‘Don’t forget, she’s been through a lot, Irfan,’ said Humaira. ‘The loss of her mother—that’s something that hasn’t been easy for any of us. Cricket is a wonderful outlet for her—let her play, beta.’
Irfan unconsciously winced at the mention of his wife Benaifer’s death; a wound that was still raw although it was now eight years since the school, at which she had taught, had been ravaged by a bomb blast. Irfan’s way of dealing with it had been to immerse himself entirely in his work since then, leaving little room for anyone or anything else.
‘But where’s Ammi? Why isn’t she coming home?’ Inaya had repeatedly asked Irfan. Consumed by his own grief, Irfan had no answers for his daughter.
Seeing this, his mother had stepped in. ‘Your Ammi is watching over you from a star high above, my kishmish,’ Humaira told Inaya.
With the innocence that only a child’s heart possesses, Inaya had considered this explanation in puzzlement, which finally gave way to acceptance.
‘I’ll sleep on this side of the bed then,’ she said, taking her pillow to the side that faced the window. ‘Ammi says she likes to see my face when I sleep.’
Inaya curled herself into a little ball and squeezed her eyes shut. But she couldn’t sleep. Not without the familiar touch of her mother’s hand on her forehead, tenderly brushing away her curls. She lay awake, looking out.
Dark clouds flitted by her window. And from behind them peeped out a distant star.
‘Ammi?’ whispered Inaya.
Poster Girl
Rawalpindi, Pakistan
Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six.
Inaya bounced the tape-covered ball against the wall, as she lay on her bed, sulking. She hated the fact that her father stopped her from doing the one thing she loved. The only thing that made her want to get out of bed. She threw the ball at the wall with far more force than was necessary. It shot back at her and almost got her in the eye, but she caught it just in time. Thirty-seven.
A thought flitted through Inaya’s head, bringing on the faintest flicker of a smile. She reached under the mattress and pulled out a sports magazine. Turning to the centre spread, she unfolded a gigantic poster of Jhulan Goswami, the captain of the Indian women’s cricket team. Inaya flicked through the magazine to Jhulan’s interview and read it with rapt attention—for the fifth time.
Her mobile phone buzzed just then. Inaya was so absorbed in the article that she almost didn’t hear the ring. She finally answered the call, still distracted.
‘Hello?’
‘Tell me you haven’t seen the evening newspaper yet and that I am going to be the one to give you the most amazing news in the world, Inaya-meri-jaan-Haider!’ gushed Saba, barely able to contain her excitement.
‘I haven’t seen it. But guess what, Saba? Jhulan Goswami also got interested in cricket after watching a women’s World Cup match. Like me. And her parents were also dead against her taking up cricket. Like Abba is. And she ran away from home just like . . . ’
‘Just like you’re planning to do, with me, your best friend in the whole wide universe, in tow?’ gasped Saba wide-eyed, finishing Inaya’s sentence for her and adding herself into the plot.
Inaya sighed. ‘I can’t just go to school and come back and do my Quran studies and homework and then do the same thing the next day and the next day and the next. I just can’t . . . I can’t live without my tape-ball cricket.’
‘Arreee, that’s why I’m calling you, you duffer—if you’d only let me get a word in. There is a tape-ball league tournament being organized for girls aged 16 and under—and I totally think you should go for the try-out. The selected players will be sent to London for the actual tournament. There’s an article about it in the evening newspaper. Go, read it now!’
The magazine dropped from Inaya’s hand. ‘Are you joking with me, Saba? Why would anyone organize a tape-ball cricket tournament? Most people don’t even consider it a proper game.’
‘Well, there’s this crazy, rich lady who apparently does. She’s called Nabeel Said . . . ’
‘Hold on, Nabeel Said? As in, Nabeel’s Kitchen, the one who owns all those cafés?’
‘Mmmmhmmm . . . Apparently, her first love was cricket, but she was never allowed to play—being a girl and all . . . ’
‘Don’t we know that story,’ muttered Inaya.
‘So anyway, this is what it says: “Now that Nabeel’s cafés have done so well, she wants to do her bit to make cricket a game that every child in every street across the world can play. And what better way to do it than starting a tape-ball tournament. No expensive cricket balls and pads and gloves . . .”’
