India played virtually perfect cricket - the exact opposite of what they did against Bangladesh the other day - and blasted Bermuda out of the water at the Queen's Park Oval in Trinidad. A display of creative and powerful batting, where four of the big six fired India to 413, a record total in World Cups and the bowlers then did their job, bundling Bermuda out for 156, winning the game by 257 runs, the largest margin in terms of runs in all ODI cricket. David Hemp resisted with an unbeaten 76 but lacked support from the rest in a one-sided contest. Irvine Romaine, the Bemuda captain, put India in, and like the other day, when Netherlands put South Africa in, the minnow tasted early success. Robin Uthappa flashed a ball to slip for Dwayne Leverock to defy the laws of physics and gravity to leap to his right and catch at a wide slip position. Virender Sehwag, pushed down to the middle-order, began badly, slashing and missing outside the off stump. But soon he settled down, and began thumping the ball over the off side with the same lack of footwork that has been his undoing in recent times. But the straight strikes down the pitch, and one loft over extra-cover that landed in the second tier, suggested that it would be Sehwag's day. And it most certainly was. Sehwag's half-century came off only 43 balls, with 11 fours, but the real hitting followed, only pausing briefly when he neared the three-figure mark. That's understandable given he has not scored an ODI hundred in 59 innings or two years, and it was the kind of innings that justified his captain's faith. While Sehwag was roaring back to his run-scoring ways, Sourav Ganguly was sedately keeping his end going. At no point did he attempt to boost the scoring rate, but instead chose to play the role of an anchor. When Sehwag was dismissed for 114 (87 balls, 17 fours, 3 sixes) India were 205 for 2, in under 30 overs, with Ganguly on 76 from 94 balls. Soon after, Ganguly too fell, stumped after coming down and having a mighty heave, for 89. Mahendra Singh Dhoni began responsibly, looking to set himself a platform to launch from, but his run was cut short when a brilliant catch by Janeiro Tucker at long-off sent him packing for 29. At that stage India were comfortable at 269 for 4 from 38.2 overs. But what had gone by was merely the calm before the storm. Yuvraj Singh and Sachin Tendulkar played strokes of such purity and majesty that it was batting at its very best. The crowd were on their feet for the duration of their association. Yuvraj was quick to plant one knee down and scorch the ball over the ropes in the arc from square-leg to midwicket, hitting as cleanly as anyone has in this tournament. Tendulkar, on the other hand, dripped class. He chose just the appropriate shot for each ball, never losing his cool, always playing late. Tendulkar lofted one delectable six over long-off, swept one startling six over fine-leg, and almost unnoticed got to 57. And it's not often that you score 57 off only 29 balls without using brute force. Yuvraj certainly used excessive force, but not one of his 83 runs, which came off only 43 balls, with seven sixes, came off an ugly shot. Rahul Dravid, who pushed himself down the order, finished the innings of with a six, and India had 413 for 5, something that would have gone some way in erasing the memory of the forgettable batting against Bangladesh. Bermuda never had any realistic chance of chasing 414, yet India's aim was not a simple victory. Rather, they needed to win by at least 243 runs, the margin Sri Lanka beat Bermuda by. And they achieved that without too much difficulty. Zaheer Khan provided the opening, squeezing one through the defences of Oliver Pitcher in the very first over. Steven Outerbridge was the second to suffer, when a delivery from Zaheer jagged sharply back in from outside the off stump and drilled the stumps. A bit of a partnership then held up India's charge, but Munaf Patel, who beat the bat often enough, was a bit fortunate to get on the scoreboard when a ball struck Delyone Borden high on the pad, and the appeal for lbw was upheld. Anil Kumble, playing in place of Harbhajan Singh, had Romaine for a duck when he shouldered arms to a straight one on the stumps. Tucker came down the pitch to Kumble - a risky thing to do at the best of times - and lost his stumps as he swung across the line and missed. Dean Minors and David Hemp added 43 for the sixth wicket, the best stand of the innings, but Minors was dismissed mis-hitting a pull to mid-off. Lionel Cann was then smartly snapped up by Uthappa in a slightly controversial catch at short cover, where the ball was snatched up very close to the turf. From there on there was little to play for, and Bermuda only managed 156, handing India victory by 257 runs.

