“Right arm over, medium faasht”, declared Maamu, adjusting his belt to the expansion he experienced in his belly after finishing his lunch. He marked his run up with precision. Bittoo screamed, ”Mammu, dheele ho to merko karne do firssht over (If you don't feel good, let me bowl the first over)”. Mammu, relentlessly shining the cosco bowl on his right thigh, expecting some reverse swing, paid no heed to Bittoo’s plea. He was right, it was humid, air was still and full of dust, ideal conditions for reverse swing. I gazed at all of them with such excitement, could feel the tension on Salim’s face, boldest of them all. He had just washed his eyes after being struck by a Maamu bouncer in the previous match they played before Sumit and I joined them. “Aaane do maamu, ab terko bataata hoon (Bring it on Maamu, I'll show you now)”, with that shout from the opening batsman Salim, a 7 over match started, and the village crowd grew in number with every ball bowled.
A huddle was formed, when I was bowled by Sumit. The huddle was a celebration, a victory, neither of any team, nor of any particular player. All nine of us in the huddle, celebrated the end of one of the finest cricket matches we had ever played. We opened the small 2 rupee plastic water cans and drank to Bittoo’s “Ye hai youngistaan” shouts. No one knew for which team we batted for or bowled for. No one knew who had won. We had kicked a lot of dust while playing and even stepped over spots where the local buffalo, in his post lunch session, had decided to stop, watch a few strokes and relieve with little shame. What happened after the first ball was bowled and before the last wicket fell is as unexplainable as the “Nadal-Federer” episode of my previous post. Tinku colliding with a buffalo while going for a catch, little Miss Chutki, with a tomboyish look, saving three runs by unconsciously hurling her stick to stop a fast moving ball towards the boundary, the ‘well-bowled’ and “shaaabash maamu” shouts by some bloke at the boundary line, who moved from his place only when it was his turn to bat, these were just a few of those unforgettable moments.
Many thanks to Maamu, Salim, Chutki, Bittoo, Tinku and the other two horribly funny characters who had very difficult names to remember. Sumit and I may ride again to the same place someday for another dose of ‘village-bliss’, only if the school run by some Shankar Sharma doesn’t change its mind and re-admits these seven students it kicked out, apparently for not being able to pay the tuition fees. Salim thinks this wasn’t the reason. Now he doesn’t idolize Sehwag anymore. His bat, broken from edges, now reads “Shahid Afridi”.
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