‘There must be a catch somewhere, Saba . . . ’
‘Well, check out her website then. See for yourself if you don’t believe me—even though I am the only person in the world who really supports your dream of meeting Jhulan Goswami on the pitch one day; apart from your Daada and Daadi of course . . . and maybe Zain. Perhaps Mudassar Chacha . . . ’ rambled Saba, getting sidetracked as always.
‘Of course, I believe you, Saba—it’s just that nothing like this ever happens to me . . . ’
‘Nothing like this has ever happened to you yet . . . ’ Saba interjected.
Inaya rose, all charged up. If this were true, things really were looking up. ‘Saba Hussaini. You are the best friend that any girl could ask for,’ Inaya declared.
‘Tell me something I don’t already know!’ grinned Saba. ‘So, the trials are next month. And there is practice happening every night until then.’
‘How will I get away so much, Saba? Abba would never let me,’ moaned Inaya, her happy bubble popping at the thought of her father’s reaction.
‘Well, Ramzan starts soon, so you can say that you’re with me—and then, between Tarawih prayers and sehri, you can go and practise for a bit. I know some parks where tape-ball is being arranged with floodlights and all,’ said Saba with quiet authority.
Inaya beamed, floodlit from within. ‘What would I do without you, Saba?’
‘Hmm. That is a very good question. One day, when I’m sitting in the pavilion at Lord’s Cricket Ground in London watching you walk out to bat for Pakistan, I will tell the world that Inaya Haider would be nothing if it wasn’t for me.’
Both girls burst out laughing.
‘Okay, I’ve got to go now,’ said Saba. ‘Ammi is taking me to choose my new lehengas for Mahira’s wedding.’
‘Already? Isn’t the wedding six months away?’
‘Yes, but you know Ammi and her obsession with advance planning. Anyway, see you tomorrow at school.’
‘Sure,’ said Inaya. ‘And Saba . . . ’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you,’ said Inaya.
‘You’re most welcome, my dear,’ said Saba, mimicking a British accent. ‘I know you’re headed to London, so you can save all this formality for the Brits, okay?’
Inaya smiled as she hung up. Then she jumped to her feet and reached for her laptop to google Nabeel Said.
‘Nabeel’s Kitchen’ came up as expected, but what caught Inaya’s attention was a website called ‘Tapeball4All’. She eagerly clicked on the link. The first thing she spotted was the flashing ticker running across the screen: ‘Calling all girls aged between 14 and 16 for trials for the Tapeball4All League Tournament for Under-16s. Selected players will be flown out to London for the tournament.’
A thrill leapt into Inaya’s heart. She bounced up and down on the bed, then jumped off and did a little jig—interrupted midway by a peremptory knock on her bedroom door. Inaya quickly kicked the poster of Jhulan Goswami under her bed, shut her laptop cover and opened the door to find her father standing there.
‘I bought you this, er, alarm clock, Inaya,’ he said. ‘So that you can wake up in time for sehri . . . you know, given that the rozas will be starting.’
Inaya reached out and took the clock from him. It was shaped like an old-fashioned radio.
‘It was the only design the sh
op had left,’ mumbled her father. ‘Big rush for alarm clocks these days.’
‘It’s like the radio Ammi would listen to. I like it. Thanks, Abba.’
Her father looked at her as if he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure where to begin. Their conversations had always been stilted, stopping and starting without getting anywhere on most occasions. ‘So, how’s your schoolwork going?’ he said finally.
‘It’s fine, Abba,’ Inaya replied, avoiding his gaze.
‘You know, there are two kinds of people, Inaya,’ continued her father, looking at a fixed point on the wall behind her. ‘There are some who work hard in school and then for the rest of their life, they have a good time because of that hard work. And then, there are those who have too much of a good time in school and for the rest of their life, they have a hard time because of that.’
‘Yes, Abba,’ said Inaya mechanically, having heard this lecture so many times that she could recite it backwards and in her sleep.
‘And your, er, cricket?’ he asked, awkwardly, still not used to the idea of his daughter playing a sport that, to his mind, was reserved for boys or men.
