Baboon Logic

Rangin and I were sitting side by side, commenting on the appalingly poor standard of the kid batting, hoping he’ll do better when he grows up. He certainly didn’t deserve to be in the club which gave us our first batsman in the national team.

The next batsman walked in, a tiny boy not more than eight, fully padded and prepared to play those deuced balls.

Rangin said, “no way.”
I said, “welcome to India.”

Next, the boy weighed the bat in his hands, walked back, and changed it for a significantly heavier one.

Rangin said, “Is he mad?”
I said, “welcome to India.”

The boy played.
It was a good length ball slightly outside the off stump, with a late in-swing. The boy, who had taken guard on the leg stump, drew his body slightly towards the ball and cut it off the square with exquisite grace.

Both of us were stunned. We muttered, “shit.”

Rangin whispered, “Oh God!”
I said, “welcome to India!”