The escalator had now reached the highest level of the mall. There was a bowling alley up there, in what was called the Play Park, where they could talk.
‘What was the point of going to England, Manju?’
‘I went to the Science Museum and read the Daily Telegraph newspaper.’
‘Bullshit.’ Javed touched Manju’s left cheek with the back of his palm. ‘You went to a CSI morgue. To see dead bodies.’
The whites of Manju’s eyes expanded, and he looked to this side and that, and then grinned. Wanted to, sure, but he had been too shy to ask the white people for directions to the morgue in Manchester.
‘Thank God. Otherwise they would think all Indians are mad like you.’
At the entrance to the Play Park they found a machine with illuminated numbers on it; a boy swung a mallet – thud! – and the numbers began to light up, one by one.
‘To see how strong you are,’ Javed said. ‘Want to try, Captain?’
‘No.’
Javed took him on a tour of the video games. Ghost Squad (‘No’) Police Squad 3 (‘No’) and Formula One (‘No’) until Javed said, ‘Relax, Captain. I’m paying. Is that what you’re worried about?’
Air hockey: a group of boys standing on either side of a table were smashing away at something small. Saying ‘Yes,’ Manju went closer, inspected the boys at the table, and then said, ‘No.’
‘Man. You keep changing your mind. They sent you to England and you became an English lady.’
They stood by the side of the Play Park, watching others try their luck or skill at the machines.
‘Did you think of your family when you were over in England?’
Looking Javed in the eye, Manju said: ‘Not once.’
‘And did you really play cricket?’
Manjunath Kumar betrayed the slightest of smiles.
‘Only when they were watching.’
Javed grinned. ‘Maybe you are on my wavelength at last. By the way,’ he asked, ‘how is Radha? And which junior college is he going to?’
‘He’s not going to any.’ Manju turned to Javed, and, to pre-empt any criticism of his father, added: ‘He can’t be running after girls in college. He has to practise every day.’
‘And if your brother doesn’t make it in cricket?’
Manju looked up at the glass ceiling of the mall, which was in the shape of a lozenge, with a metal grid supporting it.
‘My father knows what he is doing.’
‘Manju, Manju, Manju . . .’ Javed shook his head. ‘Seriously. Stop acting like a villager. It was my birthday the other day. I’m sixteen. Do you know what I did on my birthday?’
A vein bulged in Javed’s forehead; he decided to tell Manju everything. But wait. Since he had no idea how Manju would respond – whether he would just run back home, shouting, Daddy, Daddy, that fellow is a homo – Javed said, instead:
‘Close your eyes.’
Manju, unable to disobey, did so.
Javed touched him. Manju, blind, held his breath, as a fingernail scraped against the beard on his cheek.
‘You need to shave.’
Manju shook his head.
‘Your father? Still?’
Manju said nothing, but Javed heard the answer anyway. So when Manju, predictably, tried to run away, Javed, in a fury of compassion for this poor, exploited boy, who had gone to England, but was still too scared to shave by himself, caught him by the wrist, and said:
‘Let’s shave you now.’
He took Manju to the supermarket below the Food Court, bought a disposable Gillette razor, and an eighteen-rupee tube of shaving cream. Then they went to the men’s room on the first floor. The attendant from the Dosa-and-Idli stall at the Food Court was washing his hands. He stared at the boys.
Standing before the mirror, safety razor in hand, Javed demonstrated. Down up, down up. Downward stroke first, see? Javed took the safety razor out of its plastic cover.
Leaning against the door of a toilet stall, the Dosa-and-Idli attendant began offering the first-timer additional tips. Manju turned around to have a word, but Javed guided his face back to the mirror. Let’s get this thing done. Squeezing Manju’s cheek with his left hand, he moved the razor over the beard. Downward stroke first, then up, then down. Stroke by stroke, Javed removed Manju’s fuzzy mask to reveal a shining new face.
