Last Sunday I went out at 7 pm to buy milk. The India match was on and my lane looked like a curfew.
No scooters, no kids, nobody on the chairs outside the provision store. Even the street dogs had gone somewhere.
But every window had the same voice coming out of it, the commentator, each one a second behind the next.
I walked past 6 houses and heard the same wicket 6 times, like an echo that couldn't make up its mind.
The milk booth was open but the man was standing on a stool with his phone, watching with 2 customers.
I asked for a packet. He said, wait, wait, one over. Then he said, 4 runs! and handed me the milk.
He didn't even look at the money. The tea seller next door had a small TV on top of a crate.
There were 11 men around it, some on tiptoe, nobody speaking. I stood at the back with my milk.
On the way back the watchman at our gate had a small radio pressed to his ear.
He didn't even look up when I walked in. He just raised 1 finger, meaning, don't talk to me.
A scooter was parked outside with the key still in it. Nobody was going to steal anything that evening.
It's rare for the lane to be so quiet. I could hear my own slippers on the road.
At 7:40 someone hit a six and the whole lane roared at once. Windows, balconies, a woman on a terrace.
My daughter shouted from our balcony, Papa, did you see it? I'd missed it. I was holding milk.
I went upstairs and watched the replay with her. She explained it to me twice, very seriously.
We lost by 6 runs. Nobody on the lane spoke much after that. The dogs came back first.