IPL of Life
IPL of Life
Written By: Sanjay Shharma
Just the other evening, as the roar of the IPL match filled our living room – the tension, the excitement, the dil pounding with every ball – a thought struck me. My dear friends, my beloved children, isn't life just like this grand IPL of Zindagi? There's this old sher, you know it perhaps:
“Har Umar Ke Shauk Hain Juda — Khilone, Maashooka, Paisa Aur Khuda.”
Every age has its own desires — Toys, Lovers, Money, and God.
I recite this sher quite often, almost as a mantra for life. It’s not just old poetry; it’s like the strategy of an IPL match, isn't it? Every phase, every over, every innings has its own game plan, its own focus.
And as I look back at my own life, it’s just like watching a long, exciting IPL season, with different innings and different targets.
The Powerplay of Childhood: Khilone
Remember our childhood, that Powerplay phase? The field was wide open, no complicated rules, just pure joy. My chipped cricket bat, scuffed from countless gully cricket matches played right outside our homes – the kind where one-bounce was out, and lost balls meant everyone searched until sunset. That bat wasn't just wood, it was my finishing shot to win every game!
Those cracked plastic toy soldiers, lined up on the window, were my dream team of players. The tangle of marbles (kanche), precious as Player of the Match trophies, clicked in my pocket. And that distinct mitti ki khushboo after the first monsoon shower, as we floated paper boats – tiny sixes hit into muddy puddles – those were the sacred moments of my early innings.
A broken toy then felt like a dropped catch – tears would flow freely. But a mended one? That was like hitting a boundary on the last ball!
Back then, my innings had no regrets, no pressure of the scoreboard. Just pure joy, instant heartbreak, and wonder… all in the span of an afternoon's play. That innocence was like a clean hit, a clarity I would never experience in the same way again in the match of life.
Every dot ball, every boundary, every 'out' taught us something simple and immediate.
The Middle Overs of Youth: Maashooka
Then, suddenly, the Middle Overs began. The field spread out, the game got more tactical, and my heart started beating for new things – for people, for meaning, for a bit of madness.
This was the thrilling chase phase, not just of first loves, but of first rebellions. The girl with sparkling eyes who smiled from the bus window – she was like a mystery spinner who completely bowled me over! Poems scribbled in notebooks were my secret game plans. Nights spent lying on the terrace, talking to the stars, felt like decoding the cryptic DRS calls of youth.
Friendships were as strong as a solid partnership between two batsmen. Music felt like the stadium roar, the very pulse of life. Every new idea was a big hit, a revolution! I remember the thrill of wearing a new shirt to college, hoping she’d notice – like walking out to bat with a brand new kit, hoping to make an impression. My heart was constantly auditioning for approval – from peers, from crushes, from the mirror. We loved with the abandon of a super over, fought with the drama of a last-ball thriller, and dreamed like the world had no boundaries.
And in that chaos, there was an addictive aliveness. The desire wasn't just for a person; it was for belonging, for recognition, for being the star player in the vast stadium of youth.
But desires at that intensity are unsustainable, like a high run rate that can lead to a collapse. They burn bright but leave their own kind of ash – heartbreak, disillusionment, and eventually, the call to play a more mature innings. Don't fear getting 'out' early; it's all part of the game.
The Strategic Innings of Adulthood: Paisa
Then came the season of paisa – the strategic innings where you build partnerships, rotate the strike, and focus on stability. Not just scoring quick runs, but building a solid total. The aggressive shots turned inward, into the daily grind, into the pursuit of purpose.
Suddenly, wealth mattered. Rent, EMI, and the general ghar ki zimmedari felt like hitting crucial singles and twos. But so did the quiet dignity of being able to support your team – paying for parents’ medicine bills, fixing the leaking tap without waiting for someone else, being able to say, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this, main sambhaal lunga!”
The dreams became less about helicopter shots and more about a solid innings blueprint. Weekends weren't wild parties anymore; they were for laundry, grocery runs, and if lucky, a quiet movie with a partner who felt more like home than a thrill – like a reliable batting partner you can trust in any situation. In this grounded innings, I found a new kind of peace. Less sixes, more consistent singles. Less drama, more depth. I began to understand that not all desires had to roar; some could simply tick along, steady and true, like a well-paced innings. This was the time for steady, consistent performance.
The Post-Match Reflection: Khuda
Lately, something has shifted again. The outward chase has slowed, like the post-match analysis when the game is done, and the stadium lights begin to dim. My longing now is quieter – not for toys, not for love stories, not even for accolades or Man of the Match awards. But for something vast, still, and unseen. This is the search for Khuda.
Not just in a temple or a gurudwara, or within the pages of a holy book, but in the quiet moments after the stadium clears, when the crowd's roar fades. It's in the first light of dawn painting the empty pitch, or the soft sigh of the breeze stirring the trees during a walk.
It's the peaceful humm of the universe, the calm within, connecting with the bigger picture. In the lump in my throat when I see old photos and realize how many tough matches I’ve survived, and how little I truly control about the final score. Time to hang the bat ,so has Virat.
Now, I crave silence more than commentary. Solitude over spectacle. I long for the courage to accept all my past innings, forgive my own missed shots and dropped catches, and love the match I’ve played – not the one I imagined.
Spiritual longing is not a loud cheer; it creeps in like the dew on the grass at dawn. I don't pray for miracles anymore. I just hope for grace, a quiet understanding of the bigger game and the grand design of life itself.
The Spirit of the Game
And so, my friends, my children, I’ve come to see this sher not as mere poetry, but as a profound invitation to honour life’s changing game.
Don't cling to the Powerplay when the Middle Overs demand strategy.
Don't force aggressive hitting when building a solid total is needed.
And don't chase the scoreboard when the spirit of the game (Khuda) calls for inner peace.
Each innings holds a specific kind of wisdom.
Each phase brings a different kind of challenge and reward. When we resist the natural flow of these innings, we suffer.
But when we embrace them – fully, gratefully – the match of life begins to flow with a strange, soulful symmetry, like a perfectly played game that leaves you with a deep sense of satisfaction.
And maybe that’s what truly growing up means – learning not just what shots to play, but when to play them, and understanding that every innings, every ball, teaches you something in this grand IPL of Zindagi!
So tell me, my friends, my children, what innings are you playing now, and what's your strategy for the next over?
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