The Enigma of the Six-Hitting Stranger

Ranchi winters whispered the sweet seduction of cricket in 1975. Our local club, a force to be reckoned with, reveled in life-size practices before a crucial match. As usual, a Saturday afternoon buzzed with the thwack of leather on willow, drawing a sizeable crowd.

That day, my deliveries hummed with accuracy, fueled by the applause of eager spectators. Suddenly, a man materialized from the boundary line. Tall and charismatic, he strode right up to the batsman, seemingly intent on hijacking the game. Age demanded respect, so we swallowed our initial irritation. This wasn't some youngster demanding a shot; he carried the air of someone briefly returning to a forgotten passion. He wouldn't need pads or gloves for just a ball or two, we assumed.

But assumptions were shattered. The first ball soared over mid-off, a resounding six. Two more followed, each a missile aimed at the mid-wicket fence. Irritation morphed into a silent, collective challenge. Our best bowlers unleashed their arsenals, only to be met with the same merciless treatment: thunderous sixes and elegant boundaries.

Three bowlers down, and the stranger, with a final wave, became just another face in the crowd. Claps echoed across the field, but we stood stunned, speechless. Who was this enigma? Where did he come from? And where did he disappear to?

For days, this "Tsunami," as we dubbed him, dominated our discussions. His effortless display was test-match material, a fleeting glimpse of cricketing mastery etched in our memories. It was a humbling encounter, an opportunity for me to not only appraise his talent but also reflect on my own. That day, cricket wasn't just a game; it was a story etched in mystery, a reminder that true talent can emerge from the most unexpected places.