These kids want me to hit sixes. They don’t want to see me field amongst the cows, collecting the rolling ball from beneath swishing tails and bulbous udders. They are desperate for me to smash their fizzing spin and lightning pace beyond the sewer and into the holy waters of the Ganges. My clear lack of cricketing ability means nothing to them, they are blind to it. All that they can see is the length of my limbs and their latent potential.
I try. Urged on by their cries and back slaps, I really try. Eventually, I connect with a ball. I watch it sail for a few glorious seconds only to then see it plummet unceremoniously into the sewer. A small child, the smallest, is selected to retrieve it.
He clambers down the sides of the sewer and wades across the toxic slurry to the ball. He doesn’t seem to mind. He tackles this bog of eternal stench with grace, plucking the ball from the oozing faecal stew with aplomb. I give him hand-sanitiser to clean his feet and hands – if he is lucky, it will kill perhaps half of the germs. The game, as it must, goes on.
