The Zoya Factor

by Anuja Chauhan

  'When?' Khoda said, looking bored.

  'Twenty-fifth of June, 1983,' Shivee said, and Hairy chimed in with: 'Now say ki she's not a good-luck charm!'

  Nikhil Khoda didn't look too impressed. 'Is that a fact?' he asked me, his tone sceptical, almost like he was insinuating I'd made it up.

  'Yes, actually it is,' I said quietly.

  He half-shrugged in an ungracious sort of way and looked away.

  There was a long uncomfortable silence and then the coach said, 'Well, we all know what Shivee and Harry are thinking, Nikhil! If these blokes win today, it won't be because we played well, or because we had a good strategy or because the other buggers screwed up. It'll be all because we broke bread with born-at-the-auspicious-hour Zoya!'

  The boys all laughed at that and I gave a nervous little giggle too, but I couldn't help feeling uneasy. Because even though his eyes were twinkling, I somehow sensed that the new coach was hassled.

  It was like he was this First-World-type gora stuck with a bunch of superstitious Indians or something. I went back to eating the debris of my bhurji, cursing myself silently for making that idiotic 'lucky' remark and even more for backtracking on it so hastily. I must've sounded like such a suck-up. Yes sir no sir three bagsful sir...

  Really, when was I going to become a Truly Spiritually Evolved Person?

  ***

  5

  Neelo, Vishaal and I bagged (what we thought were) really good seats, at the orchard end of the stadium. We had a clear view of the skippers coming out to bat, Khoda's loping stride contrasting oddly with the England captain's stocky shuffle. The crowd was pretty much expecting him to lose as usual, and there were many surprised gasps when India won the toss, and even more when we heard 'and has decided to field'. People started debating the wisdom of this decision in excited Bangla all around me. It was apparently a fairly controversial thing Nikhil Khoda had done. Not that it seemed to bother him. He sauntered back in with his players, slapping a back here and there, clapping his hands together and doing whatever it is cricket captains do out in the field.

  Vishaal and Neelo were all excited. They'd put all their work-time woes behind them, spiked their Zing! cans generously with Bacardi and were ready to rock all day. I wasn't feeling so bubbly, though. Last morning's events had freaked me out totally. My idiot client Ranjeet was on my case, whining about the 'opener' shots. The sun was hot. Upar se, the players looked so far away and the scoreboard looked all hazy at this distance. And there was this weird echo, so you couldn't really understand what the commentators were saying up there in the press box. And then, when the Indians came out to field, half the people in front of me leapt to their feet, effectively blocking our view of the match.

  'Damn,' went Neelo, as we clambered on to the benches. 'Agli baar, we'll insist on passes to the VIP box.'

  Poor Neelo. Being a creative type he doesn't have a clue about how low the ad agency is in the Zing! Pecking Order of Passes for Concerts and Matches. I, of course, know it by heart. It's Celebrity Endorsers and Their Families first, Pesticide Levels Testing NGOs second, Bottlers and Families third, Press People fourth, Contest Winners next, then the Zing! people themselves and, bringing up the rear, us poor agency sods. Oh, and that's only if nobody at Zing! has a kid looking for admission to a hip school. Because then the principal and staff get the Celebrity Endorser passes and it all moves down one slot and we get none.

  Anyway, when the two of them started hurling abuses at the guys in front of us in robust Bangla, I decided I'd had enough. I decided to sneak back to the Sonargaon and watch the match in peace in the Coffee Shoppee. I yanked at the back of Vishaal's jeans and told him I was off. He nodded bye, his eyes on the action on the field and Neelo yelled over the din: 'Come back for the second half in case we seem to be winning.'

  Honestly, what touching faith we had in the team.

  Uh, we won.

  I'd decided to do a bit of sightseeing, after watching the first few overs in my room. So I missed all the action. Not that I minded too much. I find ODIs really boring, and during the twentieth over it occurred to my wandering mind that today would be a great day to shop. The markets were sure to be deserted.

