The air felt heavy tonight, the kind that makes you notice every breath, but cricket still went ahead as usual in the society ground. The AQI has been awful for days, and stepping out at night feels more like stepping into smoke than air. Still, once the lights came on and the game began, the rest of it didn’t seem to matter much. I batted well for a change — four sixes in one over, all clean hits, the kind that make a solid sound off the bat. It felt easy tonight, the timing came naturally, almost like the form I’d been waiting to rediscover finally showed up. Last week’s bad outing had been sitting quietly in the back of my head; this game felt like a small piece of balance restored.
The ground was the same as always — a little uneven, floodlights flickering once or twice, and a faint smell of smoke hanging in the air. But once the ball started moving, none of that mattered. I bowled better too, tighter lines, fewer extras, and a rhythm that felt steady. Bowling under low visibility is strange; the ball seems to disappear halfway to the batsman. Yet somehow it worked tonight. I kept the runs down, and every dot ball felt like a small win. There’s a simple satisfaction in watching your plan hold together — not dramatic, just quietly correct.
The only thing that refused to cooperate was the air itself. The smog doesn’t just sit around anymore; it moves like a presence you can feel. Under the floodlights, it looked like fog, thick and still, except it didn’t carry the coolness of winter. Every few overs, someone would cough, half-jokingly blame it on “Delhi air,” and move on. That’s how normal it’s become. Playing under those lights felt both ordinary and absurd — a bunch of people running, shouting, hitting balls through a haze that shouldn’t even exist. But no one really thinks about it for long; the game always wins over logic.
What stood out tonight was the mood. Everyone seemed more relaxed, less reactive, maybe because the weather had finally cooled enough to make the heat bearable, or maybe because a good game always calms people down. The noise of the match — the crack of the bat, the shouts from fielders, the laughter after a miss — sat strangely against the dull background hum of the air purifiers from nearby balconies. That contrast felt familiar: the normal and the unhealthy, side by side, as if that’s just how Delhi evenings are supposed to be now. The body was tired, but in a good way — the kind that comes from effort, not pollution. For a short while, the air didn’t matter, the AQI didn’t exist, and it was just cricket under bad lights and worse air. I’d played well, bowled tight, and for once, everything felt in rhythm again. The smog can have the city tomorrow; tonight belonged to the game.