'I know, Dad,' I said. 'And I have no illusions on that score. But if there are no conditions, and if I can help India win, why not?'
He snorted again. 'It's all a bunch of rubbish. What is this country coming to? Anyway, it's your decision and let me tell you that your friend Nikhil also said that if there's no contract, the Board can't pay you anything.'
Hello! This was news! How come Nikhil hadn't mentioned that when we were talking tenderly under the madhumalati?
'What they will do though,' my Dad continued, 'is put you and two of your friends or family members up in style in five-star hotels everywhere. And pay for your tickets and all your expenses, of course.'
'But the IBCC's loaded!' I gasped. 'How cheap! Why can't they pay me? Especially because Sanks will never give me twenty-eight days' paid leave!'
'Just because somebody's rich doesn't mean they can't be cheap,' Dad pointed out. 'In fact, the two very often go together. But your friend, the captain, did imply that he would see that you were remunerated somehow. He said, this way you could still be a free agent, come and go as you please. He said that he got the feeling that it was important to you.'
'You seemed to have really bonded with him,' I said, feeling vaguely resentful.
Dad picked up Meeku and tickled him behind the ears. 'He seems to be a sensible enough fellow. Let's hope his team does well.' He looked at me worriedly. 'Now you be a sensible girl too, Zoya, and don't go giving yourself too much importance or start believing that it's all your fault if they lose.'
The next two months went by in a total whirl. The Shah Rukh film had finally broken and was doing amazingly well. The jingle especially was a super-hit and you couldn't go out anywhere without hearing it playing on somebody's cellphone. Luckily, Coke didn't come up with an outstanding campaign in that period, so that helped too. The openers' promo with Harry and Shivnath did all right. The HotCrust promo was a real cracker and I spent a lot of time with Zahid, travelling with him in a car from place to place delivering pizzas to deliriously excited aunties. He told me, rather naively, that he hadn't realized how popular pizza was amongst housewives between the ages of thirty-five to forty-five. I had to tell him that it wasn't the pizza they were after, but the hunk who was delivering it. He'd looked a little embarrassed, of course, but he hadn't blushed like he used to earlier.
I didn't see Nikhil after that night back in October. He hadn't been to Delhi since, to my knowledge, and then they'd been in camp. Neelo shot with him December-end for our cautiously optimistic spirit-of-cricket music video and had even been invited to the same New Year party as him. I'd questioned him in a very Subtle Bihari Vajpayee way about it and gleaned that Khoda had been with a bunch of hot-looking people including a Yash Chopra camp heroine he was apparently dating, with whom he had vanished post-midnight.
This big rumour about his engagement came out in the papers in January but then both he and his date denied it and it died down quickly. I agonized over sending him a text message to congratulate him but then decided it would be too desperate.
He had messaged me a couple of times. Once, to ask me to send his pictures from the still shoot to his mom who wanted them for his grandmom, who wasn't keeping too well. And one Happy New Year message that I think he sent to the whole list of contacts on his phone. That was all. No more I've-been-wanting-to-kiss-you-all-evening kind of stuff.
It was depressing, of course, and sometimes I wondered if I had misheard him or something (kick you all evening? kid you all evening?). That one measly remark had fully put me off all the nice, normal, well-to-do boys my dad had made me meet on various weekends, which was, of course, completely pathetic. I kept dreaming these cheesy dreams where Nikhil Khoda, resplendent in his India Blues, showed up with a bouquet of pink tiger lilies at the Mother Dairy booth where I stood in the queue with a stainless-steel doodh ka dolu on my arm. Really corny stuff. If anyone ever were to find out, the shame would kill me....
The sixth of January dawned bright and clear. Eppa woke me up at four-thirty in the morning, with a cup of adrak ki chai. 'Get up, Zoya,' she said, 'Rinku Chachi reddy alreddy!'
I sat up, reached for the cup blindly and took a large gulp. The flight was at nine and we had to be there by six, so I had to hurry.
'Your daddy says yu haft leave five o' clock sharp,' Eppa warned. 'Too much trucks on thee hai-vay.'
She went out of the room and I pulled on the clothes I'd left by my bed the night before. Comfy jeans, a short-sleeved turquoise tee shirt and a purple corduroy jacket I'd splurged on the previous week. (Whenever I've gone to pick up people from the airport, I've noticed that all the cool, well-travelled-looking types always carry or wear jackets. So, of course, I'd gone and bought one even though it was peak summer in Australia.)
I fluffed out my hair as I looked in the mirror. It was one of my good-looking days - hair very black and springy, cheeks not too big. No zits coming up either. Yesss.
My dad was walking up and down in the garden with Rinku Chachi and Gajju. She was to accompany me on the trip, much to Zoravar's chagrin. He'd been down on casual leave and had campaigned for the job enthusiastically. But Dad had said no, and, besides, I think Zoravar knew that he'd never be able to swing that much leave or get a visa anyway. Still, that hadn't kept him from groaning and grumbling about how he was so shareef, such a respectable boy, and would make a perfect chaperone, unlike Rinku Chachi, who he claimed, was carrying on with the DVD guy and the hot college kid next door. But Rinku Chachi had just smacked him on the cheek and told him to go play with his guns, which he'd done yesterday. He would be reaching his unit in Poonch anytime now. 'I'll be watching every match, Gaalu!' he said. 'We've got it all rigged up. Wave if the camera's on you, okay?'
