After a 30 minute quick nap having been bored by the uneventful India-Pakistan cricket match, I decided to quit procrastinating and get one of my shoes repaired from the friendly neighbourhood cobbler. Digging them out from behind the shoe rack took a bit of time and then dusting them off so as not to be embarrassed at the cobbler’s took a little more. All set, I then pocketed both phones, my wallet and the keys to the house, well apartment actually.
It was bright and sunny, a cool breeze blowing through if you walked in the shade, the rays sifting through the leaves and branches – just your regular Sunday afternoon in Bombay. As I ambled slowly to the first right turn, reflecting on how giving ‘watching cricket on the telly’ a second chance was such a bad idea given the start of today’s match, I found myself sub-consciously attracted to a game of gully cricket going on inside the neighbourhood garden. Eight a-side, I counted. Not bad at three in the afternoon I said to myself. A good mix of the burly bullies, the aspiring ‘henchmen’ and the tiny minions in their tidy whites and oversized caps in the outfield who usually were the suppliers of the bat, ball and wickets. I stood there watching, an over bowled by, and a conversation started unravelling inside my head. What if I were to approach these guys and be a part of their mohalla cricket club, how would that go down? I was no punk, no mean streak about me, just your average bespectacled Joe, dressed in a black tee and white shorts, a satchel with his shoes in one hand, the other pocketed in, grabbing hard at the wallet. Yeah right they’d want me in. Frankly, it wasn’t so bad, the conversation I had built in my head, but honestly, I forget how it unfolded, but yes I do feel it brought a smile to my face as I turned around to reach the cobbler before his afternoon tea break.
Crossing on to the main road a small kid rushed out of his building, waving goodbye to his mother, backpack slung around his shoulders and a notebook rolled up in one hand, biting into a sandwich from the other. Tuition, I ventured – that time of year when exams are round the corner. Though I do not know anymore when board exams take place, seems like they have changed the time and pattern or something – I wasn’t particularly attentive when one of my aunts was rambling on about the rising pressure on her son and daughter because of the new system. Anyhow, so here he was walking in front of me, literally trying to outrun himself, appearing more like a football stumbling forth. Just round the corner were the two trademark iconoclastic stereotypical lanky goons-of-a-student who took our little bouncy boy by the neck and gave him a good rub on the head. ‘Abe Hindi ke liye kaun padhta hai be, ch****e! Chal ghoomne!’ , they mocked. No, I didn’t slow down my pace to see how Bouncy reacted, or what became of this ‘awesome threesome’, instead I stayed my course and moved on.
Having reached the cobbler, I explained the condition of the shoe, he nodded, and worked his magic. Thirty rupees and 5 minutes later I was on my way back home. Cottage cheese, I almost forgot, have to get some for the week. Household chores you see. Good, I’d get change for a thousand too *evil smirk*. Now, I was on my way back with the satchel firmly in one hand and the dingy, moist packet of cottage cheese from the local shop in the other (too many ‘in the other’ references in this post, my apologies).
Two girls were out on the street, mounted on their frilly bicycles, discussing what the other was planning to get after her exams, and what daddy had promised if she scored well, while the first was busy struggling trying to bring her bicycle to a halt – yup, one of those high seated ones you would get just to feel that much older than the others who still whisk by on their stunted two wheels. The plastic on the mudguards was all dirty but intact, creating that annoying whooshing sound as they tried to pedal hard, and I wondered, what is it with Indian kids and their parents in keeping the bloody wrapping on even after years of usage? Anyhow, made me remember the days when I’d speed up on my red Hero Ranger, bent down low, pretending to get ready to hit warp speed, and then screeching to a halt, again imagining the cycle had turned a full 360 in the air with the front wheel stuck to the ground. How we’d get a useless rear-view mirror stuck on to the side of the handle and that ringing bell to get us an inch closer to building ourselves a motorbike for kids. Some idea of adventure that was.
Back on the last left turn on my way home, a new group had started playing cricket, this time on the streets, and as I came into sight from behind the parked bus, all of them shouted ‘bhaiyya ball, bhaiyya ball’ and this brother was not going to disappoint the little laddies, or let go of this opportunity to feel a cricket ball in his hands after such a long time. So down went the satchel, the ball fielded as if done on a cricket ground, and with all my might, I threw the ball at them, high and long, proud of myself, did not hit anything on its way, pretty neat, even after so many years.
Yes, I think I ripped my arm out of its socket, I’d better go apply some ice on it now.
The End.
PS: I don’t know why I wrote this post, there’s no point to it, so don’t try finding one. Hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing it.
