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The Indian rave remix of Rangilo Maro blaring from the speakers has your heart beating faster than the wings of the pigeons scattering from your path. Your glittering bangles jingle on your wrists as they crash each other, the metal cutting into your skin each time you have to shove someone out of your way. You swerve to the right to avoid an auto rickshaw, almost bumping into a vendor balancing a huge wooden frame on his shoulders, your eyes flitting across the rows of colourful toys, balloons, pinwheels, and peacock feathers pinned to it. He yells at you for nearly ruining his merchandise before going on off his merry way.
Your phone buzzes in your palazzo's pocket each time a notification arrives, and your molars dig in harder into the flesh of your inner cheeks. You were supposed to be home half an hour ago with the sweets your mother had asked you to pick up from a family friend's shop, yet here you were sprinting through a crowd that wouldn't budge for the last tram headed to the 67th East before the streets closed down for the Holi celebrations.
Dusk drapes the city in a gentle golden glow, the skies merging magenta with scarlet and blue as the sun dips below the horizon. Streaks of fluffy pink clouds speckled the heavens like prints on a saree, the air smelled of camphor, sandalwood, tobacco, masala chai, and fried fritters sizzling in their heated oil baths as the street vendors stirred them in their large cast iron woks. Mumbattan was livelier than usual. As you get onto the crowded tram, half your body hanging out from the open door with your fingers firmly wrapped around a metal pole, you pull out your phone and call your grandmother to tell her that you are on your way.
It wasn't entirely your fault that you were late, you just got a little sidetracked while you were running your errands. You just had to watch Pavitr Prabhakar take wickets in a cricket match.
There you were leaning against the railing separating you from the ground, your hands brushing away the strands that the wind kept whipping into your eyes, your fingers clasped in a silent prayer hoping that the batsmen of the opposing team wouldn't hit a sixer. Pav made them beg for runs. The way his fingers spun the ball was mesmerizing to watch, his sneakers carving out the turf as he ran to bowl. You can't help but ogle at the muscles straining against the material of his jersey, his biceps flexing in his sleeves each time he threw. Those eyes of his, dark and sweet as molasses, were narrowed with determination and focus, the details of his sharp features further sculpted by the sweat glistening on his sun-kissed skin. You could get lost in their depths for days, you think.
Then it's all over in the blink of an eye. The ball shoots past the batsman's legs, smashing into the wicket stumps with a neat clunk and the small crowd erupts into celebration and hooting. You grin, it was the cleanest bowling you had seen in a while. You don't care much for the crowd, your eyes pick out only Pav's lean figure being hoisted onto the shoulders of his teammates as they rejoice. You felt your heart skip a beat, and you counted each heartbeat thereafter, wishing on them as you counted them like beads on a rosary for Pav to look at you.
