Uncle

October 17th, 2004: We were on the ground, 13 kids, ages 9 to 14, split into two well-balanced teams, with one kid playing the “common player” role (shoutout to all the 90s kids, or as some UP folks like to call it: "beech ka kauwa"). The toss was settled by flipping the nearest Rajshri gutka packet (and the captains had to predict the packet would fall on which side, Hindi or English, or in some cases, Urdu), of which there were usually many decorating our playground.

The game was intense. Team 1, batting first, had set a daunting target of 66 runs in 8 overs. Their opening pair smashed the first 40 runs in just 4 overs. But then, a mini-comeback from the bowling team managed to scrape the remaining wickets, including the “common player,” leaving a challenging yet achievable total on the board. Cue the innings break, followed by water.  It came from the house of that unlucky kid who lived closest to the ground, officially appointed as our water supplier. Of course, his mom was not too thrilled with us returning those dirty bottles—or sometimes forgetting them altogether.

Now, as Team 2 was ready to start their chase, something strange happened. Enter "uncle."—middle-aged, slight paunch, greying hair, impassive expression on his face. The type who wear a formal shirt over track pants. Uncle strolls up to the pitch, picks up the bat, and demands one of us bowl to him. One kid obliges, tossing the ball without a proper runup. SMACK. That ball soared over the boundary. Furious, the bowler charged in for round two. SMACK. This time, only a four (credit to the boy!). Uncle, then proceeds to play out a whole over while we all stand there, waiting for our match to restart. After what felt like ages, he finally saunters off, smiling. 

The next day, he returned. This time, it was our spinner’s turn to suffer—24 runs in 6 balls! Then Uncle, feeling extra sporty, decided he’d like to bowl too. Yours truly. (No, I’m not sharing what happened next. I still need my dignity intact.)

Uncle’s appearances became a regular thing. Soon, his stay extended to 2 overs with his batting, then another with his bowling. Our playtime was being hijacked! One day, our star bowler, a legit school team player, had enough. “I’ll bowl him out,” he declared, and we all prayed he would. First ball—perfect outswinger. Uncle misses. Second ball—an absolute peach of a yorker, smashing the leg stump! We cheered! But Uncle? Oh no, he just kept batting, praising our bowler for his skills. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures. We switched playgrounds, thinking we’d outsmart Uncle. Eventually, we spent more time commuting than playing. And the very next day, there he was, back in our regular ground like nothing had happened. Begrudgingly, we accepted his daily interruptions. Uncle was now a fixture.

When winter came, Uncle didn't. We finally had our game back. 

October 17th, 2024.

I was returning from work, having completed a day-long workshop. As usual, I was on my trusty two-wheeler, navigating the unpredictable Gurugram traffic. On my way home, I made a quick pit stop at the society tuck shop to grab some paneer and frozen peas (you don’t want to ignore WhatsApp instructions from either the cook or lady of the house. Yes the cook also pings me directly, to get stuff!). After grabbing my groceries, I headed back to my scooty, only to see some kids playing cricket on the nearby ground. I smiled, ready to head home, when the ball rolled towards me. Instinctively, I picked it up, but instead of throwing it back, I hesitated. Holding the ball, I walked onto the field, asked one of the kids to take guard, and with a full run-up, bowled an over—still in my formal shoes, trousers, and chequered shirt. I teased the kids, cheered them on to catch the ball, and even dared the batsman to hit me for a six.

Six balls and a muddy shirt later, I returned to my scooty. As I glanced back, I saw the kids staring at me. And then it hit me.

Uncle was back.

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Image courtesy: ChatGPT (Im getting good at the prompts now)

Text Courtesy- all me!