Masters

While I’ve always tremendously enjoyed the irreverence of the Aussies on court, I don’t think I’ve ever lusted after a single one of those boys…. The French, are another matter altogether. But last night, despite the coy towel draped over his nipples in response to the wolf whistling crowd, I felt my breath drawn to a standstill at the sight of the undulating muscles across his back and shoulders as Pat Cash changed out of his sweat tee. That Aussie has one of the most beautifully sculpted torsos I have ever seen, the kind that invokes the spirit of Michelangelo within you, and you can appreciate the compelling need he might have felt to try and capture the play of light against the exquisite musculature. Spellbound, I drink in the sight, unmindful of the poetry in motion cliché, as they bunch and ripple before disappearing under a clean shirt. I feel like a disappointed adolescent shooed away from the soft lines of a semi naked Athena by a crotchety museum guard. My fingers and palms itching to mould the contours, feel the shift and play of movement underneath, test it's strength and give. Just like that bronze at the Fric.

The black hole that is my memory swims into light…and I can see straining muscles, pulling and heaving against the yoke of a haathgaadi, thwarted by the unruly traffic in suburban Bombay. A lithe, dark body, interrupted by a grimy ganji and the sheen of sweat. A row of men, outside MTNL, chanting and grunting in unison as they manhandle the recalcitrant cable into submission. Shoulders bunched, muscles thrown into relief as they pull together, backs rippling with every heave. There is nothing more fascinating than the sight of a living torso. The primeval knowledge that it’s flesh and bone, muscle, tissue and blood, knitted together in just the right way. So fragile, yet so strong, so undeniably obvious. The potentcy and vibrancy of life conveyed through motion. The sheer beauty of it, breathtaking. My God. That man has such a beautiful body.

Emma’s sniggering makes me realise I didn't just say it in my head..... apparently, another body to behold is that of Roger Federer. I squint at her in disblief. As desparate as I am to see him move on court at least once in my life, he allegedly has the anatomy to drive Emma to ask in hushed tones if it was wrong for her to want to see him naked...... Damn! The vision of Roger naked serves only to crease my forehead with an unbecoming scowl. Somethings really shouldn't be messed with and the Federer backhand is one of them. My meanderings into the world of sculpture that I covet is reined in as we watch Cash annhilate Pioline in striaght sets. Another semi-Aussie victory in a superb doubles finale (McNamara/Pernfors vs Woodforde/Leconte) topped by TFL's incomptenence at Earl's Court while it's pouring outside drives the Renaissance back to the 15th century, as I trade Greek sculpture for Greek profanity......