THIRTY OR SO YEARS AGO, in the Indian state of Punjab, in a tiny village surrounded by rice paddies, miles from the nearest home with air conditioning or even with glass and screens on all its windows, there lived a teenage boy named Balbir Singh Bhamara who did what had once seemed impossible; he grew to be taller than his mother.

Balbir’s father was a wheat farmer and miller with a string of glistening black water buffalo that gave milk as sweet as honey. His mother was 6’9″, and young Balbir grew to be a little over seven feet tall — the tallest person in the village.

Everywhere the giant boy went, people told him he ought to play basketball, a game many of them had heard about but never seen. Then, as now, cricket was the only sport that mattered. Hockey (meaning field hockey) — the official national game — was, by comparison, a niche sport. As was football (meaning soccer). Then, as now — but probably not for much longer — basketball was little more than a curiosity.

Soon, in a nearby village, the boy found a hoop. In no time, hoops found the boy — as, perhaps even in India, was not surprising for a kid whose turban nearly reached the net. People began telling Balbir that, in the cities, there were schools with proper courts where he could learn the game and, as a bonus, get an education. If he took to the game, as seemed certain, he’d have a chance to see the country. Maybe represent the country. Maybe, just maybe, the boy could see the world.

Balbir’s father would hear none of it. He refused to allow the boy to give basketball a try. Balbir would stay in the village and become a farmer. That was that. The boy obeyed, because that was what a boy did. In due course, he took over the farm and was prosperous. He married. He had three children. He was elected the head of the village.

And then one day another giant emerged: Balbir’s middle child, a sweet and joyful boy named Satnam. When Satnam was 9 years old and already taller than most adults in the village, Balbir took the boy to a scruffy local court to play basketball, a game Balbir still barely understood. Satnam walked onto the court, utterly bewildered. He had misunderstood and thought his father was taking him to play volleyball. Predictably, the boy struggled. Balbir watched, feeling untroubled, undeterred — happy, even.

Not long after they got back home, Balbir crossed the lumpy dirt courtyard that separated his small stable and mill from his even smaller house and mounted a hoop to the weathered brick wall. Balbir summoned his son to the courtyard and handed Satnam a new rubber basketball.

The family room was right inside. At the end of the workday, while others in the family strained to hear the little TV over the big kid’s incessant banging of the ball against the wall, Balbir — a man destined to become the second-tallest person in his village — would just sit back, sip his tea with buffalo milk, stroke his long, graying beard and grin.

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