Faisal bhai’s ramzaan stories thread reminded me of the nights we spent playing night cricket in dimly lit empty parking lots, gallis and grounds back in the day.
The period between Maghrib and Isha was a bizzarre and exciting one. All of us would be wolfing down our post-maghrib grub at our homes, running last nights games in our minds- “uss shoday ki lambi phainty lagani hai aaj”, “woh saala red shirt wala bach ke nahin jaye ga iss match main”, . Such adrenaline, anger, desire to just run onto the field and release the energy we’d be holding in all day cause of the roza. No gaalis, no mouthing off, no larrayi.
Gathering outside the mosque before prayers- salams were immediately followed by a brief rundown of today’s agenda, our oponents for the day, and bad-mouthing the opposition before the sound of the iqama shut us up and we scurried in to join the prayer. Fast-forward through our prayers, completing only the miniumum required, and we’d slowly but surely slip out of the masjid one by one, each depending on the level of the respective abbu’s strictness who were praying/saying dua right next to them.
Once outside, inventory was checked, ballay hain, enough tape?, balls taped red with a white strip to give it a hard-ball look. The elder big boys carried the bats like the kings they were, followed by the younger kids and newbies who walked behind them in awe, forced to carry all the heavy samaan and food suplies etc. Most used to bring pakoras, samosas, some meetha from home to eat during the match, but half was eaten on the way.
Arriving on the ground in style was paramount. If you reached early, the best spot to chill was occupied and territory marked, and then we left to chill somewhere nearby, so the enemy could see with their own eyes when the big boys rolled into the ground. If we arrived late, we were the winners, chest held high, tossing the ball in the air and chewing gum with exagerration while walking towards the enemy camp. Most shook hands, some didn’t. The stares had begun. There were some friendships across both mohallas and these boys would make small-talk. Others would ‘practice’ their best Wasim or Waqar imitation, mostly the younger kids, hoping to catch he eye of the captains just before the game.
Toss was a quick affair. And as the josheelay pakistani’s we all were, “batting” was the answer every single time. The captain himself and his best buds would be selected to go at the top of the order, regardless of their game. Youngsters were maska-maaring, talking BS, competing for spots 7-11.
Batting first meant cheering like maniacs when the openers went out to the middle. Egging them on to blast every single ball out of the ground/park. And of course, the batters felt the same, all that energy that had been kept in for so long was going to released in the form of big shots and boundaries and big shots. If there was a good start, some would wish their own teammates get out ASAP so they could get out onto the field.
Bowling first was even better. Everyone was alert for the first few overs, diving at everything, bowling their fastest and no mercy for those who misfielded. We had been liberated, gaali’s flowed off the tongue like it was our birthright.
Staring and mouting off soon moved onto wide, no-ball, lbw and run out decisions that were obviousand clearly not out. But the bowling side mouthed off about it and made them mini-issues anyway.
And then, it happened. THAT lbw or run-out decision that sparked a boiler-room of heated exchange of words. Words would turn to pushing and shoving in 7 out of 10 matches, and pushing and shoving to benches being cleared in 3 out of 10. Fistfights erupted, noses broken, kicks exchanged, the most notorious between the bowler who’d been hit for some sixes and the batter who’d hit them. The young ones backed off, the braver among them tried to get into things as well. They’d either be stopped by the ‘peacemakers’, if someone cried out mercy or until there was some serious blood. 1 out of 10-12 games would result in enough bad blood created between the teams that it would be boycotting, each team marching off the ground shouting ‘creative’ insults at the other and there’d be talk of seeing the other in schol. But the majority were resolved eventually, it was the cricket we all loved after all.
Everyone dusted off their sweat, dirt and blood off their clothes. It was back to the cricket and for the first over or two, the batsmen didn’t bother hitting any wild shots, partly to show a sign of “peace” with the bowling side, but more so because the fight had exhausted them. Sanity prevailed. Then the real cricket started, tactis, strategies run and counter-moves. The bacha party was sent to grab the pepsi’s from nearby, and we’d drink our bottles and cans like our heroes did on TV between overs and before/after our innings.
It went on for 7, 8 sometimes 9 games. Weekdays meant we were rushing through the last game which was always left unfinished and hurried back home. Weekends meant we were playing all night, seriously defying our parents, knowing the daant and curfews were to come later. But it was all about the moment, noone cared.
The last game was always left either unfinished, or came down to both teams letting the young bachas playing amongst themselves, while the big boys discussed movies, girls and other important things in life on the sidelines. Jab sab bachay thak jaatay, it was off to home for some, or reaching the local restaurant wala. The ‘adda’. Halwa puri, channay, parathay, lussi was enjoyed while the events of the night were discussed. Just kicking back and chilling with the boys. Good times.
We rushed home to make it in time for sehri, then getting caught sneaking into the house by a concerned mum or sister who was up throughout this time. Khoob daant partrti. At some point, it would hit you, wow I really made someone concerned and hurt them, my own mother/father/sister/brother. We’d try to eat as much of the sehri as we can, but had stuffed way too much at the adda to have any more. Pray fajr and go to sleep. Waking up, we’d be helping with household tasks in the morning to make up for our extreme badtameezi, but the boy inside was already plotting the next escape and a new plan of how to make it to the next match.
Over the years rivalries were made, friendships created, some of the young bachay became superstars in their own right, and created their own paths and followed their aspirations in life. Games became more organized, we matured in out outlook and made time out for the games and not thinking about them 24/7. Over time, a few ppl drifted apart, geographically, personally or both. But our core group remained together, now also made up of boys we’d fought with as rivals, now the best of buddies after going through some good and bad times together in life. These were true friends, sticking it out for the other and always enjoying each other’s company.
Today we’re on four different continents and try to find time to play cricket as much we can in our respective situations, a few hours game every few months is a luxury for most. But it won’t be the same, and we may probably never be able to all gather together for another game of all-night cricket again. But we all owe it to the game we all loved, the passion we played it with, and the beautiful month of ramzaan that gradually made us realise the importance of patience and strengthening our characters as time went by.
We learnt to channel our energies the right way. It made men out of us.
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