The clock was striking six in the evening and the tiny dynamo Sarfaraz Khan was pumping his fist after hitting yet another six.
The gentle sobbing became audible from across the wall, even as the roar of the crowd was subsiding.
The boy on the other side of the wall kept on crying as he was talking to his Baba back in Bengal over the phone on the hardships at work.
I got up, switched off the TV and returned to my room.
1 hour ago