an actor—I’m grieving the loss of a piece of my soul, a piece of India itself. They called him "Bharat Kumar," and oh, how he earned that name.


I remember the first time I saw ‘Upkar’ (1967). I was a kid, sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to our old TV. Manoj ji played Bharat, the farmer who gave everything—his dreams, his love—for his country’s soil. That song, “Mere Desh Ki Dharti,” wasn’t just a tune; it was a heartbeat, pulsing with pride and sacrifice. I’d hum it walking to school, feeling like I, too, could be that noble, that selfless. He won a National Film Award for that one, and rightly so—it wasn’t acting; it was living.

Then there was ‘Shaheed’ (1965), where he brought Bhagat Singh back to life. I’d sit there, popcorn forgotten, as he roared defiance against the British, his eyes blazing with a fire that could’ve lit up the darkest colonial night. It wasn’t just a film—it was a revolution on celluloid, a call to remember the blood that bought our freedom. Manoj ji didn’t just play the martyr; he became him, and every time I watch it, I feel that lump in my throat, that sting in my eyes. It’s no wonder it snagged three National Awards—his passion was a gift to us all.


Oh, and ‘Purab Aur Paschim’ (1970)—how do I even begin? He directed and starred as Bharat again, this time wrestling with the clash of East and West, showing us the beauty of our roots while the world tried to pull us away. I’d laugh at Saira Banu’s antics, then choke up when Manoj ji stood tall, singing “Hai Preet Jahan Ki Reet Sada.” It was a blockbuster, sure, but it was more—it was a love letter to India, penned in his signature hand-over-face style. That move, mocked by some, was his shield, his quiet strength, and I adored it.

And who could forget ‘Roti Kapda Aur Makaan’ (1974)? He directed and starred as Bharat—again, because who else could?—tackling poverty, injustice, and the gut-wrenching struggle for the basics of life. I’d watch, fists clenched, as he fought for the everyman, his voice cracking with raw emotion. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a mirror to our society, a cry for change. Seven Filmfare Awards across his career, they say, but this one felt like it carried them all—his heart bled through every frame.


Then there’s ‘Kranti’ (1981), the epic that had me on the edge of my seat. Manoj ji as the freedom fighter, leading Dilip Kumar and Hema Malini through a storm of rebellion—it was grand, it was gritty, it was everything Bollywood could be. “Zindagi Ki Na Toote Ladi” still echoes in my ears, a reminder of the battles he fought on screen, battles that felt so real I’d dream of joining the fight. He didn’t just direct that film; he sculpted a monument to resilience, and I’d cheer like a fool every time he outsmarted the British.


As I sit here, flipping through these memories, I can’t help but feel cheated. Manoj Kumar wasn’t just an actor or director—he was family. Born Harikrishan Goswami in 1937, he carried the Partition’s scars from Abbottabad to Delhi, turning pain into purpose. He gave us over 50 films in a career spanning four decades, snagging the Padma Shri in 1992 and the Dadasaheb Phalke Award in 2015—honors that felt too small for a man who gave India its cinematic soul. His last role in ‘Jai Hind’ (1999) might’ve flopped, but it didn’t dim his light in my eyes.


I’d read how he met Bhagat Singh’s mother before ‘Shaheed’, seeking her blessing—can you imagine the weight of that? Or how PM Lal Bahadur Shastri urged him to make ‘Upkar’ after the 1965 war, handing him “Jai Jawan Jai Kisan” like a sacred torch? That’s who he was—a man who didn’t just entertain but carried a nation’s dreams.


Manoj ji, you weren’t just “Bharat Kumar” to me—you were the uncle who taught me pride, the friend who shared my anger, the poet who sang my hopes. Your films weren’t movies; they were my childhood, my rebellion, my tears. I’ll miss you like I miss the India you dreamed of—flawed, fierce, and forever ours. Rest in peace, sir. Om Shanti.

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