The Zoya Factor

by Anuja Chauhan

  There was a scrum of dark-eyed, excited-looking kids at the door, most of them looking no older than twelve, escorted by some event management people in Zing! tee shirts. A perspiring Lokey was standing by the door, talking on the same cellphone Nikhil Khoda had shaken threateningly under my nose a couple of days ago.

  'Hey, hey stop!' Neelo said, grabbing the back of my, well actually his, stupid tee shirt (which I was now wearing inside out). 'Let's go in and watch. It should be a blast, man!'

  Lokey said it was cool if we watched, so we went in and found some chairs in the back row and settled down. There was a little stage up front and lots and lots of kids, some of them with bats and balls and pads, all of them with Zing! bottles in their hands.

  'Where are these bachchas from?' I asked Lokey as he came in and collapsed on a chair next to me.

  'From all over the subcontinent, they are thirty-five in all,' he puffed.

  'What did they have to do to win, dude?' Neelo asked curiously. 'Some of them look really small.'

  It was an under-the-crown-cap scheme, the event management guy explained. They all got to have a Q and A session with Khoda, and one of them (the first Indian kid to have found the A SODA WITH KHODA crown cap) would get to read out a special message that he wrote himself (well, with a little help from his dad or his elocution teacher or whatever) for the Indian team. He pointed out the winner kid to us, very small and brown, but with spiky hair and eyes as bright as buttons. He was wearing a shiny suit with a ready-made tie on an elastic band and had a very purposeful expression on his face. He held a thick sheaf of papers in his hand.

  'Khoda had better watch out,' Vishaal snorted. 'That kid means business, dude!'

  'Where's he, anyway?' I asked, hoping Khoda wouldn't be starry and show up late or not at all and fully break the children's hearts.

  'He's here, Joyaji!' Lokey puffed. 'Look, he's walking in now.'

  Sure enough, Nikhil had just emerged from behind the stage in a blue Zing! tee shirt and grey tracks, grinning happily, waving with both hands.

  The kids all jumped up and cheered, 'Khoda! Khoda! Khoda!'

  It was infectious. I found I'd leapt up too, clapping madly.

  Khoda pulled the mike out of the upright stand, walked forward casually, collapsed cross-legged right at the edge of the stage and started talking to the kids in a babble of English, Hindi and broken Bangla. They asked him a million questions on training, muscle building, diet, stroke play, team management and strategy, all of which he answered solemnly and without a hint of being patronizing. The kids were nodding seriously and some even took notes (which Neelo found hysterically funny for some reason).

  And then it was the little winner's moment in the sun.

  His name was announced with a flourish of trumpets. A spotlight followed his small figure as he strutted forward, plucked the mike from Khoda's hands and waited for silence with quiet confidence. There was a little whispering and shushing and Khoda had to put his finger to his lips and glare at the kids mock-threateningly a couple of times, but finally silence fell and the little dude started to speak. (Vishaal pulled out his camcorder at once.)

  His voice was in that just-about-to-break, sometimes-hoarse-sometimes-girlish zone, but confident, with just a tiny betraying quiver to it.

  'It was sunny days in thee jungal,' he began impressively.

  'Oh cool, the lateral approach!' Neelo guffawed. I kicked him hard in the shin.

  'It was sunny days in thee jungal,' the little boy repeated. 'Guru Drona was giving his dissy-pills an arching lesson. Thee guru strung up a clay...a...uh...a clay-birdd on a tree and baded the princes to come forward and aim on it, one by one. As each prince stood before him, closing one eye, thee guru asked ki "Whatcanyousee, O prince?" And each prince said, "Thee birdd, O teacher, thee tree, a little piss of sky and thee jungal's behind." And the guru was very much waxed and bid them to move on. Till it was Arjun's turn. "Whatcanyousee O prince?" "The eye of the birdd, O teacher," little Arjun replied. "What else?" asked teacher craftily. "Canyounot see thee tree, a little piss of sky and thee jungal's behind?" But little Arjun said stud-fastly, "The eye of the birdd is all I see O teacher." Much happy, Drona bid him shoot, shoot! and little Arjun's arrow flied straight and pierced the eye of the birdd, falling it to thee ground.' The little boy stopped here for a sip of Zing! and looked Khoda straight in the eye. 'I am sure, Mr Nikhil Khoda,' he said, very man to man, 'that you are knowing this story.'