Then, fogging the glass with his breath, and wetting his finger, Javed wrote on it:
Roses r red
violets r blu
u r a giant
or u r a tool
‘You know what this poem means, or shall I explain?’ he asked.
Javed saw Mr Glottalstop gaping at the mirror and moving a finger toward his reflection.
‘What are you doing? Don’t touch the glass. You’ll make a mess of my poem.’
But Manju touched Javed’s reflection, and drew a line on its forehead.
‘Javed.’
‘What?’
‘You’re losing your hair.’
•
On the way back to Mumbai, Manju leaned out of the open door, his left hand touching his smooth right cheek. Another train was passing by. In the women’s compartment, the passengers squatted on the floor; one of the women had her back turned to Manju, and he could see the nuggets of her spine, each demarcated and bulging like a taunt, and he wanted to reach out and touch. Down her back, one bone after the other, reach and touch. In the next compartment, two schoolboys stood in their all-white uniforms, looking back at him; their shirts dazzled as the train gathered speed. Cut for the first time, Manju’s face stung when the wind hit it. Stepping back from the open door, he endured it for as long as he could, and slapped his raw cheeks again and again. Suddenly he found himself hard, and pressed his cock against the steel wall of the train and screamed at the schoolboys and the fat bones in the woman’s back as he exploded into a million little ribbons of hormone.
•
‘When you got home what happened? I told you, Javed Ansari expects a full situation report.’
‘I got home, and went up the stairs, and the door was open. I went in, and he was sitting on the sofa and reading the newspaper.’
‘What did he say? Details.’
‘Nothing. He just looked at me.’
‘When you go to war, first you must have a map. How many chairs did you see around the flat?’
‘There are three chairs at the dining table. I got ready to do like you said, I was ready to lift one of them high high up, and say, Don’t you dare touch me. But guess what, Javed? He looked at me and saw I had shaved, but he didn’t say a word.’
‘And then?’
‘Then Radha came in with his cricket bag and we sat together and ate.’
‘And no one said a thing?’
‘Javed. This morning I shaved again, and I can’t believe it, the way my father looks at me now. He’s scared.’
There was a pause and then Javed announced, quietly, ‘Mine is scared of me too. All of them are. I told you, read The Animal Farm. Manju. This is just the start of my plan. Next thing is you come to Navi Mumbai to see my career counsellor. Agreed?’
‘Agreed. And one more thing. I went to the bathroom and I wrote a poem. You want to hear it?’
•
The square root of 181, multiplied by 11.1?
Present capital of France?
Draw an accurate isosceles triangle, please?
On the wall behind the plump-faced man with the weak chin, a framed photograph showed two white mice peeping out of their wicker basket to examine the caption: My life is not limited by your imagination. A cold glass slab covered the table between them. Manju slid the piece of paper across it. The plump man nodded as he read Manju’s answers.
‘And what do you want to do with your life?’
In his fingers Manju held a business card, the first he had ever been given –‘Jignesh Seth, Guidance Chief, Best Choice Educators’ – while across the glass-faced table Mr Seth adjusted his glasses wi
th an index finger and waited for the boy’s answer.
‘Be a cricketer. And represent my country in the World Cup of cricket.’
‘You said that very fast.’
Manju, in response, began twirling a lock of hair with his index finger.
The counsellor asked: ‘Are you ambitious?’
Manju shook his head.
‘Do you want to be famous? Is that why you go for cricket?’
‘No.’ Manju thought about it, and said: ‘I want to be the fellow at the back.’
‘Have you ever been the fellow at the back?’
‘My father never let me be. But I like it when I’m there.’
The counsellor nodded. ‘You don’t know what you do want. Fifty per cent of this country, that is half a billion people, are under the age of twenty-five, and we older Indians have no idea how to listen to them. Javed told me about your case, and I said at once, bring the boy here. I’ll listen. I want to be the Mother Teresa of listening to your generation.’
Silence.
‘Do you know who Mother Teresa is?’
Manju looked at the white mice in the photo.
‘Let me try this, Mr Manjunath, as a way around your inhibition. Let me talk about myself.’
