In Time – A Short Story

December 31, 1984, Calcutta

The booming growl of a tiger from somewhere in the distance confirmed to him that he must not be far from where he wanted to be. Vivaan Sharma walked purposefully with the milling crowd at the zoo, trying his best not to bump into anyone.

His hands were stuffed inside the pockets of his large black jacket and he shivered a little as he walked briskly ahead. It was a chilly Calcutta winter morning with the northern winds blowing merrily all over the Alipore Zoological Gardens.

Even though it was just 10.30 in the morning, the zoo was teeming with people – families with kids, mostly, who were relishing the year’s last day with great abandon.

Vivaan took a left turn from the aviary section, resisting the urge to take a peek at the Hornbill enclosure. In fact, a part of him desperately wanted to stand there and gape at every part of the surrounding in detail. But he knew he had little time in hand.

The turn brought him to a wide clearing where every little space was crammed with people. At his far left was a row of cages filled with myriad species of monkeys, a Sloth Bear, a Spotted Hyena, and a Himalayan Black Bear. The boisterous chatter of the monkeys easily drowned the excited murmur of the crowd gawking at them.

At his right, Vivaan found a large, round and open enclosure with a solitary giant tortoise. A bunch of kids ogled at it from the other end of the enclosure. Right beyond it was a big garden where a number of families sat, basking in the sun. Vivaan knew he was almost there.

Before he could make a turn towards the garden, though, Vivaan’s eyes fell on the tortoise and a silent “Oh!” escaped his lips. A little board outside the enclosure read: “Addwaita, the Aldabra tortoise. Addwaita arrived in the Alipore zoo in 1875 and at 224 years, she is one of the world's oldest living creatures.”

A little smile appeared on Vivaan’s face as he observed the giant animal, nonchalantly lazing away in the center of her enclosure. “Good to see you again, my friend,” he bent down and whispered through the bars of the cage.

A soft beeping noise in his right ear made him stand straight again. Making sure no one was noticing him he pushed a button from inside the pocket of his jacket and walked ahead. 

“Make it quick, Aditya!” he whispered, as lightly as he could, while covering his mouth with his left palm. “I am in the middle of a crowd.”

“Did you reach safely?” a frantic male voice at the other end said. “I told you to update me the moment you land there. What the hell are you playing at? I was so tensed…”

“Yes. I am safe and sound. And I will get back to you after I am done,” Vivaan said while crouching behind a huge tree near the side of the tortoise enclosure and pretending to tie his shoelace.

“Okay, remember this is our first beta test,” the voice said sternly. “You just have a thirty-minute window for now. We do not know how your body will react to traveling back 36 years. So be very, very careful of any odd anomaly. Also, don’t forget that you cannot tell anyone…Anyone… That you are from the future. We simply do not know what kind of an effect even a little rift in time can induce. We are on the verge of a massive breakthrough here after years and years of toil. This can change both our lives forever. Heck, this can change the world. So we cannot afford any slip. Is that clear?”

Vivaan got up and sighed, “For the 100^th time, yes.”

There was a little pause at the other end. And then, the voice said, “For the life of me I cannot fathom why you have chosen to go back to Calcutta. And why on this particular date? With the technology we have developed, we needed a better location. The next trip will take at least six months if not…”

“Adi, I am already seven minutes in,” Vivaan cut him short. “I will explain later.”

“Oh. Okay. But I want a detailed report. And be very, very careful.”

“Yes,” Vivaan whispered and pressed the button inside his jacket again.

He took a deep breath and scanned the garden in front of him. A few kids playing catch nearby looked at him and whispered among themselves. He was tall and he knew he would easily be the odd one out in the crowd. Vivaan had hence worked doubly hard to ensure he could at least blend in with his outfit – a large jacket over a dull grey shirt along with a pair of black Bell-Bottom pants.

Vivaan made his way through the crowd, surveying the area thoroughly and looking at a host of unknown smiling and cheerful faces all over. He now felt nervous and anxious.

The sudden loud noise from a radio from his left, followed by the angry yell of a man, caught his attention. “Damn you, Gavaskar! You just had to nick that!” barked the man furiously.

Vivaan turned towards the man. He had his back to him and sat on a carpet on the ground with a woman.