  Nikhil inclined his head gravely and said that yes, he did know it.

  'I am no Drona-achaar,' the little fellow said shaking his head modestly. 'Australia' (he gave a light laugh), 'is not a tree, and the ICC World Cup is not a birdd, but is a cup!' He raised one dramatic finger to the sky, 'A cup-birrd! And if you want to win it you must' - he turned and bored his burning eyes into Khoda's face - 'see only thee eye of thee cupboard, Mr Nikhil Khoda!'

  He swung around to face all of us, speaking in ringing accents, 'See only thee eye of thee cup-birrd, Team India!' 'See only,' concluded the little thespian, his voice dropping to a whisper that could be heard in every corner of the hall, 'only...only thee eye of thee cupboard.'

  Huge applause rang out from every corner of the hall. Vishaal and Neelo got to their feet whistling enthusiastically. I blinked back tears and blew my nose vigorously as I watched the upright little figure accept the standing ovation with a grave bow.

  And then it was Nikhil's turn to speak. 'That was an excellent speech, sir,' he said and he sounded like he meant it. 'You're absolutely right. Just like when the exams come around you must focus totally and concentrate only on your studies and nothing else, in the same way when you wear the blue uniform you must stop thinking about internal politics, or personal records or Zing! ads or' - this with a rueful grin that made all the little boys laugh out loud - 'girls, and see only the eye of the bird. I promise you guys today, that till the ICC World Cup is over, I will see only the eye of the cupboard. Only' - he gave the same dramatic pause the little boy had done, but in the nicest way possible - 'the eye of the cupboard. Thank you.'

  What a cheerful little gang we were at breakfast the next day. The boys looked disgustingly triumphant about getting me to stay. It was Hairy's birthday and everybody was congratulating him on turning forty. Wes, Laakhi and Nikhil looked pretty upbeat at their end of the table too. 'Wait and see, Zoya,' Shivee chortled. 'We'll fix those Aussies good - you are our secret weapon!'

  'Isn't that totally insulting to all the talent on this team, Shivee,' I asked him, irritated. 'Matlab, according to you, if I eat breakfast with monkeys even they can go out and beat the best team in the world!'

  'Zoya, these fellows are also monkeys only!' Laakhi boomed down the table at me, his big shoulders shaking as he laughed.

  The 'monkeys', instead of being offended, looked mighty tickled. Hairy even went as far as to scratch his armpits. Really, what had got into them?

  'It's nerves,' Khoda said to me as I walked back to the buffet to pick up more papaya. He was there, shovelling all the watermelon the Sonargaon had to offer onto his plate. 'They'll be fine once we're on the field.'

  'Best of luck,' I said. And then felt pretty stupid. He'd probably think I was being oversmart or playful or something....

  But he didn't seem to mind. 'Thanks,' he said simply.

  Back at the table the boys were planning a little party afterwards for Hairy. (Obviously, Nikhil hadn't told them about seeing only thee eye of thee cupboard yet.) Navneet's Miss India-Universe had shown up to watch the semis with some hot southern actresses in tow and the boys wanted to let down their hair a bit. 'The three of you must come too, Zoyaji,' Zahid said enthusiastically. 'We'll do something cool.'

  'Okay,' I said, thinking how pathetically grateful Neelo and Vishaal would be. Hot southern actresses were really their thing. But only after my shoot with these two was over. I pointed at Shiv and Harry who appeared to have made miraculous recoveries, 'Groins feeling good, guys?'

  They nodded sole
mnly. 'Yes, Dieter-sir is a miracle worker. He has massaged us personally all night.'

  Dieter looked up startled, but said nothing (he never did), and then Wes looked up and said they had to board their team bus now.

