Its 11;30 in the morning. A street urchin, a young boy with a guitar slung casually over his shoulder, a middle aged diamond merchant, a twenty something lugging a laptop, a beggar on wheels, a little girl with a torn pink frock, a jeans and noodle strap clad trendy chick, a female coyly pulling her sari palu down her arms, an old man, clasping a little boy’s little hand, a dabbawallah early on duty. All of them, staring intently through the bars. Staring out at the open greens of Oval Maidan. Staring out at 15 or so young lads clad in whites. Whites in action. Beauty in the strokes they paint with their bowling and swinging their bats. Beauty in the soft trot to catch the ball, the quick dash to stop the ball. All activity has stopped for this eclectic mix of people. Because the pulse of Mumbai lies in Cricket. The pulse of India lies in cricket. Gully cricket, professional cricket or under-arm one tappi cricket.