Towards the close of play at Eden Gardens, the stadium’s big screen zoomed in on England’s new captain standing in his usual languid style at the non-striker’s end. His face both contemplative and determined. Another Test Match century, his 23rd. The record books continue to be rewritten.
The stadiums watchful hawks performed their last swoop of this famous old arena. The cooling westerly breeze and the ever present smog and drawing dusk doused the last of the Bengal sun’s power. Billy the Trumpeter played Rule Britannia.

Am I doing the right thing? Quitting my steady if soporific job in the middle of a recession to gallivant un-worriedly around the world? How the hell am I going to get a job when I get back? How long before the money runs out?

It didn’t matter. That moment. My raison d’être.

England are still one hundred runs behind with nine wickets in hand and three days to play. All three results still possible. As an England fan, I’ve been here before. Hope, damn hope.

A moment to savour though.

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