“And a hush has descended over the Eden Gardens as Sunil Gavaskar walks back to the pavilion. That was a very good catch indeed by Gatting,” the silken voice of a man from the radio swam over to Vivaan as he slowly moved over to the couple.

His heart was racing. His breathing became a tad heavy and he could feel his stomach cramping up. He stood behind them for a few seconds, gathering his nerves, before finally saying: “Excuse me, Sir. What’s the score?”

The man turned around. He had an extremely bushy mop of hair, was very skinny and wore a grey half sweater over a pale white shirt and baggy blue pants. He appeared to have been deeply engrossed in the game as traces of annoyance still remained on his face.

“Oh…Um…It’s 35-2 now. Both Wadekar and Gavaskar have been dismissed. Stupid openers,” he said through gritted teeth.

“And Mohinder Amarnath ambles up to the crease to join Dilip Vengsarkar in the middle,” the voice on the radio flowed. “India really needs a good partnership now.”

The man returned to stare glumly at the little black radio set in his hand and adjusted the antenna a bit to clear the voice. Vivaan stole a furtive glance at the lady sitting beside the man. She seemed lost in a Hindi magazine titled ‘Saheli’ and was draped in a dark green shawl over a neat pink saree. Everything about her was immaculate.

Tearing his face away from her lest he was caught gaping, Vivaan took a few deep breaths and shut his eyes for a few seconds. He looked to be fighting with himself. Trying hard to not lose control. He couldn’t. He had been training his mind for months for this moment.

He moved forward to face them from the front.

“Hey, did you know that this is the first Test match India is playing on the 31^st of December?” Vivaan said.

The man looked up from the radio. “Wow, is it? That’s interesting.”

Vivaan smiled and checked his watch as if calculating something in his mind.

“And I predict that Amarnath will open his account with a boundary.”

The man chuckled. “Amarnath is agonizingly slow. The audience will probably fall asleep today with…”

Before he could finish his sentence, a ‘thunk’ sound emanated from the radio followed by the boisterous cheer of the crowd. “And Amarnath has ladled this over the cover boundary to open his account. What a shot to get off the mark!” the commentator said.

The man looked at Vivaan with a sheepish smile. “Damn…You are good.”

Vivaan was breathing easier now.

“I wish I could have been at the Eden today,” the man said in a hushed tone. “But today is the birthday of the missus. So…”

“I see,” Vivaan responded, trying his best to sound surprised at this information.

The man peered at Vivaan closely. “Have I met you earlier?” he questioned uncertainly. “You look oddly familiar.”

Feigning a snicker, Vivaan said, “I don’t think so, no.” And then he immediately changed the topic. “So what do you think of the current Indian team? They have not been at their best after the World Cup victory last year, huh?”

“Oh, tell me about it,” the man shook his head. And for the next fifteen minutes, the two went on to animatedly discuss in intricate details the good, the bad and the ugly of Indian cricket. Despite the chatter of the monkeys, the commentary from the radio and the cacophony of the kids from around them, Vivaan listened to the man with rapt attention and indulged in the conversation while stealing glances at the woman from the corner of his eye.

“This debutant Azharuddin,” the main trailed on. “I wonder what he will do.”

Vivaan checked his watch. “Yeah. We will have to wait and see. But now… I must get going.”

“Ah, so soon?” the man looked genuinely disappointed.

“Yes. I …Um…I am short of time,” Vivaan said.

“Well, it was nice meeting you,” the man said warmly. “Your knowledge on the game is incredible.”

Vivaan smiled. “I credit my father for that. He passed on his love for cricket to me at a very young age.”

“He must be an interesting man.”

Vivaan paused for a moment, as if suppressing the urge to move towards the man, but then held himself back. “He is the best father anyone can have,” he said simply.

The man nodded. “Hey, before you go,” he said and picked up a square steel box from beside him. He opened it and took out a little round, mustard-colored sweet from inside.

“Here, have this,” he got up and handed the sweet to Vivaan. “This is a ‘sattu ka laddu’ – my wife’s specialty. She made it for her birthday.”

Vivaan stared at the sweet closely, a little taken aback. It was hard and smelled fresh. And Vivaan looked at it as if he had found something he had lost after a very long time.

“Tha…Thank you,” was all he managed to mumble.

“And a happy birthday to you, Ma’am,” he finally addressed the woman properly. She had been observing the two men and only smiled demurely at the greeting.  

