Four Hours in Bandipur
What do you do when you have four hours, no plan, and a city you've already seen? I walked. I played cricket with strangers. I learned something about connection I didn't go looking for.
A few months back, I was in Bandipur taking a pause in life. It wasn’t my first time there. Last time, I had been with ex-colleagues. This time, I had planned the trip with my sister.
I arrived early in the morning and booked a hotel run by a family. I took a shower and called my sister. She told me she would be a few hours late. I had no plan beyond what we’d do when she arrived. I had a few hours to myself. I could spend them scrolling my phone, sitting in silence, or walking around the streets.
I chose to walk. I found a small tea shop selling sel roti and chiya. I couldn’t resist, so I ate two sel rotis and drank my tea. I still had around four hours to wait. I headed into the alleys of Bandipur with my AirPods in. I came across children playing marbles. I stopped and watched, trying to grasp the rules. They had changed a lot from my time. I built up the courage to ask if I could join. I finally did, but everyone continued their rhythm as if they hadn’t heard anything.
Being dismissed by children half my height was more deflating than I expected. I walked on.
I discovered old houses, narrow lanes, and pieces of Bandipur’s history. It felt like a city disconnected from the outside world, with different designs, different accents, different people. I was observing every difference along the way.
I kept walking, not sure what I was looking for, when four kids playing cricket caught my attention. This time I asked confidently: “Can I play with you guys?” They said yes without hesitation.
The oldest one stepped forward to divide the group. He assumed someone much older than them must play better, but reality was different. He split us into two teams: three of us on one side, including a ten-year-old and an eight-year-old, and the rest on the other. The oldest boy was confident his team would win. It didn’t go that way, and the other team beat us.
In between overs, they didn’t miss the chance to connect with a stranger. They asked who my favourite IPL player was. I had no idea. I didn’t know a single name. I needed to rescue myself, so I tried a smarter approach: “Can you guess who my favourite is?” Four kids replied with four different names. Now I had four choices, an easy task to pick one. It worked. Those questions got us talking, and by the end of the match, something had shifted.
After the game, they asked what I was doing in Bandipur and what I did for a living. I told them I was there to waste my time. The oldest one offered to guide me to Tin-Dhara. They guided me better than any paid guide would have. I asked them questions in return, what did they want to be when they grew up? One wanted to be an engineer because his father was one. One wanted to be a doctor. One had no idea yet. Those questions filled the quiet while we walked around Tin-Dhara.
Then they offered to take me to their home. I followed. They suggested one more cricket match. I didn’t refuse. Then my sister called, and I had to leave.
Before leaving, I offered them something in return for their time: a cricket ball, a Coke, anything they wanted. The youngest said he loved Coke. The oldest said no. They refused, kindly. I paused at that. I thought about my own childhood. I was not like that. I would have accepted without a second thought. These boys were a fraction of my age and yet they carried themselves with more grace than I had at twice theirs. I was blown away.
Before I left, they said: “Come back tomorrow as well. We will wait for you, uncle. We can play cricket together.” I promised to return.
The next day, I went back. I waved at them. This time they were a little more reserved. My sister was with me, and they clearly weren’t sure who she was. I waved the same way as before and talked for a bit. They didn’t offer to guide me this time. I told them to stay happy, that I would come back someday, and said goodbye until next time.
They will always be special to me. I often see them during meditation, and I wave at them, exactly the same way, in silence.