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And here we are again, at the crossroads, sitting with our backs to each other. It is a big fight and hence the famous silent treatment. The only connect whatsoever is, kiddo jumping after piggy backing me into his warm embrace.  An obligatory smile to the little one and he is sent back to me. All of this because, it is the IPL time. And the big fight is between biwi and TV. What is it with Men and Cricket? Or should I say, what is it with Indian Men and Cricket?

Despite World cup win, followed by last IPL season(within a week), then back to back tours (where btw, India failed miserably) and just when I was thinking all is over, the TV started flashing those sexy cheerleaders  jumping up and down with pompoms and cricketers lusting for the orange, purple and god knows what caps.

Don’t get me wrong here, I am also a big cricket fan and feel proud when Dhoni and Sachin dent and bruise the rival’s innings badly, not to mention the huge sixes that giant West Indian hits and the dashing Daniel Vettori who has bowled my heart over but this is a SERIOUS overdose. Does everything else need to come to a standstill? Well, in my house, it does.

The bell rings, door opens, smiles and hugs exchanged and before I can react or tell him the plans hatched in the kid’s room and the disasters in the comfy confines of my kitchen, he is taken, by the TV yelling at the top of his voice, “It’s a Six.”

I clinch my fist and gnash my teeth. I have no intent to give up. So I hatch the perfect plan.

I just go and sit beside him. Can he see through me? To cast a spell, I make the cutest baby face and bored droopy eyes making my intention loud and clear; the only thing left now is to bat them lovingly. He looks at me, the gaze has frozen, is he falling for it? It is intense now and he says, “Wasn’t he out!” and I feel like dislodging the bails myself.  Here goes the perfect plan in the ditch and I am left hanging by the threads of the same pompoms I was about to set on fire.

P.S. *Those new to the term, biwi means wife..