The red cricket ball vanished after Sameer hit it over Mrs. D’Souza’s wall.
This was unfortunate because the ball belonged to Ravi, the wall belonged to Mrs. D’Souza, and the window beyond the wall had made a sound like a plate losing an argument.
Everyone ran.
Sameer ran farthest. He spent the evening hoping the window had already been broken by weather, a bird, or history.
The next morning, Mrs. D’Souza stood at the cricket ground holding the red ball.
“Who hit it?” she asked.
No one moved.
She placed the ball on the ground. “I am too old to chase the truth. It must walk to me.”
Sameer’s legs felt heavy, but they walked.
“I did,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t have enough money for a window.”
Mrs. D’Souza studied him. “Good. Then you will pay in Saturdays.”
For four Saturdays, Sameer swept leaves, carried groceries, and watered plants. On the fifth, she handed him lemonade and the red ball.
“The glazier charged less than expected,” she said. “You worked more than required.”
“Can I stop?”
“You may.”
Sameer looked at the dry flowerbeds, then at the watering can by the door. “I’ll come next Saturday anyway.”
Mrs. D’Souza waited until he was through the gate before she let herself smile.
At the next match, Sameer hit another ball toward her wall. This time, Mrs. D’Souza caught it from her garden chair.
“Six runs,” she called, and kept the ball until someone came honestly to collect it.