Inaya was stumped. Should she say it was going well or just lie again? She decided on the safer option.
‘I hardly get time for it because of all the homework, Abba.’
Her father nodded, although he didn’t look entirely convinced.
‘Anyway, I just wanted to, you know, give you that clock,’ he said. ‘Dinner will be ready soon . . . So come down.’
‘Yes, Abba,’ said Inaya. As soon as her father left, Inaya ducked under the bed and pulled out the poster she had kicked underneath. ‘So sorry for doing that to you, Jhulan,’ she whispered, as she gently smoothed out the creases. She held it admiringly, captivated by Jhulan Goswami’s look of triumph on having clean bowled the batter.
Inaya looked at the posters on her walls. One was a map of the world and the other was of the planets in the solar system. Inaya carefully raised the solar system poster off the wall. From beneath it peeped out a poster of Sana Mir, captain of Pakistan’s women’s cricket team, hitting a mighty six. Inaya looked at it in awe and practised her own hook shot, before covering the poster of her hero with the solar system again.
Then she unpeeled the second poster, and in its place, put up the poster of Jhulan Goswami. A moment later, picturing her father’s reaction to seeing her wall plastered with a cricketer, who was female and Indian, Inaya carefully covered it with the world map.
As she was about to turn away, Inaya’s eye was drawn to where England was on the world map. She traced her finger from Pakistan to the United Kingdom. In her head, she could already hear the throb of a stadium—the resounding thud of bat against ball and the thunderous applause.
The promise of possibility sent a delicious shiver down Inaya’s spine.
Recess
New Delhi, India
As soon as the school bell rang signalling recess, Jai shot out of the classroom and headed for the canteen before the bread pakoras ran out. He could already taste the spicy potatoes in the chickpea batter-coated bread, fried to golden perfection. His mouth watered and his pace quickened, but as he turned the corner of the hallway, four boys blocked his path.
‘What’s the rush, Jai?’ drawled the leader of the pack, a thin, pallid youth called Ansh.
‘It’s time for tiffin, yaar. Check out that look on his face. It has bread pakora written all over it,’ smirked Bhavin.
‘Hey, can you get me a bread pakora too?’ asked Chirag, thrusting his face so close that Jai could smell the fetid odour of his breath.
The fourth boy, Dev, jabbed Jai’s stomach with his finger. ‘There’s no room here, man,’ he said. ‘I suggest we take some stuff out, before he puts more stuff in. What do you say, guys?’
Dev looked around at his cronies.
Ansh smirked. ‘Go for it, Dev,’ he said.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Dev punched Jai hard in the stomach. Jai collapsed to the ground, whimpering in agony, too scared to shout or defend himself.
‘Tsk! Big fail, once again. And since we couldn’t make space for more bread pakoras in there, this will be of no use to you,’ said Dev, as he bent down and extracted a fifty-rupee note from Jai’s clenched fist. ‘Better luck next time, fatso.’
The boys walked off, sniggering. As Jai lay doubled up on the floor of the corridor, he heard the sound of footsteps. He struggled to get to his feet before anyone else saw his humiliation. Just then someone rushed towards him. Jai instinctively flinched, fearing that Ansh and gang had returned for round two as they often did. He put up his arm to shield himself from their further blows.
Someone gently took his arm and supported him to the wall, so he could lean against it. Jai looked up to see his friend, Rustom.
‘Was it them again, Jai?’
Jai’s silence told Rustom that it was. ‘They can’t keep getting away with this, you know. I’ll come with you to tell Lobo sir, if you like?’
Jai shook his head.
‘Remember Harshad Kotecha from eighth grade? There’s a rumour that he’s leaving school because of them, but not before he tells Lobo everything. If you also tell Lobo, then maybe . . . ’
‘Listen, can I borrow some money from you, Rusty?’ Jai interrupted. ‘The bread pakoras will run out if we don’t go soon.’
Rustom grinned.
‘Sure. Forget going to Lobo. If there’s anything that makes everything right for you, it’s the canteen’s bread pakoras.’
