This post is a winner at BlogAdda's “HOWZAT?” a husky voice hollered. A short, curly haired, fair lad raised a finger and declared the batsman bowled. The dark and lanky figure with that husky voice now ran towards the bowler screaming on the top of the lungs. In no time the thin framed, dimple chinned bowler, Rajeev had been lifted up into the air and the team was exulting over their victory. This was my team, a motley crew of young boys aged between 9-14 years old. And that lanky, dark cricketer with the husky voice was me. With crew-cut hair, a terribly tanned face and scraped knobby knees showing beneath those fatigued shorts, I was easily mistaken as a boy amongst the group of lads. I was a complete tomboy who ate, breathed and lived cricket like any other boy of my age. The society where I lived consisted of a ring of 10 buildings. The oval foreground of the buildings was divided into two equal halves by a speed-breaker in the centre. Two rival teams existed in the same ...