Inaya bounced the tape-covered ball against the wall, as she lay on her bed, sulking. She hated the fact that her father stopped her from doing the one thing she loved. The only thing that made her want to get out of bed. She threw the ball at the wall with far more force than was necessary. It shot back at her and almost got her in the eye, but she caught it just in time. Thirty-seven.

A thought flitted through Inaya’s head, bringing on the faintest flicker of a smile. She reached under the mattress and pulled out a sports magazine. Turning to the centre spread, she unfolded a gigantic poster of Jhulan Goswami, the captain of the Indian women’s cricket team. Inaya flicked through the magazine to Jhulan’s interview and read it with rapt attention—for the fifth time.

Her mobile phone buzzed just then. Inaya was so absorbed in the article that she almost didn’t hear the ring. She finally answered the call, still distracted.

‘Hello?’

‘Tell me you haven’t seen the evening newspaper yet and that I am going to be the one to give you the most amazing news in the world, Inaya-meri-jaan-Haider!’ gushed Saba, barely able to contain her excitement.

‘I haven’t seen it. But guess what, Saba? Jhulan Goswami also got interested in cricket after watching a women’s World Cup match. Like me. And her parents were also dead against her taking up cricket. Like Abba is. And she ran away from home just like . . . ’

‘Just like you’re planning to do, with me, your best friend in the whole wide universe, in tow?’ gasped Saba wide-eyed, finishing Inaya’s sentence for her and adding herself into the plot.

Inaya sighed. ‘I can’t just go to school and come back and do my Quran studies and homework and then do the same thing the next day and the next day and the next. I just can’t . . . I can’t live without my tape-ball cricket.’

‘Arreee, that’s why I’m calling you, you duffer—if you’d only let me get a word in. There is a tape-ball league tournament being organized for girls aged 16 and under—and I totally think you should go for the try-out. The selected players will be sent to London for the actual tournament. There’s an article about it in the evening newspaper. Go, read it now!’

The magazine dropped from Inaya’s hand. ‘Are you joking with me, Saba? Why would anyone organize a tape-ball cricket tournament? Most people don’t even consider it a proper game.’

‘Well, there’s this crazy, rich lady who apparently does. She’s called Nabeel Said . . . ’

‘Hold on, Nabeel Said? As in, Nabeel’s Kitchen, the one who owns all those cafés?’

‘Mmmmhmmm . . . Apparently, her first love was cricket, but she was never allowed to play—being a girl and all . . . ’

‘Don’t we know that story,’ muttered Inaya.

‘So anyway, this is what it says: “Now that Nabeel’s cafés have done so well, she wants to do her bit to make cricket a game that every child in every street across the world can play. And what better way to do it than starting a tape-ball tournament. No expensive cricket balls and pads and gloves . . .”’