“Hey, I never caught your name,” the man said suddenly.

“Uh…It’s Vivaan, Sir.”

“Ah…What a unique name! I love it,” the man said brightly.

Vivaan nodded and said, “It means rays of the morning sun.”

“Ah! That’s interesting. I will remember it.”

Vivaan grinned and then extended his hand. “It was lovely to meet you, Sir!”

The man shook his hand. His palm was very warm and Vivaan felt really nice holding it. “Likewise, my friend. I hope to meet you again someday.”

Vivaan considered him for a moment before saying, “You will, Sir! I promise.”

And just as he was about to turn around, he said, “And I predict that the debutant Azharuddin will score a century today.”

The man sniggered. “That’s a tall task.”

“We shall see. Goodbye then,” Vivaan smiled and turned away quickly from them.

He walked swiftly, fighting the urge to look back. Only after he had reached the big tree near the side of the enclosure of the giant tortoise, did he come to a halt. He collected his breath and wiped his eyes. And then, ensuring that no one was looking at him, he caught a glimpse of the couple while poking his head from behind the tree. The woman was busy saying something while the man’s eyes were firmly fixed on his radio set.

Despite the overwhelming feeling gnawing at him, Vivaan managed a weak smile. He looked at his wrist watch; his time was up. He took one last glance at the couple, focusing especially on the woman.

Without moving his eyes away from her, he pressed the side button on his watch.

There was a soft buzzing sound and Vivaan’s body trembled a little.

The wind from the north picked up speed and Vivaan shivered. Somewhere in the distance, a tiger roared loudly and several people in the park turned their heads in that direction.

The woman was now laughing about something the man had said and playfully hit him on the shoulder. Both of them looked happy and at ease.

“Bye, Maa!” Vivaan whispered.

Another gust of wind blew sharply from the north. By the time it reached the tree near the tortoise enclosure, there was no one behind it.

****************************************************************************************************************************************

December 31, New Delhi, 2020

“And there it is! Mohammad Azharuddin becomes only the eight Indian batsman in history to score a hundred on Test debut. What a fine performance this by the 21-year-old! He raises his bat to acknowledge the applause from a boisterous Eden crowd.”

35-year-old Vivaan Sharma smiled as he looked on happily at the black and white footage of a vintage cricket match playing on his computer screen. He wore a rather large black jacket.

It was 11:20 in the morning and Vivaan appeared to be at ease with himself in his tiny apartment. After the batsman had resumed his batting in the video, he pushed the pause button on the computer screen, picked up his cell phone from the table, and dialed a number.

“Hey, Dad!”

“Ah, Vivaan! Is everything okay? You are coming today, right?” an aged man’s voice at the other end said. It sounded tired.

“Yes, Dad. I leave in a couple of hours and will be there by evening.”

“Oh, good. Good,” the man said. His voice was a little relaxed now. “It would be really nice having you over finally. It’s been so long.”

“I know, Dad…” Vivaan was about to say something else, but the man continued on the phone.

“The house has been so empty after your mother’s passing,” he said almost as if speaking to himself. And after a moment’s pause, he added, “But…It would be really great to have you back. Especially today.”

“Yes, I know,” Vivaan said. “Hey, Dad! Do you remember the Test match where Azhar scored his debut hundred?”

There was silence for a few seconds at the other end. “Oh… The one at the Eden Gardens? 1984?” there was a distinct change in the tone of his voice. It was more enthusiastic now.

“Yes. The first Test India played on the 31^st of December. I remember you telling me about it years back.”

“Oh, yes! Yes, I remember,” the man said, happily. “Yeah, what about it?”

“They have finally uploaded the video of the match’s highlights on YouTube. We can watch it together tonight,” Vivaan said brightly.

“Oh, that’s fantastic!” the man said, sounding truly elated. “I love watching clips of those cricket games from the 80s. I really wish I had been at the Eden for this one.”

“I know, Dad. I know,” Vivaan said with a smile. “Anyway…I will see you in the evening then.”

“Looking forward to it, son,” the man replied.

Vivaan appeared relieved as he disconnected the call and placed his phone back on the table. He was lost in his happy thoughts for a few seconds. Then, as if remembering something suddenly, he began checking the pockets of his jacket. From the right breast pocket, he took out a little round mustard yellow sweet. Vivaan beamed and sniffed the sweet. It felt fresh and appetizing.