Talking in Riddles
Rawalpindi, Pakistan
As always, during Ramzan, the Haider family’s alarm clocks went off before sunrise, in a symphony of wake-up calls. Bleary-eyed, Inaya sleepily groped in the dark for the snooze button on her new radio-shaped clock.
Just then, Humaira bustled in and switched on the lamp. ‘Get up, my little kishmish, and eat your sehri,’ she said, leaving a plate of steaming scrambled eggs, parathas, shammi kebabs, khajla and a cup of tea by her bedside. ‘The sun will be up soon.’
Inaya sluggishly sat up, her eyes still shut. She reached for the teacup. Years of practice helped her find it without having to turn her head to look. She took a sip. And then she remembered something that sent her heartbeat racing. Today was the first day of her practice for the trials. She was going to need all the energy she could get.
She opened her eyes and took a big, eager bite of the kebabs and the khajla.
Inaya’s school day stretched and yawned, but her mind was where the action was, miles away from her classroom. She pictured a packed cricket stadium resonating with applause as she hit a sixer that sailed over the heads of the fielders. She could hear the lilt in the commentator’s voice: ‘That is a fabulous, copybook shot from Inaya Haider . . . ’
‘ . . . Inaya Haider! What do you think?’
Inaya was jolted back to reality by the jarring nasal drone of her history teacher, Mr Baig.
‘About what, sir?’ stuttered Inaya.
‘About whether unicorns exist,’ said Mr Baig, ‘Obviously.’ He looked around smugly, evidently pleased with himself. A few of Inaya’s classmates sniggered at her confusion.
‘He asked if we think history is important,’ whispered Zain, from behind Inaya.
‘We await your views with bated breath, Inaya,’ said Mr Baig, tapping his foot.
Inaya looked around her and took a deep breath.
‘Well, sir, I think that rather depends on the situation. I mean, learning about dead kings is not really my thing—but I like knowing who won which cricket match, right from the time cricket was invented . . . ’
Inaya’s words trailed off as she saw Mr Baig’s expression go from incredulity to fury. The whole class was tittering by now.
‘See me after class, Inaya. I think detention with extra history homework after school might help you change your mind about “dead kings”.’
‘Not today—please, sir,’ said Inaya, almost in tears at the thought
of missing cricket practice.
‘Well, I’m letting you off this time, Inaya,’ said Mr Baig, mistaking Inaya’s tears for those of remorse. ‘But I won’t tolerate your inattentiveness in class next time. History is . . . ’
Mr Baig may have waxed eloquent about the virtues of learning history at this juncture had he not been rudely interrupted by the school bell, much to Inaya’s relief. She hurriedly stuffed her books into her bag and got ready to leave.
‘Thanks for coming to my rescue, Zain,’ she said, turning around. ‘That buffoon is always intent on giving me detentions.’
Zain shrugged off her thanks. ‘Saba told me you’re trying out for the tape-ball league matches,’ said Zain. ‘I’m just trying to ensure you don’t miss practice at the nets. It’s this afternoon, right?’
Inaya nodded. Most of Inaya’s knowledge about cricket and its finer points came from covertly watching Zain’s cricket coaching sessions. In the beginning, Zain had been quite flattered by the attention, thinking that Inaya had taken a shine to him. It was only later that he discovered that she was far more interested in how he was being trained to read the ball, hold the bat, square his shoulders and never to hit across the line.
‘Abba doesn’t know about any of this, Zain,’ said Inaya. ‘Please don’t say a word to your parents either. If anyone asks where I am, say you saw me going home with Saba.’
Zain hung his head back in mock exasperation. ‘The reams of lies I’ve told for you over the years, Inaya; I’m going to burn in hell.’
‘There’s no guarantee of those promised virgins in jannat either,’ grinned Inaya. ‘Hell may not be that bad a deal.’
Zain shook his head at her. ‘Inaya Haider, you are incorrigible.’
‘Hmm. One thing is for sure, however. There isn’t a chance in hell that anyone there will have a better vocabulary than you, Zain,’ she chortled, seeing Zain scowl. ‘Wish me luck,’ she shouted over her shoulder.
‘Not a chance in hell,’ Zain shot back, a reluctant smile on his face.
Across the Line Page 4