I promised him I would, but I wasn't really anticipating any big media moments myself. Even the dudes from Jogpal Lohia's office had advised me to keep a low profile when I went to get my tickets and visas for the trip. 'For your own sake, bete,' they'd said, 'people there may resent you if we play well, you know.'
My dad said all that was hogwash and that Jogpal didn't want people to know what a ruddy fool he was, believing in luck and all that. 'Still, it's not a bad idea to lie low, Zoya,' he said. 'Eat breakfast with them, but otherwise give them a wide berth. Do your own thing. Go sightseeing, learn about a new country; and stick close to your Chachi and Monita, okay?'
Mon was to be my other companion in Australia. My dad's always been very impressed with her. 'Such a capable, handsome girl,' he always says. 'See how she balances her family life and her work! And her husband is so senior in American Express!'
Of course, Mon never swears or smokes in front of my dad. No foul Hindi abuses or blowing smoke rings or grumbling about her monsters. In fact, she'd gone all goody goody and taken it into her head that she was chaperoning me!
'Don't worry, Uncle,' she told my dad like a million times, 'Zoya is just like Armaan and Aman to me.'
Hello, at least I'm not a sex maniac like Monita's little monster! He was tagging along too, by the way. Monita thought it was a good idea for him to travel. 'It'll broaden his horizons you know,' she said eagerly. 'And I've neglected him so much lately. We'll show him Ayers Rock and the Southern Lights. Get his mind out of the gutter...'
To which all I could say was good luck.
I walked out onto the veranda and was greeted chirpily by the family. Even Yogu looked down from his window on the first floor and waved benignly. The only part of the house that stayed quiet was Mohindar and Anita Chachi's. She was very upset about the fact that Dad didn't choose her to accompany me abroad.
A big hug from Eppa, a furry wet embrace from Meeku, and I was ready to go. But Gajju was clinging to Rinku Chachi in a surprisingly raunchy manner. My dad raised one eyebrow and I heard Eppa tch, tch disapprovingly. Anyway, Gajju finally released his wife and she emerged, slightly dishevelled and moist-eyed, and said, 'Look after yourself, G. Singh!' in a suspiciously husky voice. He nodded silently and then we both piled into my dad
's car and zipped to the airport.
Monita and Armaan were waiting for us outside the international departure terminal. He was perched on her trolley, swathed in her quilted jacket and looking very sleepy. Mon looked all wired and waved enthusiastically. We piled our bags onto the wobbly IGI trolleys while Mon assured my dad earnestly, for the thousandth time, that she would take good care of me.
And then it was time to say goodbye.
Dad pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into my hand. It was a brand new cellphone - a much fancier model than the one I had, with Internet and a camera and everything. 'Here,' he said, closing my hand over it. 'I've got international roaming installed. You can call me any time you want to talk. And don't worry about the bill, okay?'
I nodded. 'Thanks, Dad.'
We'd reached the main gate and a surly 'sikorty' guy started grumbling about how we were holding up the traffic. 'Haan haan, bhaisaab,' Dad snapped at him and stepped back, suspiciously red-nosed. 'Bye, beta, God bless.'
And, with one last wave to him, I wheeled my trolley through.
My spirits lifted quite quickly once we boarded the aircraft. The air in there was a heady blend of expensive aftershave, crisp air conditioning, Juicy-Fruit chewing gum and aromatic coffee - a bouquet Zoravar and I used to call 'abroad smell' when we were kids. (We used to crouch down and inhale it dreamily from the suitcases of visiting NRI aunties.) I took a deep intoxicating gulp and settled happily into my seat.
I was going through the list of movies on the first leg of the flight, when someone passing through to the rear went, 'Zoya?'
It was Vishaal, looking very sporty in white Dockers and a white-and-blue cricket sweater.
'Hey!' I beamed up at him. 'You're going for the World Cup too?'
He nodded, grinning.
'Because of Nike?'
'No, yaar,' he said, looking at the row behind me and waving to Monita. 'Hey Mon,' he said. 'Hey monster! (This to Armaan who frowned at him sleepily.) Because of biscuits. Didn't you notice that large uncouth contingent in Niceday tee shirts who just pushed their way past you?'
'No, actually,' I said, 'but why are you going with them?'
I learnt that Vishaal had worked his ass off on the Niceday Khao, World Cup Jao promotion. It had been insane. Apparently, they'd shot thirty-three short films over three days.
'Balaji, Thind and Harry,' he said, shuddering. 'It was like getting pieces of wood to emote.' Anyway, the films had turned out really well and the contest was a big success, so the client decided that Vishaal deserved a World Cup trip too. 'So, here I am,' he said, 'with the fifty fastest biscuit-eaters in the country for company. But, of course, I don't get to travel in style like you, you lucky little shit!'
