‘Let’s try this,’ the American said, enjoying the game, ‘I like my prose paratactic, my women flexible, and my governments libertarian. Who am I?’
‘Chinese Communist.’
‘Close enough. I’m an investment banker,’ the American confessed, and Anand told him of the three years he had spent in New York – and of his intimate knowledge of Central Park, especially the pond area called Hernshead, towards the south – and of his knowledge also of Peter Luger, Scalini, Wolfgang’s Strip House, Bouley, Daniel (Lithuanian waitresses!), Union Square Grill (the things you can do in that Men’s Room of theirs!), Gramercy Tavern, Grimaldi’s, Lombar—
‘You know, Anand,’ ‘Jo-Jo’ Mistry interrupted him, ‘I actually played cricket.’
‘I remember, mate,’ Anand Mehta smiled. ‘I remember. You were a keeper, weren’t you?’
‘Substitute wicket-keeper. Being ambidextrous, I was good at collections with my left hand too, which most Indians are not.’ Mistry demonstrated how he gathered the ball this way and that, this way and that. ‘Coach never gave me a chance. Even now it hurts.’
‘Like the first time you wanted a girl. Can’t be forgotten. Ah, cricket. We had to get rid of the English, I always say, in order to enjoy the benefits of English civilization. You will keep hearing,’ Mehta turned to the American, ‘that other sports are becoming popular in India, like tennis or volleyball, but the thing to understand about cricket, sir, is that our government has no option but to enforce the mandatory playing of this game in India. You see, we are sitting on a time-bomb: we’re missing about ten million women from our population, due to female infanticide. This extraordinary fact is known to you, I assume? Do not make any business decision in India until you familiarise yourself with our male-to-female sex ratio, the result of decades of selective abortion. I predict that young Indian males, lacking women to marry or even to mate with, are likely to become progressively more deranged. This is already visible. Now, only one thing on earth can save us from all this rogue Hindu testosterone. Cri-cket. Have you ever tried to kill someone with a cricket bat? All but impossible. The deep and intrinsic silliness of cricket, I think, all that fair play and honourable draw stuff, makes it ideally suited for male social control in India. Can you imagine what will happen to crime and rape in Delhi and Mumbai if boys here start playing, say, American football? I believe that in the years to come, to pacify hundreds of millions of desperately horny young Indians of the lower social classes, our government has only three real policy options: to legalize prostitution, which it won’t do; to make liquor significantly cheaper than it currently is, which it can’t afford to do; or else, to supply us with a never-ending stream of narcotizing cricket-based entertainments. Bread and Tendulkar. Televised cricket in India is essentially state-sponsored lobotomy (you must hear our cricket commentators) – and we’ll be getting a lot more of it soon. What do you think, Jo-Jo? Am I right or am I as usual right?’
But ‘Jo-Jo’ Mistry was still demonstrating his ambidextrous wicket-keeping skills along the table’s surface. Anand Mehta knew exactly why Jo-Jo was acting like an idiot, the same reason he had so cunningly brought an American along: because any moment he could say, Oh, Cricket, we thought you meant High-Yield Corporate Debt, and leave.
Mehta excused himself for a minute.
Out in the lobby of the Trident, dipping his finger in a brass bowl filled with rose petals, he answered his phone.
‘Tommy Sir, I’m in a business meeting. You keep texting and calling.’
‘Mr Anand. Can you come to St George Hospital at once?’
‘Absolutely not. What a question. I’m in a meeting.’
When Tommy Sir explained the situation, Anand Mehta put his palm on his forehead and wished the game of cricket a speedy extinction.
•
Although he was that rare cricket lover who was not also an Anglophile – kept safe from that lunacy by his knowledge of what the British had done to India in the twentieth century (Partition, the Bengal famine, the Gandhi–Nehru family) and the greater horror they had deposited here in the nineteenth century, the Indian Penal Code, which was still in force (like the mad grandfather everyone knows should be locked up in the attic, but who sits in the living room with a cane in his hands) – Tommy Sir had, nevertheless, developed a grudging respect for the rascals, freebooters and thugs who had carved out the Raj in the eighteenth century. All that pluck and quick thinking, all that scholarship and buccaneering – James Grant Duff writing the history of the Marathas with one hand while discharging his flintlocks at the Marathas with the other. That takes balls. French call it sangfroid. And of that eighteenth-century legacy of balls, more respectably termed sangfroid, the sole surviving shard we possess in India is the game of test cricket.