His eyes then turned to look at a little photo frame beside the computer screen. The photograph contained three people – a very pretty woman, clad in a cream sweater over a white and indigo saree, a skinny man with an exceptionally bushy mop of hair wearing a blue jacket over a red sweater and a three-month-old baby boy nestled comfortably on the lap of the woman. The three of them appeared to be inside a zoo and sat outside a little platform in front of a huge open enclosure. Behind them, a giant tortoise could be seen lazing on the grass inside the cage. The couple looked very happy.

Vivaan took a little bite from the sweet in his hand while continuing to gaze at the picture. It was soft, fresh and delectable. “Happy birthday, Maa!” he whispered.

The next moment, the door to Vivaan’s apartment flung open and a short and bespectacled man with wiry hair entered, carrying a bulging plastic bag in his left hand. He wore an olive green overcoat which had covered him almost entirely. Despite his short height, though, this 30-something man had an air of no-nonsense about him.

He looked at Vivaan and exclaimed, “Oh, thank goodness you are back! I had to run an urgent errand. Now tell me…” He advanced towards Vivaan without wasting a second and flung his bag on the floor. “Were there any anomalies? Did anybody suspect you? What was your first feeling like? And when you landed, did you feel any cramps in your stomach as I had predicted? I need answers!” He spoke fast and had a frantic expression on his face.

“Good to see you too, Aditya!” Vivaan smiled.

“Don’t try to be a wise guy, wise guy,” Aditya barked while folding his arms. “You have been oddly evasive about this trip, Viv, and I had only reluctantly agreed because I trust you. But I still don’t know…”

“Adi,” Vivaan cut him short. “I will tell you everything in minute detail once I return from Kolkata next week. For now, just trust what I had told you earlier. That I needed a blessing of sorts before we actually take this full scale. And today’s date…”

“Is an important one for you, I know. You have said that many times before,” Aditya finished his sentence, shaking his head in annoyance.

Vivaan snickered. “Yes. So, I needed to begin our venture on this precise date only and from the place and time I chose. I wanted to make it auspicious if that makes any sense. But for now, you need to have patience with me for this one. I will tell you everything before we commence our next adventure….”

“This is NOT an adventure!” Aditya hollered. “This can have a lasting impact on…”

“It will be… In time,” Vivaan said confidently and took another bite from the sweet in his hand while pushing himself comfortably back on the chair he was sitting on.

“Wait…What is that you are eating?” Aditya asked, pointing at the sweet.

“Oh, this? This is a ‘sattu ka laddu’,” Vivaan responded with a cheer while merrily savoring the sweet taste of the laddu in his mouth.

“I want it too,” Aditya demanded.

“Ah, no can do, my friend! And, besides, you wouldn’t like it at all.”

“Yeah?” Aditya raised his eyebrows. “And why is that?”

“Because,” Vivan said while putting the last crumb of the sweet inside his mouth, “This is a 36-year-old laddo, man.”

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All rights reserved 

(End Note:

Although this wasn't the intention initially, but as I was finishing the story I began contemplating that I can take this idea further. I have always enjoyed stories on time travel and it is a concept that fascinates me immensely. It is complex and very, very tough to write on. While this story was pretty simple, I now want to explore it more. I have some ideas, though they are very simple too. Something on the lines of 'The Time-Traveling Adevntures of Viv and Adi'. It is just a thought. Let's see if I can actually do it. It certainly does get me excited for the coming year. )

Our Cricket Bat

Once upon a time we had a cricket bat, my brother and I.

We loved that bat.

It was our first deuce bat, after all.

I remember the night it was bought, about 25 year ago. It was a momentous day in our lives.

It came out of the blue, without warning. Just like that. Wrapped in a neat, blue cover.

Our father took it out and handed it to us. It was so shiny. So gleamy. So new. I held it and smelled it; it felt like new furniture. I took a batting stance; the handle was too big for me to grip. And it was so heavy. Too heavy for my little hands. The blade was so thick. I felt I could smash any bowler in the world. I was overawed.

We would no longer need my skinny little bat. We were now in the big league. We owned a deuce bat, after all.

It became our loyal companion in the days to follow. Every evening we would take it out from the little space behind our mother’s almirah, which became its permanent shelter for the next ten years.  

