IF you think our maidens are not into cricket you should hear what happened to my fictitious bachelor friend Prem when he returned home after a night out with the boys: His mother who’s been longing to see a bahu in her home looked at him strangely: “When will you stop bowling so many maiden overs?” she asked thoughtfully. “Whoa! Whoa!” cried Prem, “what are you saying mother?” “That it’s about time you bowled a maiden over!” “How am I supposed to bowl a maiden over when I’ve been bowling too many maiden overs?” asked Prem. “It’s time you took a wicket!” replied the wise woman.
“What ball should I bowl?” “Maybe a bouncer, a doosra or try spin but one that will get her clean bowled, or even caught by you!” said his mother, a twinkle in her eye. “What if she bats, cross bat?” asked Prem. “Then pitch a dead ball!” “But a dead ball may not bowl her over!” cried Prem triumphantly. “A dead ball will help bowl a maiden over!” replied his mother with deadpan face and Prem winced behind such cricketing logic but decided to bat chest on, “A maiden over ma will not help me bowl a maiden over!” “With all the maiden overs you’ve bin’ bowling son,” screamed his mother, “There’ll be no maidens left for you to bowl over!” Prem entered the dining room and as usual sat at the table, waiting for dinner to be served, but found no sign of either mother or sister, “We’ve decided to stop batting for you!” said his mother finally appearing at the door. “So, who’s going to cook for me?” asked Prem. “You!” said his mother pointing to the kitchen, “You may occupy the crease, and when you bowl, pitch well!”
“Pitch well?” asked Prem faintly. “Into the frying pan, not in the fire! Don’t damage the crease!” Prem heard the sound of the TV in the next room and very furtively crept to see what was happening, “Howzat!” shouted his sister, watching an old IPL. “Out!” shouted his mother to him, pointing to the kitchen.
“I declare!” shouted a desperate Prem. “Follow on?” asked his sister, also pointing to the kitchen. “You can’t do this to me!” shouted a hysterical Prem, “This is my house, my TV!” “No sledging!” shouted his mother leading him back to the kitchen, “You want meals to be served, food to be cooked, then get your own cricket team by ….”
“Bowling a maiden over!” completed Prem as he heard his mother and sister chuckle and ducked before they could hurl another bouncer. “This ain’t cricket!” he wept, but said nothing as he found himself on a rather sticky wicket…!
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