AN INDIAN SUMMER OF BOYS                                                                                                                                Part I

A True Short Story    by Ravi Anbil

Back in the days of yore, in the summer of 1960, Suresh, my older brother then, who continues to exploit that status in the pecking order to this very day, brought up the idea of starting our own cricket club.

     We were living in a sheltered, sylvan compound in Madurai, South India. There was nothing magical about the place except that our building of flats had an elevator that was a novelty in those days. We would ride up and down for hours, much to the annoyance of the elders, exclusively to impress visiting schoolmates. The compound also had a watchman at the entrance in khaki uniform, sporting a stiff baton and a stiffer waxed handlebar mustache that seemed more comical than threatening.

     Suresh must have read a few more books than us because he wanted to call it Pioneer Cricket Club. No one knew what ‘pioneer’ meant but it sounded great so we all voted in its favor although Suresh's only vote was counted as unanimous since he was also the self-appointed captain of the team.

     Looking back, I must admire Suresh for his optimism and tenacity in putting a team together with the motley crew he had. He was 13, I was 11 and our kid brother, Ranga, was 9.

     This was a boy’s club with certain parameters to follow. There was no such thing as an upper age bracket. However, if a boy had a sprout of facial hair, he was automatically disqualified because the other team would cry foul. Pimples were okay but a severe bout of acne would be deemed highly inappropriate. On the other hand, there was no restriction on how young one could be. The golden rule of thumb in vogue was that one should at least be as tall as a cricket bat and be able to lift it on the first attempt.

     Suresh had the pressure of having eleven cricket players, at least three substitutes, and someone to keep score during the game. He had the three of us to start with. His next choice was his namesake, J. C. Suresh, whose initials were officially added into record books to avoid confusion. But J. C. could come on board only if his kid brother, Ramesh, was also on the team as per his father’s mandate. While Ramesh barely cleared the height of a cricket bat, he could lift it one-handed so Suresh waved him in. Now we had five. Kalyan, who was Ranga’s age, lived a floor above us and, a new kid, Cheema about my age, temporarily lived with his married brother two floors above us. Suresh ushered them both in. The total now stood at seven.

     There was one Mr. Nagarajan, residing a floor below, which had a platoon of six boys and a girl. But only three boys were young enough to qualify. Vaidhi, slightly older than Suresh, was stocky, muscular and replete with mustache, chest hair and similar accompaniments throughout his body that made it awkward. Nevertheless, he could shave all over and make the team, should we be in a pinch, so he was put on the substitute list. His younger brother, Thamba, was my age and made the team. Dheenan, age 8, was a timid kid who was afraid of his own shadow yet was recruited purely under nepotistic pressure. However, none of the three boys had played cricket before. We will delve into those problems later.

     The total now was nine, and a substitute. We needed two more players. Next was Gopu. He was 9 and a fine prospect. Unfortunately, he had an overprotective mother who believed that balls and bats were invented by sadistic people whose main mission in life was to cause mahem on gentle boys like her son. Therefore she wanted Gopu in the pavilion watching the game, not play it. But she did agree to let his name be listed on the roster if we all begged. Gopu made the list.

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