There is a small shop in the lane. It sells biscuits and bread, pens and band- aids. The man at the store always has a radio held to his ear. He listens to anything worthy of his time. Some days it's the news of an important building catching a strategic fire, other days it's the delayed monsoons.

Children go to the store to buy packets of chips to play before school. He takes the folded ten rupee notes and yells at them for good measure. They don't care and it makes me feel better, so all in all everyone's pleased. Men buy loose cigarettes and ask him for a match box. The women buy hair oil and shampoo sachets, preparing for Sunday morning hair care rituals. He growls at everyone and pretends like it is a burden for him to sell them things.

The only thing that the man approves of is cricket. The only time he doesn't scowl is when children come to buy rubber balls to play cricket with. 

I stop at the store to ask for change, after late night auto rides. He never gives me any and angrily starts pulling the shutter down. This eggs me on to ask more often, to check if he ever gives people change.

Then one day, it hits me. From now on, whenever he gives me change, I check my phone for cricket scores. 

I am told that every four years, there is a month so magical, that if you stand outside his store with a thousand rupee note, he'll give you change and he will smile at you. When India won the world cup last year and all the jumping up and down and bleeding blue was done, I thought of this and jumped a little more.