Each time you enter the field in your royal robes of blue— it makes the hair of a billion of us stand up in uncanny excitement, high and handsome towards the sky,
Each time you wave to us from the dressing room—it makes a billion of us feel that we're the most united family ever on surface of planet divine,
Each time you send the ball whistling past the boundary ropes—it makes the heart of a billion of us leap out of our chests- to magically blend with you, beat for beat,
Each time you perform your beautifully invincible huddle—it makes us a billion of us feel that India is the strongest nation of them all, wondrously breathing and alive,
Each time you take those daring catches under the blinding Sun—it makes a billion of us feel that ‘Impossible' is really a word non-existent and in the dictionary of dead fools,
Each time you rattle the opposition stumps with mere disdain—it makes a billion of us instantly gobble the deadliest venom in our laps—like it was life-yielding honey,
Each time you smile even under the mightiest onslaught around you—it makes a billion of us grit our teeth in determination—to forever conquer every devil in and around us,
Each time you ease out for lunch and refreshing drinks—it makes a billion of us fervently pray for the most sweetest of your victory- as you restarted a fresh innings,
Each time you tensely glance towards the miserably overcast skies—it makes a billion of us exude into inexhaustible pools of cold sweat—losing our mood for everything else,
Each time you rekindle the atmosphere with your heroic fielding—it makes a billion of us take fresh birth once again and lay all our inexplicable sorrows to perennial rest,
Each time you collectively charge forward in a blood-curling appeal—it makes a billion of us want to enter the soul of the third umpire and rule every decision in
your favor,
Each time you break records of even the slightest of denomination—it makes a billion of us salute our revered flag, in honor and glory of your majestically gallant prowess,
Each time you lay injured on the austere turf—it makes a billion of us inconsolably bleed in the innermost of our veins—wanting to be shoulder to each of your cries,
Each time you sportingly shake hands with the opposition even in face of defeat—it makes a billion of us feel that we're not at war-but relishing cricket at its imperious best,
Each time you run down the pitch to perseveringly earn every invaluable run—it makes a billion of us feel the scent of our sacred motherland drift from you—even though a countless kilometers apart,
Each time you go for the kill even as the target loomed impossibly beyond your reach—it makes a billion of us feel that the air around us is our ultimate resuscitating paradise,
And each time you lift the ‘Cricket World Cup' for us or even thought of doing that in your dreams—it makes a billion of us rediscover our forgotten identities, makes us feel that we're proud to be an offspring of this great Indian soil—that we're proud to be a true Indian.
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