Which was exactly why Tommy Sir smiled at young Radha Krishna Kumar, that living manifestation of sangfroid, as he stood at the head of an outpatient bed in the St George Hospital, Mumbai, even as Anand Mehta entered the hospital ward, asking,
‘Where is this Holocaust situation, please?’
Raising himself up in his bed, Mohan Kumar folded his hands as his benefactor arrived.
‘My own son has done this to me, sir, my own Radha . . .’ His two boys stood on either side of the wounded Mohan, like a better and a worse angel. He pointed a finger at one, and then at the other. ‘My right leg is broken. My own two sons did this. Radha struck the blow. Radha did it. Please tell the police: please tell them who has hurt who, who is guilty and who is innocent here.’
As they left the hospital, Tommy Sir told Anand Mehta a different version of events. This monster without a name from the mountains of South India, this chutney-seller, was in competition with the two penises he had created.
‘He follows Radha on his red bike all the way to Ballard Estate, and then goes running up and bangs on the door where Radha is with his girlfriend, saying he will murder everyone inside. I told you he has a police record. They say he tried to finish off his wife. To protect his girlfriend, Radha, brave boy, pushes his father, who falls down the stairs and breaks his leg. We need a licence in this country to buy a gas cylinder or open a tea shop, but there is no licence required to have children.’
‘My God,’ Anand Mehta said, slapping his forehead. He had just parted with a five-hundred-rupee note, transferred via Tommy Sir to the wounded paterfamilias.
‘The more money I give them, the more money they suck up. It’s a disaster.’
‘No,’ Tommy Sir said. ‘No, no, no.’
He made a small space between his fingers, and smiled.
‘It’s wonderful. The more money you give them . . .’
He brought his fingers together.
‘. . . the less freedom they have.’
As his chauffeur drove him away from the hospital, Anand Mehta looked at the one-inch gap he was holding captive between his thumb and index finger, and the street lights on Marine Drive cast a golden furrow over his car.
•
After being helped by his sons into a black taxi, Mohan Kumar used his crutches to chastise them in alternation, all the way back to Chembur. Both boys silently ate their father’s blows, but each time Radha’s eyes met Manju’s, they relayed the same message: Next time he tries to do this to me, I’ll break his neck instead. When the taxi reached their building, Mohan paid the driver with Mehta’s five-hundred-rupee note. But after Radha and Manju got out, he continued to sit in the taxi and said, feebly, ‘Wait. We need a better story to tell.’
The boys stared at him through the window.
‘The neighbours will ask,’ Mohan Kumar explained, ‘how I broke my right leg.’
•
‘In the old days they used to say, let Bombay field two sides in the Ranji Trophy and the final will be Bombay versus Bombay. Today look at us. Have we produced one major batsman in this city since Sachin? Small towns all across India are producing hungry batsmen. Things are not going to be easy for you Bombay boys. So don’t make them any harde
r by dropping catches. Now get the bloody hell into a circle around me. Time for catching practice. Time for pain. The ball is going to fly at your faces. Ready, boys?’
‘Yes, sir, Tommy Sir!’
Manju’s face had been smeared with white war-paint: zinc cream to protect his skin. He stamped on the wild grass at the centre of Azad Maidan; dragonflies fled his brand-new spikes. A Pepsi bottle and a decaying canvas shoe lying in the grass each got a kick. He bent low; he watched the stone-roller.
Six boys were watching that roller. Tommy Sir had the red ball in his hands. He threw it at the curved stone; deflecting off the edge, the shiny new cricket ball flew straight at one boy’s eyes.
Radha caught the ball, fumbled with it, slipped, and dropped it.
Manju winced; he rubbed the back of his thighs. That was where Radha was going to get it. Under-arming the ball to Tommy Sir, Radha turned and waited.
First, the speech:
‘You know how many batsmen fit into a cricket team? Just six. So why, duffers, do you make things harder for yourself by dropping catches?’
