A long story, cut short

It was a typical Indian summer of the nineties in a north Indian city. People stayed indoors. Much needed relief was provided by desert coolers and water-melons. Schools had summer vacations and mothers stopped their kids from venturing out to play cricket in the scorching sun. Since internet had still not come to India, kids had no choice but to read Raj Comics. Nagraj and Super Commando Dhruv were the order of the day. The only time kids came out was when the Kulfi waala would come with his ringing bell to sell the kulfis in all traditional flavors, ranging from pistachio and mango, to cardamom and saffron.

The corner house between the main street and dusty bylane was unusually quite that day. Our little protagonist, in his 11th year, was trying hard since morning to impress his mother by doing all the chores that he would normally loathe. He had gotten up early to bring milk from the dairy, he had watered the plants, and had taken the dog out for a walk. He had filled both the coolers with water, and was pretending to do his summer school homework, when he was not making himself useful around the house. The mother was obviously aware of the happenings, and was waiting for the evening, when he would ask her to let him out for a game of cricket.

It was 15 minutes past 5 in the evening, and the pleading started. The mother would not give in easily. It was a mind game both had learnt to play well. Her no never meant a no, and he knew that. He went on trying, for he was convinced that she was killing time so that the sun would come down a bit, and the heat would be less intense. He had predicted the buffer time correctly, and she agreed in 20 minutes. The game was to start at 5:45, and his calculations were going good so far. He was feeling lucky.

It took him less than 5 minutes to sprint to the barren piece of land, where boys twice his age had started assembling. He was, by far, the youngest, and tiniest in the gang. The teams were decided and the toss was done. His team captain was a dark and burly lad named Mahender, who was the oldest of all. In his late twenties, Mahender was the self professed leader of the gang. Nobody challenged him or his decision as he was sort of a local goon in the neighborhood. Rumors were rife that he carried a rampuri, Indian slang for a knife used in boy fights.

Our little protagonist did not mind that all that. He was only interested in a little batting, which he knew he would get in the end only if he was lucky, and for that he will have to field all the time. The game was to go for 4 innings, where every team was to play 2 innings of 10 overs each. It was a unique combination of one-day cricket and test-cricket in the neighborhood, a concept that Mahender had come up with, and was extremely pompous about it.

Mahender’s team started to bat first. The opposition strike bowlers did a fine job to take the first 6 wickets in 7 overs. Our boy was the last one to go and bat, when Mahender and Vinod, the opponent captain intervened to declare that the innings was over. He ran up to Mahender to remind him that he was in the team too. His heart sank when they laughed and told him that he was a kachhi ghodi. He did not know what a kachhi ghodi was. He was told that his participation was always considered inconsequential, and his runs did not count. They had to go on with the game to finish all 4 innings, lest it gets dark, and he would not be allowed to bat. His world shattered, as he tried to hide the lump in his throat. His hard work since morning and all the pleading flashed before his eyes. He could not make much of what kachhi ghodi was, except that for him being kachhi ghodi was like being cheated.

As the opposition team opening batsmen were about to take guard, he decided he would not let them cheat him so easily. There was very little time on his hands. He ran to Mahender to make one last ditch effort, and said he would do anything to get his chance to bat. Mahender would not budge and wanted to go ahead with the proceedings, when our little protagonist made him an offer. He promised to treat everybody with a kulfi after the game. Mahender was taken aback and went silent for a few seconds. He had to give it a serious thought. This was his chance to prove to others how he duped the little boy and negotiated a fabulous deal for all of them. After a quick word with Vinod, our boy was asked to take guard. He had 3 overs to play, all to himself. And since he knew his runs won’t be counted, he was in no particular hurry. He defended the good balls, and sent 2 of the bad ones to the boundary. Everybody was enjoying the show, as the news about kulfi treat was out. For a change, the interest in cricket was taken over by an interest in free kulfis.

For the next 90 minues, people went through the motions before calling it a day. Needless to say, the little boy got to bat in the second innings as well. It was time to hit the kulfi vendor. After everybody had tap water at the vendor’s tiny shop, they started ordering. When all of them had ordered, they looked at the little boy, who promptly took out a battered 5 rupee note from his pocket and handed it to the kulfi waala. Mahender was shocked and asked him to pay 65 rupees, as there were 13 of them. Our little boy promptly remarked he only had 5 rupees and would only pay for himself. And when Mahender growled and asked him who would pay for the rest, he said in a meek tone – ‘ I don’t know. You all are kachhi ghodis. You don’t really get to eat the kulfis.’