The Disappearance of Gully Cricket: A Reflection on Changing Times

(The picture is from Google Street View of the place in Visakhapatnam, where I grew up in the 80's and 90's)

Gully cricket, once an integral part of Indian childhood, is now a fading memory. In the 80’s and early 90s, the streets were more than mere public spaces; they were stages for dreams. A bat, a ball, and a group of eager kids were all that was needed. Stumps were supported by stones, or stones themselves became stumps, or it could be a lamppost, or 3 lines drawn with a piece of brick on a compound wall. If nothing, it would be two hawai chappals that acts as wickets. A twig could be a stand-in for a second bat, and everyone played with a shared spirit. The road in front of anyone's house was open to all—a place where games, conversations, and sometimes even family functions spilled over.

The essence of gully cricket was its simplicity and collectiveness. No one really owned anything individually. If one kid had a bat, it became everyone’s bat. The game was not defined by boundaries of ownership or the idea of personal space. Rather, it thrived on the joy of shared resources and experiences. The makeshift rules were adjusted to ensure everyone got a chance to bat, even if that meant the same player would switch teams mid-game to make it even. There were other rules too adhering to untold community norms - no high hitting, direct to home is out…and similar to baseball, the batsman became out after 3 missed strikes. Sometimes, 2 aunties in conversation nearby, would become the third umpire.

However, this charming spontaneity has all but vanished today. The streets, once a public canvas for collective play, have become fenced extensions of individual homes. Today, parking a vehicle outside someone else’s house for sometime has become an offence, and playing cricket in front of another’s property invites scorn. The sense of shared space has eroded, as people have become increasingly territorial, turning public roads into their own private extensions.

This shift in street dynamics reflects a much larger transformation within our society. We’ve moved from a world of collective ownership to one marked by individualism. Where gully cricket once symbolised community participation and interdependence, today’s children either play indoors or in private, organised spaces. The organic joy of impromptu matches is being replaced by curated playdates, scheduled in parks or clubs, often with everyone carrying their own bat, their own kit.

Cricket as a game, too, has evolved in this direction. Once, team kits were common—one bat, one ball, and a collective set of pads, gloves, and even guards, were shared by all players. Now, every player carries their own personalised equipment. The sheer shift in mindset is undeniable; we have transitioned from communal sharing to self-reliance, from open-hearted spontaneity to a more calculated approach to interaction.

The disappearance of gully cricket says more about the changing fabric of our society than just a nostalgic longing for a childhood pastime. It mirrors our growing sense of isolation in a world where spaces are shrinking, and lives are becoming more insular. It highlights the subtle but profound ways in which we are retreating into our personal zones, both physically and emotionally.

The gully cricket of the past was not just a game. It was a way to negotiate relationships, understand the essence of teamwork, and share resources. More importantly, it was a reflection of a community spirit that was about inclusivity and joy. Its disappearance, then, speaks volumes about the society we are evolving into—one that is far more individualistic, segmented, and perhaps, a little less playful.

In a world that’s becoming increasingly fast-paced, where personal achievement often outweighs collective success, the loss of gully cricket is a reminder of what we might be leaving behind. A simpler time, where ownership was less important than participation, and where streets echoed with the laughter of shared childhoods.