In Bhairavpur, everything important happened in Gali Number Teen.
Cricket wickets were made of chappals.
Homework was copied under the neem tree.
Raw mangoes were dipped in namak-mirch and eaten secretly before dinner.
The gali belonged to everyone—at least, that was the understanding.
Until Bholu Yadav grew bigger than the rest.
Bholu had broad shoulders, loud laughter, and a plastic whistle he wore around his neck like a medal. His father owned the biggest tractor in the village, and Bholu reminded everyone of that fact daily.
One afternoon, he planted himself near the paan shop and blew the whistle.
“Sun lo sab!” he announced. “From today, this side of the gali is my area. Jo idhar khelega, woh mera dost hoga.”
Raju and Munna looked at each other. Being Bholu’s “friend” usually meant fielding the whole match, clapping for his sixes, and agreeing that his out was actually a no-ball.
At the far end lived Ilyas Khan, a quiet boy who never joined the shouting. He liked sitting alone, stacking bricks and broken tiles into neat little forts. He spoke softly, but when he did, people listened—mostly because his eyes never blinked.
One day, without warning, Ilyas drew a straight line with white chalk across Pooja’s kho-kho ground, right up to her gate.
“This land touches my wall,” he said calmly. “It’s unsafe for you to run here.”
“But we’ve played here since Class One!” Pooja protested.
Ilyas shrugged. “You should have thought earlier.”
Near the handpump stood Chintu Gupta, chewing peanuts and watching everything. Chintu was not strong, but he was clever. He had carrom coins, foreign erasers, and a full box of brand-new cricket balls his mama sent from the city.
He lent things easily.
He remembered debts perfectly.
Soon, Chintu started flying his patang so low that everyone else’s strings got tangled over Suman’s terrace.
“This hawa,” he said, smiling politely, “comes first to my kite. Historical reason.”
Suman frowned. “Hawa kab se kisi ki ho gayi?”
Chintu adjusted his spectacles. “Free hawa creates confusion.”
Slowly, rules appeared in Bhairavpur.
To play gitte, you needed permission.
To borrow a bat, you needed loyalty.
To cross chalk lines, you needed courage—or stupidity.
The youngest kids suffered most.
Little Guddu, still in KG, tugged at Munna’s shirt. “Bhaiya, lagori khelenge?”
Munna sighed. “Aaj nahi. Area issue chal raha hai.”
Bholu said loudly, “Discipline is needed. Too much freedom spoils children.”
Ilyas added, “Boundaries prevent chaos.”
Chintu concluded, “Control is good for long-term planning.”
That evening, Master Ramprasad, the retired schoolteacher, walked slowly through Gali Number Teen. His kurta smelled of old books and mustard oil. He had taught all of them once—tables, spelling, and how to share a bench without fighting.
He looked at the chalk lines, the divided rooftops, the silent cricket bats.
“When I was your age,” he said softly, “we had nothing. One ball, half a bat, and ten boys. Still, we played till sunset.”
Bholu laughed. “Times have changed, Masterji.”
Ilyas stared at the ground.
Chintu checked his marble pouch.
Masterji sighed. “Haan, times have changed. But tell me—since when did children start guarding instead of playing?”
No one answered.
That night, the gali was strangely quiet.
No whistle.
No patang cutting.
No shouts of ‘Out hai!’
Only white chalk lines glowing under the moonlight—straight, stubborn, and waiting.
And beneath them, Gali Number Teen lay patiently, knowing that chalk washes away with the first rain…
but habits of domination take much longer.
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