I was allowed to buy an imported cricket scorebook as well. My grandmother permitted me to buy a full cricket kit. I had the luxury of a big private playground in front of my home. I was brought up by a doting maternal grandmother in Chennai, while my parents lived in Madurai. My mind travelled back 65 years to the time when I had my own cricket team, as a proud 11-year-old. On my second round of walking, the scene had not changed - anxious young faces, curious onlookers and a stern-looking security guard unwilling to help the kids. A few of the walkers, including me, looked around for the ball, but could not find it. I later came to know that he was declared “out” because of his indiscretion, but that did not help their cause.

Some children from the neighbourhood had been playing tennis-ball cricket on the adjacent playground, and a local Chris Gayle had smashed the ball for a huge Six that eventually landed inside our compound.

“Uncle, uncle, ball please!” - I heard young voices pleading, from beyond the compound wall of our apartment complex. It was a bright Sunday morning as I was walking around our apartment complex wearing my mask and keeping my social distance.

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