  So I hailed one of those bumblebee autos with gold 'n' white conical crowns upon their heads, and took a tour of the city. It was fun, it took my mind off the opener shots. And Sanks. And Nikhil Khoda's mean do-me-a-service crack. I got back by six, weighed down with all this stuff I would probably never use.

  That's when I met Neelo and Vishaal who told me that the match had been awesome. Bala, Zahid and gang got the English all out for 210. After lunch, when Shivee and Harry came out to bat, everybody was hailing Khoda's decision to chase as the smartest, most far-sighted thing any captain had ever done. From being foolhardy and downright stupid, he'd risen all the way to a fabulous judge of pitches, a captain who leads from the front, and a master of psychology.

  Wow, what a rollercoaster that man's life must be!

  They finished it off in thirty-seven overs, with five wickets still in hand. Harry was Man of the Match, but apparently it had been a close thing between him and Bala. In fact, Vishaal was very indignant about the whole thing, insisting Harry's was a crowd-pleaser innings and that it was Bala's stint in the morning that had really broken the back of the English attack.

  Whatever.

  Meanwhile, Neelo was already looking glassy-eyed and muttering under his breath. He had to sms lines to Delhi tonight so Zing! could string up banners all over the country tomorrow, crowingthings like Men in Blue Eat an English Breakfast or Barmy Army ki Khattam Kahani, or even ruder ones in which London was spelt 'lundon', you get the picture....

  I must say I felt pretty deflated about missing all the action, even though the boys assured me the stadium had not been a good place for anyone of the female sex to be in, by the time the match got over. Apparently, all the Indians, Bangladeshis, Pakistanis and Sri Lankans in the crowd had got into a Mera Subcontinent Mahaan mood after India knocked the stuffing out of the common enemy. They'd lurched around the stands hugging all brown-skinned girls in sight and boozily saying, 'Congratulations, sister!'

  'Why don't we catch the highlights on ESPN?' Vishaal suggested, as though he couldn't have enough. 'C'mon, let's hit the Coffee Shoppee.'

  The restaurant was deserted. The only person there was Shanta Kalra, a slim, sporty-looking sports journalist with very short silver-grey hair framing a surprisingly young face. She was tapping away quietly on her laptop when we entered but waved and called out: 'Looking for the gang? Most of them are over at the Sheraton, celebrating.'

  Already? I thought crankily. Surely it was early days yet?

  'Racing towards a deadline?' I asked her.

  'No, not really, just working on my questions for an interview.' It turned out she'd got an exclusive deal on interviews with Nikhil Khoda after every India match. 'He should be here soon,' she said. 'He said eight-thirty and he's usually very punctual.'

  'Then we should leave you alone at your table!' I exclaimed, quickly leaping up and rushing towards the buffet.

  Vishaal followed me bemusedly. 'And what was all that about?' he murmured into my ear as I stared blankly at the fish (Rohu, Hilsa, Pomfret, Sole) selection.

  'Nothing,' I said, smiling brightly. 'Lovely fish, huh?'

  'You're vegetarian,' he reminded me mildly.

  I didn't bother to reply and instead carried my loaded plate to the TV area and dropped down there. If I crouched low I would be (almost) invisible from where Shanta was sitting. I sneaked a look. Khoda was there...the two of them seemed totally engrossed, and so I thought it was safe to sneak back to the buffet and pick up something I could actually eat. I grabbed a naan and daal and started skulking back to my spot. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that both interviewer and 'viewee had left. Great! I thought, they've got a three-day break before the next match, I'll speak to Lokendar, get the shots tomorrow evening and catch the first flight out day after....

 
So engrossed was I in my little plan that I didn't see Shanta and Khoda till I was almost on top of them. They'd moved right in front of the TV, obviously having decided to watch the highlights too.

  'Zoya!' said Shanta pleasantly. 'Have you congratulated Nikhil?'

  'Uh, no - actually.' I swung my gaze up to meet his and said, as composedly as I could, 'Congratulations. Great performance.'

  'Hey, I should be saying that to you,' his mouth curled into a smile I thought was distinctly unfriendly.

