People walking the narrow stretch between Garia and Boral often take flight at the sight of Belo Miyan’s autorickshaw. Especially when Miyan gets late for his khep cricket — ingenious para tournaments featuring player auctions, ensemble teams and short, 20-over games. And there is no missing the pot of gold at the end either.

This morning, too, Belo Miyan is running late for a game. He drives like a man possessed, honking, swerving, cursing. His vehicle spews white fume, people flee, and the city recedes behind a storm of dust. Packed together on the backseat are four of Belo’s teammates. On his right, three gleaming cricket bats wobble dangerously in the shaking vehicle. I, the only non-cricketer, sitting on Belo’s left and clutching on to him for dear life, am thinking about what Lalit Modi, the BCCI vice-president, had said.

A gushing Modi had recently described the soon-to-begin Indian Premier League as a ‘landmark’ event in world cricket. Others have hailed it as a novelty, on the lines of Kerry Packer’s pyjama cricket, all set to revolutionize the game.

But the IPL is no invention. Simply because the germ of the idea had always been there, practised in the form of khep cricket in Calcutta. Some wily board official must have come snooping, lifted the idea from the city’s greens and gullies, and was now claiming credit for it. The truth, I knew, had to be told, and khep cricket given its due. I suddenly knew how a crusader felt. But I had to be careful, lest I fall off my dangerous perch even before the battle began.

Belo Miyan came to a screeching halt. I tumbled out of the auto in one piece, with my convictions intact.

What I saw in front of me went on to show how uncanny the similarities between khep cricket and the IPL were. The Balaka Sangha ground, the site of the carnival, was as pretty as some of India’s small stadiums. It was Boral’s own Mohali. A lush ground, a colourful pavilion, a dais for guests, a shining trophy, even a huge bank cheque cut out of cardboard — everything was there. I could also see a few demure women in saris in the crowd. Babies dangled from their arms. One whack over the ropes, and I feared that they would drop the infants and burst into song-and-dance.

And, like the IPL, khep cricket too was about stars. Belo Miyan, I knew, was one. He was now swinging his bat, and every time he connected, the hapless, bright tennis ball disappeared, sending his team and the crowd into raptures.

By this time, a hunched figure had crept up to where I stood, and he started spilling secrets about this innovation and its stars. The khep season starts in winter and goes on till April. The tournaments, mostly 20-20 affairs, go on for a few days, featuring sides that hire players, locals as well as outstation ones. Every player has a ‘going price’ depending on his performance in the last khep. Balaka Sangha had booked Belo Miyan and his teammates for this season. He added with unconcealed pride that the boys have delivered, winning three meets and reaching the finals once.

Both the IPL and the khep are about territorial pride. The first is a battle between cities, and the second between localities.

“How much is Belo Miyan paid?” I asked. The man, now uncomfortable, looked away. I watched Belo Miyan go out to toss. The stranger moved closer to me and started to whisper again.

There are auctions, too, for the teams as well as players. This tournament, the man went on, featured 16 teams, three of which had successfully bid for some players from Calcutta’s first division. One of those teams, it was rumoured, was owned by a failed Tollywood actress. The prize money ran into thousands.

A stricken voice announced that the first match was about to begin. Balaka was playing Shakti Sangha. I lost interest in the stranger, who slunk away.

Belo Miyan strode out to bat. His partner was one of the backseat boys. The crowd spoke in hushed tones. I could hear the breeze.

The opponent bowler struck a pose in his run-up. His face was smeared with cream, giving him the look of an ancient totem (suntan, I gathered, hadn’t reached this far out). He ran in and bowled. There was a sound like a bone breaking, and then, mayhem.

Belo Miyan, typically, had swapped at the delivery, sending it over the ropes. The locals hooted, the children broke out in jigs. I started worrying for the dangling infants.

With the next delivery, came another cracking sound, and my eyes instinctively sought the soaring ball. I could see nothing. I looked back to see Belo Miyan walking back and the stumps lying on the ground.

An angry babble rose all around me. The restive crowd booed, some accused Belo Miyan of treachery. There were expletives too. Two women exchanged notes on Belo Miyan: the mercenary who played for money, without a care for the team. I was now worried about the IPL’s star players.

Belo Miyan was unperturbed. He returned, dropped the bat, and winked at me. Without his runs, he assured me that his team was surely to end up as the losers. Later, I asked him how he could still be his cheery self. He looked at me, as if he had spotted another full toss. “That’s because I have made enough money playing khep this year. Summer’s almost here and its time to go on a trip with the dough.” With that, he strode out to field.