The counsellor smiled.
‘This office, this job, is not what my father did. We’re Gujaratis. You know what we do? We cut diamonds for a living. That’s what I should be doing right now, in a shop in Opera House: but one day I heard a voice inside my head saying, Jignesh Seth, you’re cutting the wrong diamonds. Your vocation in life is to guide young people – like Mother Teresa. I listened to this voice. This job doesn’t pay, but I’m happy and I don’t drink any more. Now, let me help you find your inner voice. Follow me?’
Manju nodded.
‘For now, I want you to repeat something aloud. When anyone says, you must do this, you must make money, must play cricket, just say in response: “My life is not limited by your imagination.” It is our motto here. Repeat it, please. Excellent. Now the second thing I want you to do is a mental exercise. Please close your eyes, and imagine a future in which you play cricket for the next twenty or thirty years. Tell me if you like what you see.’
The moment he closed his eyes, for some reason Manju thought of something he had seen on India’s Got Talent the previous evening, a slim young woman with a ponytail and layers upon layers of abdominal muscles – and a silver ring piercing her belly-button.
The boy started: across the table, the career counsellor was striking his knuckles on the glass, and Manjunath Kumar had been returned from the distant planet where he suffered his erections, to this one, our earth.
‘Did you like what you saw, Manju? A life as a cricketer?’
Keeping his eyes on his shoe, Manju said,
‘Yes, yes.’
But then he gazed over Mr Seth’s head at the photograph of the white mice, and read the slogan again, and this time he felt the same strange exhilaration as he had when he’d seen Javed nearly naked in the dark tent, and so raised a finger to catch the counsellor’s attention and asked if he could please change his answer.
•
An hour later, Javed and Manju were back at the big mall in Vashi, playing air hockey on the top floor, until Manju asked:
‘Are you in a gang?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Your counsellor told me. He said it’s called Mad Max Gang. He told me not to join it.’
‘I knew he was a spy for my father,’ Javed said, concentrating on the game. ‘That son of a bitch.’
‘Can I join it?’
‘No. Mad Max Gang is for experienced boys only. Not for you.’
‘I am shaving every day now. I am experienced.’
U-ha, U-ha. Running across the table, Javed caught Manju by the forearm, but he freed himself, and kicked back.
The two raced from the mall to Vashi station, and when he realized he was going to lose, Javed stopped running, and began playing air-guitar, forcing Manju to turn around and come back – and beg to be allowed to join in the guitar concert.
•
Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . . Wah, Wah, Wah Waaaaaaaaaaaa . . .
He concentrated on the Sea Link bridge: the white mesh of wires over the central pier throbbing in the sunlight like plucked string, until he could almost hear it buzzing across the water. He felt Javed touch him on the forearm, recoiled, and moved away.
Slices of coconut flesh clustered by the shore at Dadar beach; marigold petals and plastic garbage floated further away. Immersed to his waist, a bull-necked brahmin turned round and round in the water, scattering the coconut and petals each time he dipped.
Right behind the praying brahmin, jumping on the wet stones for special effects, ‘J. A.’ was demonstrating a dance done by Freddie Mercury, who was a poet, and a Parsi, and a gay. He had just downloaded the video on his new cell phone. He kept going, Waaaaaaaa, Waaaaaaa, Waaaaaa, until he stopped and shouted,
‘Hey, Glottalstop, is this a boycott?’
But Manju had already left the beach.
‘Yesterday in Vashi train station you were like Tarzan, and today you’re boycotting me? Why?’
Four pale legs with claws stuck out from beneath a black taxi, as Manju left the beach and walked to Shivaji Park.
‘I’m not doing any boycott.’
The benches at the park’s entrance reeked of molasses; a man lay in a puddle.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he heard Javed say.
But the previous night, lying in bed, smelling the sweat and cricket practice from his elder brother’s tired body, hearing the breathing from his open mouth, Manju’s mind had been penetrated by doubt.