  'Matlab?' Shanta looked from him to me in an interested, smelling-a-story sort of way.

  'Oh, Zoya knows what I mean,' said Khoda dismissively. 'Thanks for your time, Shanta. I think I'll watch the rest of the highlights in my own room. Goodnight.' He shook her hand, nodded politely at Vishaal and me and made to leave.

  But Vishaal was on him before he made the door. 'Hey, Nikhil, I was wondering if we could shoot Shiv and Harry tommorrow...if it's cool with Wes and you? We really need those shots, dude...'

  Khoda nodded, pretty curtly, I thought. I was pissed off that Vishaal had even asked him. I mean, the boys don't really need the skipper's permission to shoot - not officially, at any rate, but clearly there was nothing official about the hold he had on them.

  Vishaal came back grinning. 'It's in the bag, Zoya, we'll be patli galli-ing out of here by day after morning.'

  I smiled back at him hoping he was right. Somehow I had a feeling it wasn't going to be that simple.

  ***

  It wasn't.

  Shivee and Harry - those crafty little kids - had something up their Men-in-Blue sleeves. They started by acting really elusive the next day. 'Zoyaji,' groaned Harry down the phone to me the next morning. 'Mere groin mein strain hai. I have been advised full rest and cannot do your shoot today.' Bullshit. If the Man of the Match's groin was critically strained it would've been in the papers today. 'Why don't you stay back a few days... have breakfast with us day after and over breakfast only we can discuss when to shoot...'

  Like that, was it?

  I called Lokey and told him to read Harry the small print in his contract.

  But Lokey had news for me: 'Shivee can't shoot either, Zoyaji!' he said. 'His groin is strained too. He wants you to have breakfast with them day after and discuss the situation.'

  God, who did they think they were kidding?

  'Lokey,' I said slowly and carefully, 'Harry is delaying things because he thinks I'm some kind of good-luck bringer.'

  'I know, Zoyaji,' he said in this oily, fakely concerned voice. 'But can't you just humour him and stay? He may get rattled and throw his wicket away in the match tomorrow if you leave now. Why risk it?'

  I couldn't believe this! Even my Rinku Chachi in Karol Bagh was a bigger rationalist than this Hairy dude. 'But how come he's so superstitious?' I demanded of Lokey. 'He's so modern and with-it types.'

  Lokey sighed gustily. 'He's insecure, Zoyaji. All stars are insecure. They have so much Standing in thee Society, so much to lose...not like you and me....' (Excuse me, Lokendar, I wanted to say, you are so not like me! You are raking it in, while I'm on some bullshit slave-labour two-lakhs-per-annum package.) 'Harry's very vehmi, 'Lokey continued. 'He has even changed the spelling of his name to Hharviinder Singh...'

  'And he wears a neelam on his middle finger,' I added and sighed. This guy Hairy was obviously a fruitcake. (A neelam-wearing fruitcake with a strained groin. How gross is that?) 'Look, Lokendar,' I said, 'the bottom line is that I need those shots fast - I have to print bottle labels and roll out posters within a week.'

  'Okay, okay,' he huffed and puffed. 'Mein kuchh karta hoon...'

  But of course he couldn't do a thing. The whole day went by chasing those idiots. My idiot client Ranjeet called Sanks who called me and freaked out totally. 'Why are you not on top of things, Zoya?' he ranted.'Do you want me to pull Ishaan out of the ICU and send him there to show you how it's done?'

  Please. I'd trained Ishaan from scratch. Did he really think he could get under my skin with that pathetic ploy? 'I am on top of things, Sanks,' I said soothingly. 'And don't insult me by going on about Ishaan all the time. I also have some Standing in thee Society, you know...'

  ***

  The next morning I pulled on my cargos and a tee shirt I'd borrowed from Neelo (I was fast running out of clothes) and hit the ground running. Time was running out. Vishaal was piling up an unimaginable food and beverage bill and my much looked-forward-to Bombay shoot was almost over. I had to nail those bastards today.

