if -- memories from the time of B&W TVs rekindled by an instagram chat, and penned down thanks to a writing prompt

The word 'if' always reminds me of Rudyard Kipling's poem by the same name. My favourite lines are these: 'If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same'. I don't recall when I read the poem fully for the first time, but I vividly remember when I heard these lines.

I was 8-years old and watching the Wimbledon Tennis Championships men's final with my dad. A young blond kid whose eyebrows were barely visible walked out onto Centre Court along with a visibly older player -- Boris Becker and Kevin Curran. As they stepped out, the commentator read out these same lines which are inscribed at the locker room exit onto Centre Court, quite sure that the younger of the two would learn a lot that day. The rest, as they say, is history. Becker was the youngest champion and the first German to win the title. He was also super cute, and I became a fan.

Cut to the present.

I've been a Federer fan since I watched him play a few feet away from me, long before he became famous. I've laughed, marvelled, had my jaws drop, jumped up and down, held my heads in my hand, chewed up my nails, cried my heart out and screamed myself hoarse. Poetry. Poetry in motion, every single time.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to an Instagram chat between Nadal and Federer -- eight minutes long, filled with affection, admiration and deep respect for one another. For those of you who may not follow tennis, it's rare to find someone who is a fan of both players. It's almost impossible. Many reasons contribute to this including their styles of play, personalities, dressing sense, etc. but the most important reason is that each has handed the other some of their most heartbreaking losses. The line between triumph and disaster has indeed been very thin.

But if Roger and Rafa can treat those two impostors just the same, what will it take for us, their fans? 

When this is over, I’m ... (lockdown verse)

When this is over, I’m going to write a poem
One that captures the rhythm and rhyme
Of these three weeks I was locked up at home
Absolutely losing all sense of time.

Day 0 was when the announcement was made
And we were given four hours
To ‘prep’ to be indoors for 21 days
The command given by the man in power.

Day 1 was surreal, not much else to say
It felt like a good break maybe in some way.
Day 2 we took stock of grains, pulses and snacks
Biscuits and Maggi added to the list, many a pack.

Day 3 is when the seriousness hit
The consequences, we started to realise, bit by bit.
Day 4 was special, cos veggies I scored
Tomatoes, beans, bottle and even bitter gourd.

Day 5 was friends, family and Zoom
It was nice to see everyone from the comfort of my room.
Day 6, a Corona bingo I made
Before the commonalities I was seeing began to fade.

Day 7 I felt the start of some routine
Home stuff and work from home were more familiar scenes.
Day 8 I wrote a poem about that
In case I needed a reminder about how to keep things on track.

Day 9 I made the first of many lists
Of things learned, not missed, and missed.
Day 10 began with WhatsApp fights
Over the announcement about Sunday’s lights.

Day 11 I listed the things I hadn’t used
To see shoes and shades there left me amused.
Day 12 turned out to be a Sunday
Funday, it wasn’t, just more mundane.

Days 13 and 14 were crazy at work
See how that’s the first time I mentioned work. ‘Smirk’.
Today is Day 15 and I may read this out in class
If at all I’m graded, I hope I’ll at least pass.

I hope to continue this for the remaining time
If more than 21 days, it may be harder to rhyme.
Even though it’s nothing particularly deep
This experience, I want to keep.

21 days will never sound the same again
Let's hope it's 21, and the lockdown will end.