Disturbance

At 4 PM Sri heard the thud of the basketball on the external wall of his house, and it shook him. He tried to neglect it, but he couldn’t. He tried to focus on his work, but he couldn’t concentrate.

The basketball thuds kept getting louder. The screams of the boys accompanied the thuds. The rattling of the basket when the ball hit it. The screeching of the shoe steps when the boys rushed to grab the basketball. The cheers of a basket. The shouts of a pass. The hushes of the misses.

Sri went to the adjacent room of his house and opened the window.

“Boys, please play elsewhere. This is disturbing me,” he said. But the boys didn’t listen. They heard him but neglected him. They said they will reduce the noise but didn’t. For a few minutes, they tried to reduce their decibel levels. The rush of adrenaline on passing the basketball took over soon.

When Sri closed the window and went back to the first room, the thud of the basketball on its wall started again. Sri got earplugs. He got earphones. He put on some music. But nothing helped.

He stepped out this time.

“Boys, I told you to go and play elsewhere,”  he admonished them again.

“But uncle, this is the basketball court,” they argued.

“You are thudding your ball on my wall. It is disturbing me. If you don’t stop playing, I will complain to your parents,” he warned them. “Go somewhere else, right now,” he said with a tone of finality.

The boys stopped for a while. They went out of the basketball court and played something else.

But the next day, they were back. At 4 PM, the thud of the basketball woke Sri from his siesta. This time he lost it. He had had enough of this. He walked out in a frenzy of rage.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to play here?” he scolded. He held one of the kids by the ear. Another by the collar. “Can’t you follow instructions?” he yelled and held another boy by his hair. The boys shrivelled in fear. They struggled to set themselves free.

“Leave them Uncle, we will not play here,” the remaining boys cried in unison.

Sri tightened his grip on the boys he had held. They groaned in pain.

“This is the last warning I am giving you. Next time don’t complain I didn’t warn you. I don’t want to see you here again,” he shouted. “Basketball is a dangerous game,” he said and pushed the boys he had held free. One fell on the floor. The other’s head banged on the wall. They groaned in pain.

Sri walked off from the court back to his room. He heard painful cries and hushed voices of the boys from outside. He waited for them to subside. It was silent after a while. The boys had gone away.

The next afternoon, he stayed awake till 4 PM. He sat at his desk with sweat on his forehead and a racing pulse. He waited to hear the thud on his wall, but there was no thud. No rattling of the basket. No screeching shoes. No frenzied passing. No screaming in excitement.

Basketball is a dangerous game, he told himself. He remembered. He stared at his comatose boy, unresponsive, insentient. The silence was killing. As was the noise. Within and outside. He looked at the basketball in the corner and shed a tear.

***