  I got into the elevator to find Khoda on board, looking freshly showered and riding downwards in his grey Gold's Gym tracks. 'Good morning,' he said pleasantly. 'Aren't you late for your flight?'

  'No, actually,' I said sweetly. 'My boss says I can't leave till I get all my shots.'

  He looked a little taken aback. 'What d'you mean? Don't tell me your photographer couldn't finish all the shots yesterday either!'

  That made my hackles rise. I mean, Vishaal would've finished all the shots on the first day itself if Khoda hadn't rushed his boys for practice. And now, he was insinuating we were slow when it was the boys who were dragging their feet!

  'He didn't get a chance to shoot yesterday, at all,' I said, feeling my nostrils beginning to flare. 'Your openers are suffering from strained groins and so are unavailable to shoot.'

  He looked surprised, and not unamused. 'Harry's strained his groin?' he grinned. 'First I've heard of it.'

  'Well, he says he has,' I said as neutrally as I could. I mean, I couldn't call Hairy a liar to his skipper's face. 'And so has Shivnath, apparently.'

  Nikhil nodded, his smile getting wider.

  'And so my shoot' - my voice wobbled a little but I couldn't help that - 'is off.'

  Khoda was grinning unabashedly now. 'So Little Miss Fix-It has run up against something she can't fix!' he crowed in a not very captain-like manner.

  Then, as I looked up at him, practically teary-eyed with frustration, he said, in a nicer voice, 'Tell me, do you think they're faking it?'

  Well, he'd asked for it. 'Yes!' I nodded, vigorously. 'Harry and Shiv are playing hide-and-seek with me. They're thinking that maybe they won yesterday because of me and so they want me to stay here for the next match-breakfast to test the theory! I can't - obviously! Because I have a life too, you know. So now they're trying to delay my departure as long as possible by kidding around with my shoot...'

  'But you're the one who put the idea into their heads,' Khoda pointed out, infuriatingly logical. 'Didn't you go, all chirpily, "Hey, maybe I bring you guys good luck!"'

  I winced. He'd mimicked my voice perfectly. 'It was a joke,' I said defensively. 'I never thought they'd take it seriously.'

  He was quiet for almost a whole minute. Then he said, 'Look, why don't you just do what the boys want? Stay till day after, eat breakfast with us, get your shots in the evening, and leave?'

  I was surprised. 'But, you said, that day... ' I started and then stopped.

  '...that I don't think you're a good-luck charm?' he said calmly enough. 'Of course, I don't. But the next match is against Australia, so I don't want to take any risks. If it gives some of the lads more spunk, I'm all for it.'

  'But suppose you win that one?' I protested. 'Harry's quite capable of insisting I stay on for the match after that too!'

  Khoda smiled enigmatically. 'Let's cross that bridge when we come to it. You set up your patchwork shoot for the evening after the next match and get yourself a seat on the morning flight.'

  I nodded back at him doubtfully and he reached out and tousled my hair in a nice, elder-brotherly sort of way. 'Now smile,' he said.

  I smiled.

  The elevator pinggged open. He stood aside to let me exit first, in this very cheesy mock-chivalrous way.

  'By the way, Zoya?'

  I turned.

  He grinned at me, white teeth flashing in his brown face, 'Nice life philosophy.'

  Huh?

  He glanced down at my tee shirt qu
izzically and then walked away.

  Puzzled, I yanked it away from me and squinted at the lettering. There, in bright firoza blue on a purple background were emblazoned three words I'd failed to read when I'd slipped on Neelo's tee shirt in the morning: DRINK. HUMP. DIE.

  I aimed a woman-of-the-world-ish shrug in the general direction of where he'd gone. 'Yeah...heh, heh,' I said weakly, 'pretty nice, huh?'

  ***

  Later that day when the three of us went down to the lobby we saw this big Zing! banner strung up outside one of the banquet halls. It said 'A SODA WITH KHODA' in big blue letters and underneath was a message in Bangla which Neelo translated for us, 'Welcome Little Winners of the Share-a-Zing! with Nikhil Khoda Contest!'