Th_ink

Delicate in, tough out,  Easily ruffled, Mostly in single colour,  In shades of black and silver grey, Obsolete, irrelevant  After a short prime, Laden with a drive,  That drives nothing now. Who am I? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I am the a: drive!

A Sachin has to leave the field For others, After two-hundred test centuries. Sachins are role-models, Ultra successful, Front-pagers, Gods. Millions of non-Sachins, Must quit on a muted pitch, Having lived by singles And ducks And hopes and despairs in between, But no sixes. I feel like embracing each of them - The non-Sachins, Who has played a fair game Without longing for a century, And celebrate a failure In his moment of quitting.