Now for the punishment.
Manju closed his eyes. He heard it. Tommy Sir had thrown the ball straight into his brother’s back. When he opened his eyes, Radha, his elbow bent, was rubbing the spot where the ball had hit.
The six boys crouched once more in front of the roller. Radha loved everything to do with the game: the three rounds of jogging around the maidan to warm up, the jumping jacks, the stretches, even the chastisement that followed a dropped catch. With hard work he had made himself a good fielder. Manju did not practise half as hard. But Manju caught with his left hand as well as with his right, and could hit with just one stump to aim at. On the run.
Now that he had been punished, Radha knew that Tommy Sir, serial humiliator, would aim the ball at Manju next. Lowering his eyes, feeling strange in the stomach, Radha realized he couldn’t say if he wanted Manju to catch the ball or drop the ball.
He crouched, his fingers tense.
But no ball came.
Tommy Sir was walking over to a banyan tree that stood just outside the maidan. From behind it, the boys now saw a pair of crutches poking out. The man who had been hiding behind the tree now came into view and the yelling began.
‘They’re my sons!’
‘We had an agreement! Out. Out.’
Radha turned to Manju, who was looking at him. The boys saw Tommy Sir arguing with the man on the crutches, then forcing him to get into a black taxi, and slamming the roof as it drove away.
Manju looked at his brother again.
Don’t look at me, idiot, Radha shouted, loud enough for all the boys to hear, because he didn’t know that his brother had already read his mind.
Don’t let all three members of our family be disgraced today. Look at the ball.
THE HARRIS SHIELD BEGINS
Early morning at Cross Maidan. The shops of Fashion Street are closed. The concrete tower of the Tata Communications building rises in one corner; the domes of the Western Railway headquarters and a flame-shaped Zoroastrian fire-temple are visible on the other side of the maidan. Boys in white have gathered in a semi-circle at the centre of the maidan, and they are looking at an old man; the old man is looking at an electronic mike in front of his nose.
The old man’s name is J. B. Adhikari; he might have played for Bombay, though no one was sure when; and he was spending his retirement writing a history of one hundred and fifty years of Bombay cricket in the library of the CCI, where he was so often seen snoring over a newspaper it was generally felt his history would take one hundred and fifty years to write.
‘Gharana.’
The old man spoke at first to the mike, and then, as if gaining in confidence, to the boys.
‘We call it the Mumbai Gharana. A School of Music. A school of music of cricket. You know the names. Ajit Wadekar, who led us to our first series win in England in 1971; Farokh Engineer and Vinoo Mankad; Eknath Solkar, the finest close-in fielder this country has seen; the two gems of Indian batsmanship, Sachin and Sunny; and the two Dilips, Sardesai and Vengsarkar. All of them were local boys like you; they learnt to play at the Oval and the Azad Maidan. Like you they took the trains and buses; like you they batted in the Kanga League in the rain and in the Gymkhana in the heat. Now what are the characteristics of this Mumbai school of music expressed as cricket? All-round defensive and attacking play; a strong back foot; the skill to survive the moving and turning ball alike. When he stands at the wicket, a young batsman must bring to his technique all the toughness of our city. He must bat selfishly. Must humiliate the other side, particularly if it is Delhi. He must hoard runs for himself. But he must also bat selflessly. Sacrifice himself when the team needs it. Scoring a century or double century is not enough: it has to be the right century or double century. It takes more than just success to join the hundred-and-fifty-year-old gharana of Bombay batsmanship. So, boys: Play Hard. But play within the rules. And may the spirit of Vijay Merchant and Vijay Manjrekar shine upon you.’
FIRST DAY
0–131 RUNS
By 11 a.m., Manju, his muscles warmed, his face striped with zinc cream, was swinging his bat in big circles with his left arm.
Grim, grim: all was grim. Put in to bat by Dadar Bhadra School, Ali Weinberg had lost its openers in the first few overs, and then – Khallas! – its star batsman, Radha Kumar, record-holder, was bowled around his legs.
One Kumar out, another in: Manju observed his superstitions. Even as the fielders cried, ‘The crazy boy is doing it again,’ he circumambulated the stumps. ‘Obbane, Obbane/ Kattale, Kattale.’ Wait. Wait. Not yet ready. He looked all around.
