"All men think all men are mortal, but themselves", especially of course if they are seventeen years old. Sen, like most at his age rarely considered such prosaic matters. Life was the next cricket match, the grand dinner in
the pavilion to be savored, whether in the glory of victory or as consolation from defeat.


"Pad up, old boy", the toss had been won and the captain had elected to bat first.


"Where’s Bogra?"


"Don’t know yaar, he is always late. Good thing he doesn’t go in till No. 10. Anyway, you’d better make sure that he is not needed for quite some time".


"Whatever you say cap’n".


‘Like a roman gladiator striding into the great circus’, Sen thought. Bat tucked smartly under one arm, cap cocked at a jaunty angle – school colors flashing – his opening partner at his side, he covered the seventy odd yards to the wicket accompanied by cheerful applause from the large and partisan crowd. This was an important match. The visiting school was an old rival and this year they boasted a secret weapon. A new fast bowler, Giri. Rumour had it that their coach had not allowed Giri to bowl during practice, partly to keep his mystique and partly because he would not risk injury to any of his own batsman before so crucial a contest.


‘Well let’s see what he’s got", thought Sen taking his guard.


"Giri, Giri, Giri,…..", went up the chant from the far end, reserved for supporters of the visiting team. The tall, young bowler began his run, a great leap into the delivery stride and the shining red ball came hurtling down the 22 yards of carefully tended turf and struck the batsman’s proffered left pad.


"Howzzat!", in unison the team roared, pivoting towards the umpire. Hushed silence as a thousand pairs of eyes strained on the man in the long white coat. His hand came out of his right pocket, appeared to hover for a
moment, then merely transferred a pebble to his left.


‘That was close’, thought Sen with relief.


Frustration was clearly what made Giri put every ounce of his strength into his next delivery. The ball left his fist like a missile homing in on the batsman, but in his quest for greater speed, the bowler had sacrificed accuracy. The ball bounced halfway down the wicket and came in at shoulder height, where the gleefully awaiting blade elegantly cut it, square of the wicket, for the first four runs of the match.


An hour and a half later, Sen walked back to the pavilion acknowledging the applause for a good innings. They were nearing the end of their batting lineup.


"Where the hell is Bogra? He’d better have a very good excuse this time. Shah, go and check in the dorm. Surd, go and see if he is sneaking a smoke behind the pavilion".


"Sen, Sen", a breathless youngster form the seventh grade came rushing up to him, "Bogra is ill, he’s been vomiting".


Showered and changed into fresh evening uniform, Sen walked down to the sick room. The game had been won and now, as senior prefect it was his duty to check in on the ailing in his charge. He was a little concerned about Bogra, not like him at all to miss a game.


"Good evening, Sister", like all of the school he was very fond of Sister Beale. The plump little matron was almost a caricature throwback from the Raj. Today however, her customary smile was missing.


"The child is very ill. He vomited a lot of blood. I’ve had to move him to the general hospital in the city".


The mess hall broke into cheerful applause as he entered. The victory would dominate the conversation that evening. At his place at the head of the prefects table, Sen found himself unable to share in the excitement of his colleagues. The Bogra affair continued to nag at him. It was almost unheard of for a student ot require hospitalization in the city. And Bogra was a healthy young chap. Except that….. he remembered, a few days ago, he had stumbled upon Bogra, alone in the prep room swallowing down a dozen or so asprin tablets as if they had been candy. He shrugged away the thoughts. Bogra will be fine.


"Pass me the daal, will you".


"Sen sahib, Sen sahib", the recognized the servant and opened the door. It was 2 in the morning. "The principal sahib wants to see you".


Dr. Singh was an impressive man. Six feet tall, thick set, he exuded authority.


"Bogra needs blood", he said grimly without preamble. "His blood group is O positive. Take about fifty or so boys to get tested. We are going to need a lot of it".


The pale naked body with tubes attached to its various parts was a far cry from what had been a vibrant, athletic young man. The shock Sen felt was intense, and yet, he knew that to the frail, middle aged woman beside him,
the shock must be a thousand fold greater. Mr. and Mrs. Bogra had rushed down from their tea plantation in Assam to be with their ailing child. Anxiety had left lines that though only a few days old, were burrowed deep,
and gave her handsome features a haggard look.


"I cannot find the words to thank you and your friends, Sen."


"Nonsense, ma’am. It’s nothing at all. Besides we need our star athlete back in top form as soon as possible".


The sky turned a brilliant pink as the great ball of fire slowly sank below the horizon. The statue of the frail old man in his loin cloth and oversized round spectacles looked surreal in silhouette. He would have approved of astachal. Every evening, six hundred boys dresses in flowing kurtas assembled for contemplation. The music teacher would play his flute, or someone else would read a verse or two followed by a couple of minutes of silence. It was routine, yet special. And today, more so, for one of them was unable to be there. Sen rose.


"Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depths of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms out towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sands of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action"


Tagore never failed to fascinate and inspire. He did his job well today too.


"Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake".


He feels thirst and steps out of his room for a glass of water. He stops dead in his tracks, the familiar verandah is missing. In its place is a barren landscape. A small hillock the only redeeming feature among endless rocks and red earth. He climbs to the top of the hill. The ground suddenly falls from beneath his feet, and he instinctively folds at the waist, head tucked between his legs like foetal ball. In bizarre slow motion, he begins to roll down into the ravine. Round and round. He gathers speed. Faster and faster, the ground whizzes by in a terrifying blur as he approaches uncontrollable velocity. In the distance a figure rises from the inhospitable earth. In flowing white robes, it has a long beard and a skull tight cap. Its hand rises, raising a golden bugle to its lips. He continues rolling, faster and faster. A humming sound fills his ears, growing in intensity with his increasing speed. If only the bugler would start playing, at least the terrible sound would go away. But he was headed straight towards the bugler. If he hit the bugler before the bugle sounded, the horrible noise would go on forever. He would roll on until eternity.


Sen awoke drenched in sweat. He rushed to the door. The verandah was as it had always been. In the distance, framed against the rising sun, Mohammed Khan, his bugle to his lips, sounded reveille. The campus stirred back to life.


All was as it had always been, except that Bogra was dead. The bugler had not been able to play in time for him. Was this then all that there was to it? Like an exciting cricket match constantly threatened and sometimes cut short by rain. And what next? Was there a great scorer in the sky keeping tally of the runs scored? And did he indeed count not whether you won or lost, but how you played the game. If not, did he know the rules of LBW?