We now know that the people who lived in the terrorist mastermind’s compound not only kept neighborhood kids’ soccer balls, but they kept cricket balls that came over the walls, too.
First: I’m glad Pakistani cricket is alive and well. Clearly, some Afridis-in-the-making were hitting those sixes.
Second: The ‘cricket ball’ problem was a difficult one to deal with in urban Mumbai, circa 1990s. If you hit it out of your “compound” and onto the street, you’d have to juggle oncoming traffic and risk death to get the ball back. Happily, I was too young to think too much about mortality. (Though I did lose a fair number of tennis balls. My mother once angrily asked me why I was responsible for providing the ball in the games, and I replied that the boys would play with the red rubber balls if I didn’t. And, God, those balls were scary as hell. Does anyone remember those things?)