Six and out

I wandered down the steps of the lovely, basic, rustic guest house where I stayed ten days ago in the middle of Dal ni Pol, one of the labyrinthine close-quarter communities that make up the eastern side of Ahmedabad. I was planning to go and have a good look at the handsome Jain derasar or temple opposite, but I didn’t get that far as a gang of kids blocked my path.

Not in a Gorton sense though: it was simply that they were playing cricket and they invited me to have a bat. “Bondjour, mussir” said one. I could have been well offended by that, but I let it slide. Instead, I took my guard, musing on the benefits of sledging in French, and waited for the nine year-old with the whippy left-arm action to wang down the small plastic ball.

The first ball was short of a length, and I played an ugly, Collingwood-esque hoik to the leg side, over the cow fielding at short midwicket, and away for two runs. A good start: so not wishing to get over-excited, I blocked the next two, good length balls both of them. The gaggle of youngsters in the slips started chirruping away.

Then my eyes lit up: a slow long hop. I swished across the line and caught a big top edge, the ball spiralling over all the tiny fielders and onto the roof of a house. Uh-oh.

Really sorry, I said, I’ve lost your ball. Can you get it down? No, not till the people who live there get home next week. How much are they worth? Oh don’t worry about it – just three rupees (about 4p). I offered three rupees, and not one of these 15 or so kids, all of them poor by any standard, would accept it from me.

One of them went into his house and brought out another ball. I told them that my turn at batting was over – six and out by Birmingham rules – but they insisted I have a bowl. So they got to laugh at my risible leg-break action and I think the entertainment was probably worth a lot more than three rupees.