Member-only story
When I Fought Alone
And the people I trusted just watched
I was around 10 years old.
It was a Sunday morning.
Just like every other Sunday in my childhood—carefree, full of joy, and made for cricket.
We had placed our stumps right in the middle of the street, like we always did. The whole group of colony kids had gathered. The street was our stadium.
We were excited. In our zone. Lost in the game.
And then—they came.
Three elder boys. Came on cycle. Gunde-type.
They came fast, laughed, kicked our stumps, and rode away.
We all stood there—surprised, a little afraid, but silent.
Why argue? Why take a stand? They looked dangerous. Older. Stronger.
So we quietly picked up the stumps… and started playing again.
Not long after… they came again.
Same story.
Same stumps on the ground.
Same laughter.
But this time, the frustration had begun to build up in all of us.
Still, nobody said anything.
We picked up the stumps again. And resumed the game.
