G-10

And now at last that T-20 has come and shown us how to sell
Something strange, though packaged neatly, let me also briefly dwell
Upon a dream game I would love to see played out upon my screen;
Something which I think should loop in many more eyeballs by the scene.

Identification, people, that is key to adoration true,
And if the junta can see themselves every time they see of you,
You are, I guarantee, quite truly unerringly on your way.
Sell soaps, snacks, cell phones, or whatever, folks will swing along your sway.

A forty-over match played out in stadiums lit like the sun,
Where Khan and Dada, Warne and Preity, play and act in unison?
Who are you fooling? This ain't cricket, people don't identify,
And that is why your moolah rake-in doesn't truly satisfy!

Here's Khan uncle busy endorsing a team built for a yuppy crowd
And Kingfisher peddling airline ads to rickshaw guys and street-side louts.
With snazzy uniforms and dashing players from across the globe,
Where is the nondescript, the common? Identification? Not a hope!

So here's my prescription, study it, read it, write it, get by heart:
G-10, a new force slowly dawning, stretching, rising this crow fart.
Ten players only, and all local, playing for their local side;
Supported by the local hoochies in the local countryside.

Simple rules, and simple audience; simple too will be its ads:
Local hotels, raddi wallahs, y'know, the local business-lads.
In streets shall our matches be played with a yellow tennis ball;
It's four at Lallan's shop, and sixes are beyond the lassi stall.

Local teams play local teams, all across this land I love
And inter-city matches due in stadiums, with lights above!
And now, the big-wig companies can pitch in too, should they so wish;
New uniforms for all the players, gourmet food with sweet side dish!

And let their ads rub shoulders with the ads of local investors,
First come-first served, but seating preference, reserved for players' anscestors.
And slowly, as match after match is won and lost, the cities vie
With each other to represent their state in the final tie.

The game now gets truly professional, with local skill and global cash
As experts from each local city come to coach the local lads,
It is a match up of the gully, city, state, and country, men;
And all the world shall watch in awe, our performances in G-10!

No politics, no religion, no celebrities, only play
Shall shine, and all the stars of cricket, play for streets on which they stay!
So yes, we shall have Sachin, Kumble, Dravid, walking hand in hand,
Playing as West Zone against the South Zone, say, in Eastern Eden Land.

There will be players, and the local lads shall stand among the great,
Amazing will be the involvement across the country, as each state,
Each city, town, and village feels the sense of oneness with a team,
And pure performance, true criterion, skims off from all the milk the cream!

Illiterate grannies, ragged urchine, auto wallahs, coolies too,
Shall cheer as one with business magnates, local dons and poe-lis too.
Brew genuine fame, create new legends, play a game the country plays,
And you shall have a good show going, on Sundays, though, and Saturdays.

This is the L-One plan, O players, plan the L2 and L3,
And if you like the idea, then come and confer quick with me.
Make much of me, and treat me, pay me well, and, Oh, just may be then,
I will give you the rights, the permission to play my Galli-Ten!