Six Stones
Gopal Rane had been a cricket umpire for forty-one years, and in all that time he had never changed a decision.
Once, in a club final, he gave his own brother's son out leg before wicket. The boy did not speak to him for a year. Gopal never regretted it. An umpire's word is the only thing in the game that cannot be bent.
He was seventy-one now, and his knees were finished. Nobody asked him to stand in a match anymore. But every evening he still walked to the maidan behind his chawl in Dadar, and every evening he carried six small stones in his right coat pocket.
It was an old umpire's habit. After each ball you move one stone to the other pocket, so you always know how many balls are left in the over. Gopal did not need the stones now. He kept them the way some men keep a watch that has stopped.
On Monday the boys went home at dusk, as always. Gopal stayed by the old pitch to enjoy the quiet. The light turned orange, then grey.
Then, from the empty pitch, he heard the sound he knew better than his own name. Thock. A ball hitting a pad.
Nobody was there. No ball, no batter, no bowler. He put his hand in his pocket. Five stones on the right. One on the left.
He had not moved it.