And then…Hours after hours, days after days, it would exchange hands between me and my brother. I would await my turn eagerly. To hold the bat. To feel the heavy thud of the cork ball on its face. Ball after ball… Over after over …

In the initial days, I would generally be out bowled in the first ball itself; flailing wildly at thin air and unable to lift the bat quickly enough.

“One more ball, Bhaiya. Please, one more ball,” I would plead.

When our matches would be over, I would quietly wait for the time my brother wouldn’t be around. That is what I eagerly looked forward to the most. Because that is when I was the king.

With the bat held in my little hands, I would progress to play shadow cricket. To someone watching me from a distance it would have appeared an odd sight – a skinny boy wildly swinging his bat in thin air on his verandah.

But in my mind, I was batting at Lord’s and Eden Gardens, and the Melbourne Cricket Ground and the Kensignton Oval. I was smashing Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis, and Courtney Walsh and Glen McGrath…No bowler was spared by the wrath of my new willow. I would pulverize them all over the ground.

Cover drive. On-drive. Straight drive. Flick. Cut. I played all the strokes with deft precision.

I was the king, you see. No less than Don Bradman and Sachin Tendulkar. Better, in fact.

Often, a situation something similar to this would arise:

I dance down the track and thump a six off Shane Warne over long-on to bring up my triple hundred. The crowd goes wild. “Bhavesh!!! Bhavesh!! Bhavesh!!!” They are delirious with joy for their hero. I hold my bat aloft, beaming in pride at having become India’s first ever triple-centurion. Oh, what a feeling!!!

“Chiku, stop waving your bat around like a lunatic. You will break something. Come back inside,” a female voice would break the glorious sequence.

And so it would continue.

In the years to follow, the bat took several poundings, strewn with little red and green smudges all over its blade. I would often sit down and clean it with oil. My brother and I even taped the rubber on the handle after it had torn away. We loved our bat. It was a deuce bat, after all.

We grew older and slowly the bat took a backseat. It would rarely come out from its confine, the little space behind our mother’s almirah. Sometimes at night, however, when I would be troubled or stressed after scoring another single-digit score in my Maths exam, I would take out the bat and transform into the best batsman in the world again.

It was refreshing. Me and my bat and the world I created with it. No one could enter it. And I loved this world.

Unfortunately, however, about 13 years back we shifted from our old home to a new place. My life had changed by then. I was an adult and was dealing some rather distressing situations in my life. In the commotion and confusion of that unfortunate phase I thought we had lost our bat.

To be honest, I had forgotten all about it. When I actually remembered it, it was too late. Nowhere to be found. A beautiful part of my childhood. Gone forever.

My heart would wince in regret every time I would recall our beloved bat over the past many years. But life had to move on. And it did…

Until earlier this week…Life took me back to my glorious past again…Just like that.

My father had planted himself on our shelf in the terrace; rummaging through the contents and trying to rearrange stuff. Much to my annoyance he kept calling out to me every five minutes, handing me down dusty and moldy items that I held with a scrunched nose.

“Chiku…Come here and take this down,” my father called out to me for the zillionth time.

Grumbling to myself, I went out. He was handing me down our giant Sony television carton that has been a part of our life for close to 20 years now.

I coughed and sneezed as I placed the carton down on the floor. As I was rubbing the dust off my hands, my eyes suddenly fell on the inside of the carton.

There was dust everywhere. There were little, torn bags filled with cobwebs. But…Lying quietly on top of them was a dust-covered deuce bat.

Have you ever found something from your past totally out of the blue? Something you had almost forgotten but which was an integral part of your childhood?

Well, this was that moment for me.

Almost in a daze I picked the bat up. It was like everything else had become a blur. Just me…And the bat…

“Chiku…Hand me the bags,” my father’s voice broke my reverie.

Taken aback, I quickly flung the bags at him and ran inside. With a soft cloth, I progressed to clean the bat meticulously; a swarm of memories coming back to me while I wiped the surface.

I gripped the bat firmly. It felt nice and perfect. My heart suddenly began thudding in my chest. It was as if something warm was frothing inside.

“One more ball, Bhaiya…Please, one more ball”, I could hear the distant echo of a little boy inside my head.

“Chiku…Stop waving the bat around,” a female voice was calling out to me next; very distant and yet so near.

