The Lament

'The art of Trumper is like the art in a bird's flight, an art that knows not how wonderful it is. Batting was for him a superb dissipation, a spontaneous spreading of fine feathers.'
- Sir Neville Cardus,
On Victor Trumper.

I have never seen Trumper bat. I have never even seen footage of him batting; in fact I don't think any exists. But, how then did I fall in love with him? How then did I start admiring him? A singular essay was responsible; my favourite essay on cricket, 'Never Another Like Victor' by that superb cricketer-turned-writer Jack Fingleton. This, is the power of writing, the power of a lament. A passage of writing gets a soul of its own when it's a heartfelt lament. If a lament connects with the reader, it has the scope to make her look into herself and identify with the sense of loss that is evoked. Consider what Cardus had to say about Trumper:
"His grave, in a churchyard outside Sydney, is to this day covered by fresh flowers."
That single sentence probably gives you the measure of the man, the fact that he could not have been ordinary.

Strangely another of my love affairs was also with a dead man. And it too sprouted from a lament. 'Hitch On, Hoopy Frood' by Mitali Saran was on the unexpected passing away of Douglas Noel Adams(DNA), the man who taught Science Fiction to laught at itself. The way the lament sank in, prompted me to delve into the fascinating worlds Adams had created... Oh and how I loved it! The most evocative lament on Adams I've read though is the one by that popular evolutionary biologist, Richard Dawkins. These self descriptive lines tell it all:
'This is not an obituary; there'll be time enough for them. It is not a tribute, not a considered assessment of a brilliant life, not a eulogy. It is a keening lament, written too soon to be balanced, too soon to be carefully thought through. Douglas, you cannot be dead."
Well, you read this and you think, 'man...to evoke this kinda response this guys musta been somethin else!'. He was. If this sounded disrespectful, I don't care, because DNA wouldn't have cared, he'd get it.

One last lament before I hurry off to some simple, yet slightly complicated pleasures of life . This is not on a person, but rather an institution - Carribean Cricket. I might have slighlty more to say on it, particularly on 'King' Richards and Sir Gary Sobers, probably in a future post. I am letting Walter de la Mare take over here...his words echo cricketing fans' feelings all over the world.

'Something has gone, and ink and print
will never bring it back,
I long for the great days again,
When the kings in white were black.'

May you never have to write a lament!

PS: 1. As of writing, we might be seeing a carribean resurgence through Gayle and Lara; but a cricket team is made of ELEVEN men.
2. I originally saw this Walter de la Mare poem in a Carribean lament published in 'The Hindu'.