  'Give 'em hell, boys,' I said as they trooped out, feeling a bit like Bharat Mata Incarnate. And in spite of the casual matey way in which they treated me, I had an uncomfortable feeling that's how they perceived me. I mean, Zahid even asked me to give him my blessings! I felt so dumb - like I should have said 'Vijayee Bhava' the way Durga Khote does in the old movies. Instead, I just leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

  I didn't have the stomach to watch the match in the stands. Though my Standing-in-thee-Society had moved up a lot since the last match (VVIP enclosure passes lay on my dressing table now!) I didn't fancy seeing my Lucky Charm status being ground to dust live in the Sher-e-Bangla Stadium. Because 'Australia is by far the stronger side and their best boys are playing today' is what I'd overheard the commentators say when they'd got into the elevator.

  So, what I did was, I got into the Miss India-Universe's room (her name was Ritu Raina, and she was heart-stoppingly beautiful: glossy ironed hair, high cheekbones and all) and watched it there with her. She was nervous as hell too - 'I never see Nivi playing live,' she confided. 'It makes me nauseous.'

  I did kind of wonder why she'd risked her life and flown Biman Air to Dhaka then. But she said her hot actress friends were keen to see the cricketers close up. Besides, she liked being with him when the match was over. 'Because it's another whole trip when he comes back to me all sweaty and flushed with victory,' she said, her eyes shining. 'I feel like a prize then.'

  Okay, that was a pretty corny thing to say, but she was only nineteen, after all, and probably didn't know any better. So I forgave her. Also, I needed to borrow clothes from her for tonight, so I needed to keep liking her. (Besides, deep down, in the most unemancipated Mills and Boon reading part of my soul, I kind of knew what she meant.) We got out her manicure kit and a flask of strong coffee and settled down to watch.

  Khoda sauntered in on the telly (after an ad break saying the toss was sponsored by Niceday Cramjams) and asked for heads. The Aussie captain said he'd settle for tails, and some dude in a FLY EMIRATES coat tossed the coin. It landed heads up. Khoda said he wanted to bat first and then Aamir Khan traipsed out dressed as a Malayali massage lady and exhorted us to lagao thande ka tadka.

  And then Hairy and Shivee walked on, stretching and hopping, and the match began.

  It moved pretty slowly in the beginning, so we put the TV on mute and chatted and stuff. Ritu pulled out a deep purple nail varnish for me and said it would go well with my 'kohl girl' look. She also laid out lots of sexy black halters, saying I could wear them with my jeans and black cork-soled clogs. I went into the loo to try them on and was fluffing out my hair and pouting vampishly into the mirror in what I fondly believed was a Ritu-Raina-ish way when she screamed loudly.

  I came out to see that the Aussies had struck not once but twice and that Laakhi and Khoda were the new men in. They steadied things up a little. The score didn't move much for a while, but that was okay, because the openers had been doing full maar-dhaarh when they got out. We were 79 for 2 in 15 overs when the drinks came on. I looked at the drinks trolley critically. It was a design Neelo and the studio guys had slaved over last month. A giant Zing! two-litre bottle (we were pushing large packs this year) mounted on a tiny Dhaka-style autorickshaw. It toot-tooted on to the pitch happily and then an ad break came on.

  When the match came back on, I started feeling pretty damn sick. Especially when the Aussies jumped up and appealed manically and the red light flashed and Laakhi walked. Ritu went a delicate shade of green when Navneet came out to bat. He seemed cool and was chatting easily with Khoda, nodding repeatedly and tapping the pitch with the end of his bat. Then some Aussie dude with sunscreen slathered all over his face raced down the pitch towards him and...the TV went off. I looked up, thinking it must be the batti again, but then saw Ritu clutching the remote, looking very white around the gills. 'I can't watch,' she said. 'Let's go out.'

  So we went to the hotel parlour for a full body massage, shampoo and blow dry. I sneaked a peek at the TV from under the blower and saw we were 220 for 7 in 40 overs and felt fully deflated. Because even though I knew it was idiotic I had been getting a bit of a cheap thrill out of maybe being a lucky charm. Still, it was good I hadn't said anything to Vishaal and Neelo. I could quietly leave Dhaka and forget this had ever happened....

