Gully Cricket

Those summer afternoons

Dusty streets, broken windows,

Sweaty palms, parched throats,

Yet, no one inside their homes.

No, it wasn’t a game we practiced,

‘Tis a Religion that we worshipped,

Gods for us, the various players,

An ode to them, the runs we scored.

Three bricks were three wickets for us,

A tennis ball our prized possession,

The owner of the bat, the first to play,

But still batting our sole obsession.

Those summer memories,

Are now our cherished stories,

‘Gully Cricket’ still beats in our heart,

Even when IPL has become our life’s part.

When India will play for the World Cup,

And we will watch in trepidation,

Each win will be a reminder of old times,

Of the old streets that made these players,

Of each window that broke in celebration