He woke up with a start. For a few seconds, he could not determine what was vibrating, the table or his ears. The man, whose large hands had slammed the table, was more than twice his size in height and girth. His face was wrinkled, weather-beaten. His beard and moustache were ginger. His salwar kameez and turban were both white. Dry flowers on snow. Enumerator A began introducing himself as Thorle Saheb from Pandharpur, but the pathan showed little interest.

The pathan was from Herat. He said that in his hometown all doors were open to him. All men and children, on horse and foot, stopped to seek his blessings. He was here because the news of this game had spread, from Punjab to Baluchistan, to Peshawar, and the winds had carried it to his ears.

‘Here, enter my name—Dara Kosh Pathan.’

Enumerator A added his name on the fifth page of the long red register along with his age and place of origin.

‘Ready? There’s the hole. You know the rules. Stand as far back behind this line as you can.’ As the pathan turned towards the line, Enumerator A added, ‘Wait, you have to buy paan first.’ He pointed to a blackboard hung on the wall of the paan shop, ‘There, you see, the names and scores of the top three record holders. The first hasn’t been broken in three months.’