In one corner, he saw the Dadar Bhadra coach, seated on a white chair under blossoms of white and pink bougainvillea and shouting nonstop at his boys – Dil se khelo! Avinash, Aisa Mauka aur nahi ayega! Shall I tell your father, that you are no good? You. I want minimum two wickets and two catches from you. Let’s at least make an effort, guys? If you believe we can win, boys.
‘I said not yet ready!’ Manju held his arm up to tell the bowler to wait.
He had to find his rhythm. Scraping the crease with his bat, he began hunting for the rhythm. Tap, tap, tap. Before he could find the right rhythm, another bat’s tapping interrupted his, and he had to hold his hand up once again and shout: ‘Wait.’ At the non-striker’s end, wearing a blue helmet with the initials ‘J.A.’ in gold lettering, Javed Ansari stood tapping his bat, imitating Manju, beat for beat.
Fascinating, Tommy Sir thought, an hour later. He was standing as far away as his eyes would let him. Both Ansari and Kumar were playing better than they had ever done before: and this partnership of theirs, which had already accumulated 90 runs, might well make tomorrow’s newspapers, if it continued like this. The two boys were perfect contrasts. Long-sleeved, elegant, Javed’s footwork was basic, but his southpaw strokeplay had the intricacy of exquisite filigree-work; Manju’s batting was direct, simple, iron. As they played together, they did not speak, and barely even acknowledged each other’s existence: yet Tommy Sir saw the two styles blend.
•
As the papers reported the next day:
Batting for the Ali Weinberg School of Bandra, the combination of Manjunath Kumar and Javed Ansari had added 260 runs at the Karnatak Sporting Association pitch of the Cross Maidan; both batsmen had become centurions. ‘The bowlers have given up; the fielders have given up. The real contest now appears to be between the two batsmen themselves.’
SECOND DAY
132 –150 RUNS
On the morning of the second day, the coach of Dadar Bhadra School, now straddling his white plastic chair under the bougainvillea blossoms, had not given up: he continued to yell at his under-achieving bowlers with unflagging energy – Pyaar se fielding karo, Ramesh – What is this nonsense, Avinash? – Adi, let’s see some spirit, young man. What will I tell your father otherwise?
By 11 a.m., both Manju and Javed had changed bats, opting f
or heavier versions of their SGs, an indication that the real hitting was just beginning.
SECOND DAY: AFTER LUNCH
151– 256 RUNS
Manju and Javed’s partnership had broken at least seven known Mumbai school records. One of them had made 212. The other was four runs behind.
The post-lunch session began. As Javed, rubbing the black rubber handle of his cricket bat, watched from the non-striker’s end, Manju, bending low and orientalizing his style with baroque wristwork, flicked the first ball from outside off-stump to the square-leg boundary.
Each time either of them hit a four, the two boys solemnly walked down to the middle of the pitch and touched their gloves, then turned and walked back.
Suddenly, in the middle of the pitch, as their gloves met, Javed asked:
‘Does your father tell you only one of us can be Tendulkar and the other has to be Kambli?’
Manju’s mouth opened.
Javed repeated his question. Manju moved back to take strike. He saw the golden ‘J.A.’ initials on the blue helmet, and thought: It’s a mind-game.
In the next over, Javed hit a four off the back foot. The boys walked down the pitch, and touched gloves again.
‘Same thing my father says,’ Javed said.
Manju looked around.
‘Does your father tell you things will be easy for me because I’m a left-hander?’
Manju ran back to his crease. But the next time they walked to the middle of the pitch and touched gloves, he said:
‘I’ve given the bowlers nicknames. Want to hear?’
Mohan Kumar had taught his sons to do this, to establish psychological dominance over the bowlers. Manju had given the leg-spinner the name ‘Taibu’, because he was small and dark, like the Zimbabwean; one tall fast-bowler started off as ‘Akram’, because he was left-handed, and turned into ‘Nehra’, as his deliveries were smashed to the boundary. And this chubby round-arm spinner who was preparing to bowl, this spinner who had been hit to the fence and over it so many times, how else could Manju refer to this spinner but as ‘Loser’?