The floodlights were on. The match was about to begin.
There was silence in the grounds except for the faint whirring of mosquitos that were buzzing around the heads of the players. There was absolutely no wind today. Good day for the game.
The players were standing at attention, their rackets raised high as if praying to the Gods before the start of the match.
And then the match started. What a match it was.
Swat, swat, swat went the rackets. Backhand, forehand, every shot in the book was played to a full gallery.
Eager eyes watched from the sides and clapped for every hit.
Soon, all too soon, the match was over.
They lay on the floor, dead, the mosquitos.
The men kept their mosquito racket swatters down and carefully closed the net doors of their houses as they stepped out for a chat.
All the villas in the small gated community near the lake were now silent, waiting for peaceful sleep.
Another evening of victory against the nightmares of dengue and malaria.
And their children would be safe for another night from the deadly mosquito bites.