Guest post by SUDIPTO MONDAL

They don’t love the deftness of a late cut
or the terror of a snorter;
the authority of a cover drive
or the seduction of a flighted one.

They don’t love the smell of spit on leather.
They don’t love one eased through long leg
unless its Deepika Padukone we’re talking about.

They don’t love cricket but they say they love India.

They don’t love Inzamam’s hulking sixes.
They don’t love Hayden’s muscular heaves
or Ponting’s nervous shuffle.

They don’t love Lara because he was
as good as Sachin.
And Kambli was after all just an urchin

They don’t love cricket but they say they love India.

They don’t love the man who cleans their shit.
They don’t love the colleague that eats meat.
They don’t love the ‘backdoor entrant’ who shares their seat.

They don’t love the hungry protestors
who block their path at the height of summer’s heat.
They don’t love the vendor on the street.

They don’t love cricket but they say they love India.

They don’t love the lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transgenders either.
They don’t love the man who puts food on their plate
because he asks for food in turn.

They don’t love them jungle boys
because they wouldn’t give them their hill.

They don’t love the dark ones.
They don’t love the short ones.

They don’t love a nose that lacks precision.
They don’t love circumcision.

They don’t love cricket but they say they love India.