The game had ended early today. The sun hadn't even touched the top of Roomani Hills, yet they had to stop. The ball was lost. The blame lay entirely on the chubbiest boy in the group of four that sat on the mound. He would not be spared. This was not the first time he had lost the ball, but today his offence was unpardonable. This was the first time he had lost a season ball. And do you know how much a season ball costs? Worth lakhs! - any boy their age would exclaim. The cricket ball was indeed worth that and more to the poor cricketers sitting on the mound. To mention the mound is important here, for the mound was the place where decisions were taken - decisions that could change their world!
The sun, which on other days hurried to its bed behind the hills, seemed to hover around a little longer today. It hung above the hills, yawning; and saving the Central Bazaar which, alas, could do business only when others were done with theirs, the whistling train that cut across the town, and our maidan where those sprightly souls who had not lost their ball made full use of the last slanting sun rays, a-yawn did our lazy town. Offices were already dead.
Beleaguered, by the tarrying sun and the merry play around them, our heroes sat on the mound, cross-legged; their faces drowned in despair. A most fascinating and scientific exercise, no meek second to the 'treasure hunt': the 'ball hunt' had proved fruitless. The heroes had crawled under the bushes, climbed over the trees; patiently, using their fingertips, parted the thorny branches to make their way ahead or simply uprooted the stubborn shrub with a blow of the cricket bat; they had imagined every possible trajectory of the ball and unaware, yet, of Newton's Laws, calculated to no discredit the ball's probable landing point - all in vain. Thus, they returned to the mound with leaflets in their hair, thorns in their fingers, dust in their eyes and an itch in all remaining anatomy but not the ball on them. In the dense Ghanibhut Jungle that bordered the maidan on the north, the ball had perhaps been picked up by a monkey or worse devoured by a ghost. The jungle was famous for its stomach for balls, and wouldn't it love a season ball this time! The delicious cherry of original leather! It was a sin to hit the ball with force on the leg side, and to hit a season ball; now what would you call that?