I wiped my eyes and concentrated on my stance.

Cover drive. On-drive. Straight drive. Flick. Cut. I could still play all of them with great precision.

I dance down the track and smash one straight down the ground. “Bhavesh!!! Bhavesh!!! Bhavesh!!!” The crowd goes hysterical, chanting my name. I raise my bat aloft and acknowledge their cheer.

After about twenty minutes, when I had exhausted myself with my shadow cricket, I took the bat inside my room and placed it right next to my mother’s almirah. There was no place behind it now. So this would have to do.

I have promised myself to take better care of it now and never lose it out of my sight again. Until I am ready to pass it over to someone worthy, maybe.

But for now, it will stay with me. And I will indulge myself with it whenever I can.

I must. For my own self.  For my brother. And for our childhood.

Because this is no ordinary bat.

It is our deuce bat, after all.

Chapters From My Childhood : Sealed With A Six

May 1997, Udaipur, Rajasthan

Even though it was 4.30 in the afternoon, the damp grass still had the smell of last night’s rain emanating from it. Rains in the month of May in Udaipur were a blissful rarity and the fragrant mix of the moist soil and the wet grass helped soothe my frayed nerves at present.

A cricket match was currently in progress in the massive backyard of my naani ghar (maternal home) and I was nervously waiting for my turn to bat. My team was batting first and I sat in a small shed at the extreme end of the field: our makeshift ‘pavilion’. A few other cousins, who had been dismissed, sat behind me egging on the batsmen on strike. Cricket in the afternoon was the most common pastime here and being the avid follower of the game, I looked forward to participating in every match. Things weren’t that easy here, though.

Almost all of the players here – my cousins and their friends, mostly – were very adept at playing the game and as a 12-year-old, I was overawed by their skills. Moreover, all of them were in their late teens and of bulky frames and I, the tall, gangly and shy kid, was clearly the odd one out.

Since I was here for my month-long summer vacation, my cousins would take me in their respective teams more out of pity than for my skills at playing the sport. The matches would usually be 6 players-a-side and I was taken just to fill the numbers of the respective team I was selected in. It was embarrassing to be selected this way, but I would just be excited to get an opportunity to be a part of the games.

The matches were 6-over contests and most of my time in the field was consumed in chasing the balls to the boundary as I was never allowed to bowl. Whatever little chances I got of batting - something I dearly loved - I fared extremely poorly in them. I was no match to the pace, bounce, and guile of these bowlers and my stay at the wicket this season had mostly been shorter than a few minutes.

Nevertheless, being the eternal optimist, I always believed that on one glorious day I would smash these bowlers to all parts of the ground and win matches for my team. In fact, before coming to Udaipur every year, I would envision some rather thrilling situations: that my team is in a precarious position and I lead them to victory with my coruscating batting performance and my cousins then come rushing towards me and carry me on their shoulders, off into the glorious sunset.

A loud cheer from the center of the field brought me out of my reverie. A wicket - the last recognized batsman - had fallen and I was now the last one in. Himanshu, my elder cousin, had been dismissed in the second ball of the last over. The score was 34 in 5.2 overs.

“Only four balls left. Just take a single and give the strike to Mirchu,” said Himanshu to me while handing me the bat. I took the bat from him and sighed deeply. Cousin Mirchu was glaring at me menacingly from the non-striker’s end. He could be extremely snarky if he didn’t get enough balls to bat. This was going to be a tough challenge.

***

The match was being played with a Croquet ball and the fear of being hit on the legs loomed large in my thoughts, as I walked up gingerly to the wicket. There were no pads to wear and my spindly legs were exposed. We just wore chappals to the game and as I saw my cousin warming up to bowl, I gulped.

My cousin Paritosh, all of 17 years of age, was a sturdy young kid who could bowl really fast. He was easily the best and the fastest bowler of the entire family and not many preferred facing him. He could curl the ball in the air at pace and had a lethal yorker that had destroyed many a stump. I had already been dismissed for naught on several occasions by him this summer apart from being hurt quite a few times in the unmentionable area.

No one in the field expected me to do well. Not even me. But I had no choice and face the inevitable.

“Cover me lagake bhaagna sidha (Hit the ball to the covers and simply run),” shouted cousin Mirchu from the non-striker’s end. I nodded solemnly.

