ICT ONE-SHOTS (FRIENDSHIP)

Did I ever say enough?

Rohit Sharma was not a sentimental person.

Anyone who knew him would vouch for that fact. That was not to say he lacked emotions--he did not--or he lacked understanding--he owned more of it than most did, in fact.

But he was not a sentimental person.

Yet, when he'd successfully (and with much difficulty) pleaded his way out of the rowdy New Year's party their hotel in Cape Town had organized and which his juniors wanted him to attend with them, and tried to go to sleep with an hour still to go for midnight, sleep evaded him.

10 years ago--exactly 10 years ago--he had spent a New Year in this country, too. It had been just after his first Test series in South Africa, his first foreign Test series. The second Test series of his life. India's first Test series without Sachin sir in 24 years.

Stats. Stats. Inconsequential stats.

It was not the stats which did not let him sleep. It was the ghosts of the people from New Year's eve of a coming 2014, in their mid-twenties--Rohit and Virat and Jinks, Shikhar and Bhuvi, Ash and Jaddu--and it was the memories. Already, they seemed so long ago.

Rohit felt like he was chasing ghosts, laughing and running down corridors, full of energy and naivety, almost stupid in their faith in the world, planning their next escapade.

Before he'd realized he was physically chasing the ghosts, he was out of bed, and out in the corridors, sure he'd seen Virat and Jaddu darting up the stairs pell-mell, bent double with hysterical laughter.

He wandered out into the lawn.

It had probably just been Shreyas and Shubman, causing trouble. Things Rohit termed trouble now. Things he would have laughed at ten years ago, too.

"Didn't you go to sleep?"

Rahul's voice roused Rohit out of his stupour.

"Didn't Virat and Shubi convince you to attend the party?" Rohit asked in turn.

"I couldn't stand all the noise," said Rahul, and offered the glass he held to Rohit. "Cranberry juice?"

"Just cranberry juice?" said Rohit sardonically, but took a sip nevertheless--a tiny one.

Rahul's lips twitched.

10 years ago, at the New Year's party, Rohit had probably sneaked around with Virat, Jaddu and Shikhar, trying to sneak 'cranberry juice' of this nature under Mahi bhai's nose. Bhuvi would have been giving them judgmental looks. Jinks and Ash would have been trying to stop them, but not trying too hard--they'd have wanted to see how the plan worked out, too.

Or maybe Rohit was imagining it up.

Maybe it hadn't happened on 2013's eve at all, but sometime else. Plenty of times else. It had been their regular, for years--years when they travelled together all year.

"Are you bothered by anything?" Rahul's voice broke in again.

"Don't you usually love loud music, like Virat?" countered Rohit, again.

"Stop answering with questions," said Rahul with a frown.

"Well, it's a sport," said Rohit, "and I'm in that mood."

"The real question is why you're in that mood."

Rohit took the glass as Rahul passed it back to him after a couple of sips. This time he drained it. Rahul raised an eyebrow, but held his tongue.

It did use to a sport for them, among hundreds of sports. Jaddu was the best at it, purely because he had the swiftest and wildest imagination. He would answer 'what do you want for dinner?' with 'why do fireflies glow?' without a bat of an eyelash. He would also answer 'why do we always qualify for the knockouts?' to 'why do we always lose in the knockouts?' and make everyone feel better, just like that.