It's like the brooding hen sitting over a china egg.

Even a cock crows over his own dunghill.

The Indians are finding the gaps like a pin in a haystack.

The ball whizzes past like a bumblebee and the Indians are in the sea.

There is light at the end of the tunnel for India, but it's that of an oncoming train which will run them over.

Wickets are like wives. You never know what to expect from them.