I must have been around twelve years old then. I had grown up a little and started going out of the lane to play with my friends. In Old Delhi, our playground stretched from outside Mori gate all the way to the Yamuna — vast gardens where we played freely.
Just outside Mori gate was a large ground where we played cricket. Part of it belonged to St. Stephen’s College, so people called it “Stephen Ground.” During holidays, 25–30 teams would play there. With so many players and balls flying around, you never knew when one might hit you on the head.
We were a group of 5–6 Marathi boys, a few from the neighborhood, and 2–4 Muslim boys who joined us occasionally. All of us came from poor or lower-middle-class families. We would collect 10–20 paise each, gather 2–3 rupees, and buy a cork ball to play. At that time, a proper cricket ball cost around ₹10–14.
We envied the rich boys — their white clothes, good bats, and most of all, their real cricket balls. It felt like we’d never get to play with one.
One day, we met a boy named Gotu on the ground. He was about my age and had 2–3 cricket balls with him. Seeing their quality, we couldn’t resist asking, “How much?” He said, “I have balls from ₹1 to ₹5. Take if you want.”
My friend was suspicious and asked, “Where do you get such cheap balls?” Gotu replied proudly, “I have contacts in DDCA (Delhi District Cricket Association). After matches, they sell used balls to known people at low prices. Some are just 1–2 overs old.” He bought them in bulk and sold newer ones for ₹3–4, older ones for ₹1–2.
Naturally, we started buying balls from him — sometimes for ₹1, sometimes ₹1.50, and if it was a fresh one, ₹3. Gotu was a good player too. He occasionally joined us in morning matches. A few days later, we learned that “Gotu” was just a nickname. His real name was Aslam, and he lived in Ballimaran.
During the winter holidays, Gotu promised to bring us a ball but didn’t. Later, we found out he had sold the ball meant for us to another team for ₹2. My friend scolded him, and finally, he said he was going to Feroz Shah Kotla at 11 a.m. If he got balls, he’d bring one the next morning.
We didn’t trust him. My friend and I decided to go there and see who he bought balls from. If we found the source, we could buy directly and maybe even sell them ourselves.
Around 11 a.m., we walked to Delhi Gate. Back then, Feroz Shah Kotla Stadium wasn’t as big as it is today. A road from Delhi Gate led to Rajghat. On one side was the old city wall, behind it Darya Ganj, and in front, gardens. On the other side were a football stadium, a bus stop, and a lane leading to the cricket stadium. Between the lane and the stadium wall was a small ground with nets and a pitch — where DDCA league matches were held.
We reached and saw Gotu sitting at the corner of the lane. A match was going on. Seeing us, he smirked and said, “Here to learn the secrets of my business? Don’t trust me, huh?” I replied, “If we trusted you, we wouldn’t be here. We’re not interfering in your work. We just want the ball.”
He said, “The match is still on. You’ll have to sit in the sun for a while.” I suggested we sit under a tree nearby — better view, more shade. He laughed and said, “Now that you’re here, sit quietly and enjoy the show.”
We sat with him. Soon, a batsman hit a powerful shot and the ball bounced toward the road. Gotu seemed to be waiting for this moment. He ran, grabbed the ball, and shouted, “Run! Run!”
We didn’t understand at first, but seeing him dash across the road, we followed. Ignoring the kids playing nearby, we ran and slipped through a crack in the wall, finally catching our breath.
Gotu laughed and said, “Wasn’t that fun? Why were you sitting like fools? A little delay and we’d have been caught. They beat you up badly sometimes. Even hand you over to the police. I risk my life to get balls for you, and still, you don’t trust me.”
I thought — what if we had been caught? Even though we hadn’t done anything wrong, we’d have been beaten. If my family found out, I can’t imagine what would’ve happened. Cricket would’ve been banned for me, that’s for sure.
After a while, I asked Gotu, “Why do you take such risks to steal and sell balls? What do you do with the money?”
He looked at me silently. His eyes welled up. He said, “I have two younger brothers and a sister. My mother passed away two years ago. My father remarried. He sells vegetables in the evening market. I help him, but he’s harsh. He never gives me a single coin. At home, my stepmother doesn’t feed my siblings properly. If I say anything, my father scolds them. Sometimes he even hits them.”
“With the money I earn — risking everything — I secretly bring food for my little siblings.”
At that age, I didn’t know what to say. I quietly walked home. Before leaving, I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone about what happened that day.
We kept that promise throughout the winter holidays.
But in the summer break, we didn’t see Gotu selling balls at Mori gate.
This year, while watching an IPL match, I don’t know why — but after 42 long years, I remembered him.
I wonder… what might he be doing now?
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