Cinematography by Molly Music by Howard Shore When we moved here, 5 years ago, there were two nasty, ugly, rude, mean, aggressive, assertive, vindictive, ruthless, relentless sticker bushes in the front yard in the island between our yard and the neighbor’s driveway. I’m not talking about pansy little rose thorns, or wild vines that catch on your pant leg and scratch your arms. No, I’m talking about the kind of thorns that Prince Charming had to drill through to reach Sleeping Beauty. These thorns are two inches long, sharp as needles, and strong as steel. They are covered with weakened rattlesnake venom, so that when one pierces your flesh (usually in the palm of the hand, or on the knuckles) it aches for hours like the intentional sting of a hornet. And like a hornet, you don’t have to be anywhere near the bush to fall prey to its evil aggression. It will chase you just for sharing airspace, despite the fact that it needs your CO2 emissions. The bushes grow extremely fast, so that if you were to go on vacation and not ask someone to guard them with a machete, they will literally (not figuratively) take over your house, overthrow the county government, institute militia rule and form a hedge around your city (remember sleeping beauty) through which the National Guard wouldn’t dare to venture. One cuts the three week-old, three-foot shoots of thorn laden swords, lays them under constant watch until he is sure they are completely dead, and glances again at the bush to find they’ve been replaced by stronger, deadlier shoots. These are lopper-resistant strains of torturous thorn bushes, and are the best proof yet of Darwinism. The branches grow straight as an arrow for 24 inches, or 3 inches and then suddenly make a right angle and repeat the process, myriad times until a maze of branches and two-inch thorns are tangled together in a weave so tight it sends shivers of awe through the unwitting homeowner cum thorn bush foe. About a month ago, I realized that I’d finally found victory over one of the bushes. As I returned from work, I glanced, as I always do, a glance of anger and fortitude in the direction of the bush, and next morning, I realized that it was just enough to do the bush in. Apparently I’d weakened it over time, and that last steely-eyed glance had enough vitriol to finally kill the formidable foe. With a new sense of masculinity, I headed to the garage for my chainsaw. I could feel the testosterone pumping as I primed the 2 cycle engine with pure hormone. It started and ran so rich on testosterone that smoke belched from the muffler as I attacked that bush. I didn’t even mess with the upper echelons of the thornical hierarchy, I went straight for the trunk. Cut that monster off at the feet. Did I stop at seeing that helpless, dead, bush fall to my saw? No, I went straight for the remaining living bush and served it the same fate. I’ve been doing yard work these past days and I knew eventually, I would have to contend with those thorn bushes. Initially I dragged them whole into the backyard and placed them out of the way. Today I attacked them again. Much to my surprise, though they had been severed from their roots for weeks, they were only mostly dead. I’d been hoping they were all dead, and that all that would be left to do was go through their pockets for loose change. But no. And man, were they mad. This time I put on thick leather gloves, grabbed the loppers, and set about untangling those prickly swords and cutting them away so that I could feed them to the chipper/shredder. With every last drop of energy they had left, they resisted. I’d carefully pull a branch and it would snap back and swing at me with those evil thorns. My hands were bruised and bloody, bits of thorns lodged in my knuckles, arms scratched, legs ached, but eventually, I fed those bushes into the chute and listened with a sweet smile as I heard the bits shooting out the other side. What is disturbing to me is the anger, and hatred that emanated from my soul as I fought the last bush battle. Would I be content only to clean up the yard? NO! I would not rest until every last fiber of hell-bush was chipped and shredded into nourishing mulch and fed into the lake of fire. Frustration is an emotion familiar to me. Anger is rare. Hatred is unknown. But oh, the feelings I felt for those bushes. So long hell-bush. May your being consumed only increase the heat of the fire that consumes you.