Why is he being so nice to me? Maybe, Manju thought, because this Muslim boy had always been greedy for that thing around which this dark enterprise of cricket sponsorship revolved, Manjunath Kumar’s forearms – these Bradmanesque, Tendulkaresque forearms – and maybe he wanted to snap them like a pair of kebabs and chew on them. And post a photo on Facebook.
As he walked he saw a condom on the ground, and stopped. He turned around to see Javed, waiting by one of the stone obelisks near the park’s entrance, tap meaningfully on the stone, and go into the park.
Manju turned and walked back to the sign taped to the obelisk:
Professor Joshi’s Tutorials
ICSE, IB, SSC (English Medium)
Limited number of students (max 10 per class)
Another notice was stuck to the bottom of this notice:
Swiddish Massage
Experienced Male Masseur
Home Service Only
Call 9811799289
And at the bottom of that notice, in Javed’s handwriting, was written:
YOU ARE SLAVE
In the shade of the trees at one end of the maidan, the cricketers sat on plastic chairs, their pads and gloves spilling out of their bags and getting mixed up. Manju stripped off his shirt, and put on his chest-guard, and then his forearm guard. Beside him, Javed, stripped to the waist, was doing the same.
Fully dressed, the two batsmen walked towards the green cricket pitch, when Manju stopped, held up his bat, as if he were talking to it, and shouted:
‘I am not slave, okay?’
‘U-ha, U-ha.’
Manju looked at Javed.
‘Did you take me to see Mr Seth and tell him to say all those things because you want me to give up cricket?’
Again: ‘U-ha. U-ha.’
‘So you can take my place on the team?’
Now Javed stopped laughing and looked at him – before he threw his bat on the ground.
‘Manju. This is the last season for me.’
‘Last season?’
‘I told my father. No more cricket.’
So Manju also dropped his bat.
The number of open middle-order batting slots in the Mumbai Ranji team had just increased by one. He had to tell Radha the news.
Bending to pick up his own bat, Manju also handed
Javed his. A woman wearing an ochre sari walked between them.
‘Why?’
The umpire clapped.
‘Whatever it is, discuss in the tent, not on the pitch.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Manju said, loud enough for all to hear.
‘Time them Out, Umpire – time them out!’
‘Look,’ Javed told Manju. ‘Do you think I’d lie to you? About anything?’
‘No,’ Manju said, and then tried to understand.
‘But if you don’t play cricket, what will you do?’
Javed gave Manju his answer, and then shouted at the fielders, silencing them.
At the non-striker’s end Manju stood with an open mouth. Behind him, he heard the fast-bowler’s feet pound into the earth. Beyond the park, a saffron pennant fluttered from the top of the Veer Savarkar monument. Three urchins had enriched the slips cordon; as the wicket-keeper scared them away, their mother tried to sell oranges to the umpire. A young man with kajol around his eyes sang in falsetto as he loped around Shivaji Park. Manju had never seen these things before in a game of cricket.
And when Javed Ansari, who for so many years had been the most elegant young left-handed batsman in Mumbai, took a crude swipe at a wide ball and missed it, drawing chuckles from the fielders and a remark from the umpire, Manju knew for sure that he had not been lying (and would never lie to Manju); as he raised his head to hide his smile from the rest of the world, he saw the saffron pennant beating in the wind like Javed’s answer to his last question:
Everything.
•
‘That Mohammedan boy is the one telling Manju, give up cricket and go to college. Science! 2,500 rupees for Lab fees; 1,500 rupees for a dissection box. To cut open cockroaches! You know he is in trouble with the police, this Mohammedan. He has a gang and they smoked ganja one day and drove their bikes full speed through Navi Mumbai. Without a driving licence. Through red lights. His father is a rich man and paid the police to let him go. Big thief walks free.’
Back home in Chheda Nagar, Mohan Kumar was delivering a full report on the evil named Javed Ansari to his neighbour, Mrs Shastri, who had again ventured into the Kumars’ home with her boy, Rahul, the would-be cricketing star.