Paritosh ran smoothly, leaped in the air like an eagle and hurled the ball at me. The ball whizzed past my nose much before I could even lift my bat to play a stroke. I must have looked rather silly flailing my bat wildly in the air as the opposition fielders sniggered loudly. I could feel my team members rolling their eyes behind me in the pavilion and then saw Mirchu just shaking his head.

The third ball pitched on the middle and straightened. I attempted to cut the ball but missed and it just went inches over the off-stump. Paritosh left out an anguished cry even as the others of his team smiled, probably at my ineptness.

Flustered with myself, I could feel my palms getting sweaty. I rubbed my hands on my shorts and quietly resolved to at least get bat on ball run to the other end.

The fourth ball was a little slow and a tad outside off. This time, I somehow managed to plant my bat in the line of the ball and played a stroke towards the cover region.

Unfortunately, my stroke did not have much life in it and the ball was easily fielded. I had taken a few steps out of my crease to run but Mirchu wildly gestured me to go back. There was no way either of us would have made it on time.

“Should we declare, you moron?” hollered one of my team members from behind. I chose to ignore his jibe and concentrate on the task ahead, not willing to give up. The bat now felt heavier than usual. I rubbed my palms dry on my shirt and gripped the handle firmly.

The fifth ball was a yorker, aimed right at my toes. I wasn’t prepared for it and was wildly looking to slog. The ball hit my right toe at pace and I muffled my cry as a searing pain shot through my right foot. There was no way I could show anyone that I had been hurt. Nonchalantly, I picked up the ball and lobbed it back to the bowler while gently rubbing my foot without anyone’s notice.

I could now see Paritosh smirking a little. He had me hopping like a cat on a hot tin roof and was mighty pleased with that. Mirchu, meanwhile, had given up and continued shaking his head. I felt irritated and a little helpless. Something had to give.

 The wise words of my father then suddenly swam back to me. “Watch the ball very closely. Watch it until the very end,” he would always tell me sagaciously whilst I played cricket back at my home in Calcutta. I had never quite paid heed to those words but somehow it seemed this was the moment I was destined to do so.

The last ball from Paritosh was fast. This time, I followed his hand closely as he released the ball, which was short of a good length and landed a few feet away from the off-stump. I danced down the track and following the line of the ball, swatted it straight, with all the strength I had, before it could rise up.

The bat made a resounding ‘craaack’ as it met the ball right in the middle, the sound reverberating across the field. There was a stunned silence in the arena as everyone’s eyes rose in the air, watching the ball rise high in the orange sky. The little round thing soared and kept going high, crossing the field and the street beyond the field, before finally landing on top of the terrace of a building opposite it. It was a ginormous six, as big as anyone had hit here.

I stood rooted in my position. My bat still held firmly over my shoulders. My eyes still searching for the ball that had now disappeared. My chest heaving up and down.

There was loud whooping from behind me and I saw my teammates rushing towards me. They patted my back and ruffled my hair. Even the opposition team had smiles on their faces. My eyes, though, were fixed on Paritosh. He was the only one who looked too stunned and deflated to react. Befuddled, he was still watching the building beyond the terrace; refusing to believe that he had been hit for such a massive six by a 12-year-old. The air had clearly been winded out of him.

The ball was lost and could not be retrieved. But nobody cared. It was my moment to savour now. It was the first ‘proper’ six of my life.

I held my bat aloft in the air and proudly strutted around with it to the pavilion. It was my highest score of the season here. Just six runs. But at that time, those runs meant the world to me.

The remainder of the match went by in a whizz – we won by 5 runs. But only the sixer kept playing in my mind over and over. Everything else was just a daze.

***

Dinner that night was memorable. We used to have dinner in a large central hall of the house. Around 15-20 of us would gather around in a circle and share our stories at the end of the day. Today, I was the only one who was speaking and was clearly the star of the house. The high of smashing that six had enveloped me completely.

I animatedly recounted my heroics with the bat to everyone who would care to listen. My naana, my maasis, and maamas had to bear the brunt of my pompous retellings of the six I hit.

“I just came out of the crease and ‘Bam’,” I re-enacted the shot from my sitting position to my family members who listened to me keenly.  Food had never tasted so good to me during the entire vacation.

The only person conspicuous by his absence was Paritosh. A bruised ego, after all, takes some time to heal.