My son

My child Mushfiq-ur Rahim is so chirpy on the field, he makes the Aussies look like a quiet bunch.

His size is miniature, kind of like what an ant would look like under a microscope. That's how tiny he is.

That dude, who may or may not be legal (As a mother, it is my duty to remember his average over his age), attempted to save Bangladesh from major embarassment. With a century.

We have embarassed ourselves so many times, we are practically immune to it. But after a first day that nearly drove the Deshis themselves to life-long coma, we had hoped that we would at least lose this with our heads held high. We collapsed in the first innings and tried too many things in the second. At one point, Shahadat Hossain bowled a yorker so slow, I thought I was in a twilight zone where time had stopped. The ball was promptly sent to the boundary by the Indian batsman.

Fifth day, turning wicket, Amit Mishra and chasing 414. What could we have done? Oh I know! Support Mushfiq in both the innings while he batted his heart out to save the game. It was not to be.

After the first day I had wondered whether it was too early to be proud of Bangladesh. It was. But not too early to be proud of my child. Oh yes, that "Fuck you all, I want to bat" attitude, he gets that from me.

Not his tiny frame though. That he gets from his Daddy.