Indian cricket’s last will and testament

I, Cricket, of sane mind and body make the following statement, my last will and testament.

I am in the throes of death, suffocating under the weight of many incompetent people. Some of who are running my affairs as if I was the whore who they got in their dowry. And some who have many problems of their own, and do not know how to solve them, but they call me those well wishers.

They say: "Cricket, how are you?"

I begin, wanting to express my grief, my sadness, my helplessness. At last there is some one who has asked the right question. I begin: "I am bad...."

I am cut off: "Oh rubbish, rubbish... How can you be bad with 98 crores in you account... anyway, my leather business is having some problems now, I have to run... catch you later."

That was just an example, and I don’t want to live. Any other method, would land me in crutches, on a wheelchair, the way my sisters like hockey, football have been.

I have no zest to live, I have no reason to. I have suffered the infamy of having idiots manage my affairs. How could you let that happen. How could the whole nation let it happen. How could you trust these people to run my affairs. You let these people, who are not qualified to run a kindergarten, manage my affairs?

They brought me to my knees, but they could not break my resolve to live. Ah, that credit goes to the good men. People who watched while I was looted. People who stood silent. The good men, the true men, the honest men.

And now, on my death bed, where I would rather die than live on a wheelchair. I live my last will and testament.

To men and women, those that who looted me, those whose eyes were on the silver and whose said lips spoke undying love for me, I forgive you. There is nothing else I could do. You knew not what you did, to quote the famous words. Your hearts were sold to greed, and to do good would have been against your nature. It is the people who put you there that are at fault.

To men and women, whom I made. Pataudi, Gavaskar, Bedi, Sachin, to name a few; there are many more. I cannot forgive you. I gave you what I have given but few, and yet you chose to stand and watch. Incompetent fools took over my estate, you watched. I was defiled, and you watched. I was looted and you watched. I was mocked at, taunted, and you watched. And you watched. My forgiveness is something you will never get, you have to live your life with that.

To men and women, whom I owed nothing, but who came to me, who fought for me, I give you memories of a glorious past. Those moments of joy, those times of fun. With fondness I bid adieu. I know that there will be a vacuum in your hearts, but there will also be love.

To all the players, young and old. I know that you will die a little too. Or revolt? The answers all lie in your hearts; seek the goodness that lies within you, follow the footsteps of greatness not fame, follow the conscience.

To all those little ones, whose bat is taller than their head. Play on, on the roadsides, on a little patch of grass. Play on just for want of play. No fortune nor fame or wealth in mind. Just the fun. To you I leave all the fun, those precious moments. When you first discover that with fingers you can spin the ball, or how to swing the bat right. To you I leave all the best. Of a game that is dead and gone. Killed by the ones I fed.

And to end, here are a few words I had read a long time ago.

"When I am dead dearest,
Plant no roses on my head,
Nor shady cypress trees.
If you will, remember me,
If you will, forget."

Mail Shakeel Abedi