The last run

It was the last glass of water, for it was his fourth glass and the only thing he had-had for two days. If he would say he had nothing to eat, he of course won’t be right, neither was he fasting. The fact was that he had enough to make a nice meal for a poor man, but he was not a man to be easily satisfied.

Manthan Meherotra, an energetic and young cricket player, it was not that he lacked skill, but what he needed was a thick dab of luck over skill. He was unlucky to be called in a word; for in spite of playing in many matches, some of them even at national level, he hadn’t scored above four runs in each and every match. Recently he had been warned by the cricket control board to score at least half a century in the oncoming match, otherwise he would be thrown out and left unto himself. Tensed and tired he went to bed lately.

That night was violent; the sky was filled with thunderbolts with regular and irregular intervals. The little window facing sky boldly filled the room with violent streaks of wild light, the sky was stormy and the tears of repentance were far behind. In such a condition Manthan is startled and wakes up with a jerk to find someone standing in front of him, a tall slender figure with mythical air around it and dressed in golden yellow silk robes, its back faced the window and the light reflecting from it looked like the light of a flickering lamp fighting for its existence.

The hands of the figure held a small transparent bottle with a black lid and containing a pink coloured liquid. The face of that being was not visible due to lights behind it, but it seemed to bear a sign of confused happiness with a little sorrow in it. The hands of the figure were stretched towards Manthan and offering him that bottle and telling him that it contained his luck inside. So he took that bottle with his shivering hands, and would have broken it if it was a cup of tea, but his future lay sealed in that bottle and he knew it. That figure instructed him about using that thing and warned that with this artificial luck he always can score, but never complete his century in a single go and he should not attempt the impossible, otherwise the results would be disastrous.

The stormy night was over and the reward was the shy sun with red cheeks. Manthan was amused by the overnight dream, but being unsure about it being a dream he looked around and found that bottle on the table. A cold chill of excitement ran like an electric current through his whole body.

It was the night of celebration the week after that queer happening. He had scored ninety-nine runs and was selected to sustain, moreover he was chosen in the national team going for an international tour. That night an agent of the opposite team handed him a brief full of notes for not scoring a century, and this Manthan knew very well.

Two decades have passed and Manthan is a well-known player in the international cricket. He has gained fame and it brought money and happiness and comfort with it. But satisfaction had run away for he felt that what he had gained was not entirely his own, but due to something else which he could not tell to anyone else.

Today is his last match, after this Manthan will bid adieu to his career as a cricketer.

He already has scored ninety-nine runs and is going to face the last ball of the over and perhaps the last ball of his career. He is turned white like a marble stone with fear and is sweating heavily due to running between wickets and his heart is jumping as if it wants to fly away. The wicketkeeper sees his nervousness and to cheer him up calls out “Manthan what’s wrong with you, why do you look so pale, come on face bravely your last ball. Long years of competition also make friends.

Manthan feared the incident, which took place five decades ago, as he was still able to remember that warning which had forbidden him to make a century, yet his determination to complete his century was greater than the fears. The ball coming like a canon ball from the bowler’s hand is diverted towards boundaries by Manthan.

He grasps his breath and runs, but on reaching half way his feet stop as if there was no life in them, he feels something going out of him and hears someone laughing, he closes his eyes and falls down; never to rise up. The ball at the end of its journey touches the boundary and the umpire waves his hand to show a four.

The crowd is overjoyed to see their favourite complete his first and last century, but their joy is short lived and vanishes with the news of Manthan’s sudden and immediate death on the pitch.

While Manthan was falling a bottle fell from his pocket and crashed on the concrete pitch and the pink liquid from it spread on the pitch giving off the smell of something like rose water.