  By the time we got out of the parlour the Indian innings were over. We'd finished at a decent 267 for 9 - Zahid had come in and hit some big ones and Khoda had carried his bat right through - but the commentators were saying we were still short by some thirty runs and didn't have much of a chance. Still, they did say we couldn't be ruled out altogether, cricket being a game of glorious uncertainties, and all that usual crap.

  Ritu looked a little chirpier now that Navneet's part in the game was mostly over. She walked through the lobby, hair swinging, looking every bit the beauty queen she was. 'See you in the evening, Zo,' she beamed at me suddenly and vanished into her room. I nodded, went to my room and crashed.

  I don't know how much later it was when the phone woke me up. It was Neelo - 'Put on the TV, Zoya,' he yelled. 'We're going to win, Zahid's on a hat trick!'

  I turned on the TV and saw Zahid streaking down the pitch, long locks flying. He looked like a young god - the crowd was screaming - there was a thrilling thwacckk! and I saw the ball making contact with the stumps and the bales flying, and then the cockney-accented commentator was yelling: 'And he's done it! The Sangrur Express has derailed the opposition! The young India team has won and what a win...!'

  He went on and on. They replayed the shot from every possible angle. Then he started rhapsodizing about how cool Khoda was too. And then the two commentators pounced on Khoda and Zahid as the team came walking back to the pavilion.

  'Congratulations...what an innings...fabulous.... How do you feel?'

  'Good,' said Khoda, with a quick grin. He looked happy, sweaty and relieved. 'We started well but then we lost a couple of wickets but then we steadied and Zahid played a very useful knock and then we managed to restrict them and it all worked out in the end...the boys did great.'

  'Was there some point where you lost the faith at all, Nikhil? Or were you confident right through?'

  'Well, I did start to worry in the last five overs because it was so very close but then we changed the field around and Zahid did a great job and the boys took some incredible catches...'

  'I was wondering, why did you play only Zahid in those last four overs? Because Bala and Thind had a couple of overs still in their kitty too. And Zahid didn't seem to be doing too well against them initially.'

  Khoda had screwed up his face thoughtfully halfway through this question and now he just shrugged and said: 'Well, he was a little expensive at first but I felt he was the right guy to get those wickets - it was close, too close for comfort, but it did end well.' A boyish grin lit up his face. 'Thankfully!' he said.

  The commentator turned to Zahid.

  'And how do you feel, Zahid? Thirty-three runs, five wickets and a hat trick, you've had a big day.'

  'Yes,' Zahid agreed happily. 'It was all a team effort and God has blessed me greatly and also I was just really really lucky.'

  'That's really modest of you,' the commentator said, clapping him on the back. 'You were great out there today. You've made a record, by the way, all that can't just be luck!'

  I watched Zahid, my heart hammering against my chest. A cheap little part of me wanted him to say something about me, after all I'd given him a lucky kiss, hadn't I? And I imagined my dad falling off his chair in KB, Sanks doing a double take in Delhi, Ritu Raina freaking out in Dhaka. But another part of me cringed at these idiotic groupie-type fantasies.

  Zahid looked like he wanted to say something but before he could, Nikhil patted him on the back
and said cryptically: 'Great job, Zahid! Chalo, let's go in now!'

  Then this little presentation ceremony came on after another ad break. (Aamir for Coke again, those guys have such obscene budgets.) My idiot client Ranjeet presented a fifty thousand taka cheque to Zahid, a few speeches were made and it was all over for the day.

  Harry and Shivnath were really excited when they came in to do our patchwork shoot. Both of them insisted they'd won the match because of me, which defied all logic of course, but was very flattering. And then Zahid called up and gushed, insisting I was a farishta. I was dumb enough to put it on speaker phone and then had to endure Neelo and Vishaal singing Farishta sabun mera naam, mail bhagaana mera kaam, mein hoon kapdon ki shaan for the rest of the shoot.

  Well, at least we got our shots pretty quickly. Harry and Shiv were in high spirits and they posed happily for Vishaal - I Believe I Can Fly alternating with We Are the Champions on the speakers. Neelo was hugely relieved. He'd quickly sent off his jingoistic Zing! banner lines to Delhi - ('Australia's easy,' he confided to me. We can always use 'Assi jeetey, Aussies haarey.')