He had to go to the back then and join his Niceday gang, who were fully in the mood to cheer. They were chanting, 'Gandhigiri, Mohabbat, Love to alls - our cricket team will break your balls,' as the plane took off.
Rinku Chachi curled up and went to sleep after the breakfast service and Mon was busy watching cartoons with Armaan. I shifted about in my seat, tucked my blanket in tight and thought of the days ahead, lying back in the semi-darkness and just letting my mind wander.
I'd watched the opening ceremony of the World Cup and a bit of the first match on TV - defending champions Australia against the other home team, New Zealand. The crowd had been massively excited and I had got very nervous looking at the scale of the event. And even though Dad assured me no team had lost in my presence, I was still a bundle of nerves. God, how could Khoda and Zahid and the rest of them handle this level of stress?
I gloomily reflected that Khoda probably handled it by working his way through proudly slavish toinnngg babes, Washington Redskins Cheerleaders, Bollywood heroines and chubby lucky charms, the way Armaan was working his way through the packet of airline peanuts behind me.... Crunch crunch crunch and then an urgent ringing of the bell, 'Can I get another packet, please, Auntie?'
I had talked to Zahid about my anxiety while we'd been delivering pizza and he had just said, 'Some people say you should try and block out the crowd. Pretend ki they are not there. But I don't. Kyunki tension can work for you. You can use it to make you play better. If whole-of-the stadium is booing me also, I just think ki, theek hai, I will prove all these behen-ke-excuse-me-please fools wrong.'
Which was all very well for him to say, but I'm not going to be playing, na! Just sitting there and praying to God that my luck holds. There was zilch I could do really, except maybe eat a lot more than usual at the breakfast table. And though everybody'd advised me to just relax and have a great holiday and not take this thing too seriously, I was completely stressed about it. I tell you, it's really weird to put on the TV and hear Charu Sharma and Imran Khan discussing the Zoya Factor, like it was something real. Of course, they were kidding around and saying that kidnapping me and asking the IBCC for a fat ransom was a good idea, ha ha ha, but it was pretty unnerving.
Anyway, the first India match was a fairly low-profile one, against Zimbabwe, at the Gabba in Brisbane. Our flight was headed there after a stopover in Singapore. The Gold Coast is just a two-hour drive away from Brisbane apparently and is supposed to be this cool place packed with casinos and adventure theme parks. Mon was keen to take Armaan there to ride the roller coasters and stuff, but I was not as keen. My life was a roller coaster.
We landed late in the evening. I think it was 7:30 p.m., Aussie time. It was a super-smooth landing and the lights over the city looked really pretty. I grabbed my bag and complimentary Bvlgari toilette set, bade farewell to the flight crew at the door, and stepped off the plane jauntily enough. But then the fact that I was in another country, a First World country chock-full of unilingual white people, suddenly hit me. There would be white people manning the Immigrations desk, I thought wildly. White people driving about on the roads like everybody else. White waiters in the cafes. I would have to tip white people! People who knew only one language...which was weird. Because, hello, what would they switch to if they started getting pally, or angry, or fell in love? Suddenly, I just wanted to jump back into the plane and head home.
But of course, I couldn't. I took a firm hold of Rinku Chachi's hand - catching our reflection in a mirror just then and realizing that we both looked really short and brown in this sea of white people - and followed the stream of mostly white people through the bewildering corridors to Customs.
There were huge signs with the word 'quarantine' everywhere, warning us to declare any plant or animal extract items or be fined fifty thousand Aussie dollars. There were also big white translites welcoming all the cricket-playing nations to the ICC World Cup 2011. Just like the ones in Dhaka, actually. That made me feel a bit at home, and Rinku Chachi ended up having a long conversation with the Immigrations guys, who were all very cocky as Australia had won the last three World Cups. No other team could boast of such an achievement. The West Indies, however, had come close once, winning the World Cup twice in a row and making it to their third consecutive Final at Lords only to lose to India (on my Happy Birthday), to Kapil Dev's Eleven, in the lowest-scoring final ever.
Even the quarantine guys insisted India didn't have a chance. It seemed as if our team was the underdog of the tournament. Most of the junta didn't even know the names of our players.
Rinku Chachi got really hassled when she realized this and started giving them all a full who's-who lecture on the Indian cricket team but then had to pipe down when the burly quarantine guards and their sniffer dogs discovered a Lakshmi statue in her bags. The burly guards almost fell down and died when she told them airily that it was made of mud. We had to hang around for half an hour while they poked it and pried at it and put it through some complicated machines to check for mad cow disease and heaven knows what else. They checked all our bags after that. Armaan got all giggly and incoherent when Rinku Chachi's bags were rummaged through and her frilly undies were pulled out and shaken about. It was all a bit of nightmare. At last they finally repacke
d our bags and waved us through.
It was a long drive from the airport and the sun was setting over the hilly city of Brisbane. The roads were all uphill and down-dale, almost scarily so, and there was a river with lots of bridges over it. It all looked really idyllic, till the chauffeur told us that the quaint houses on stilts, called Queenslanders, which we were admiring, had massive carpet pythons living inside their roofs.
He also pointed out the Gabba to us as we entered the city area and drove down Stanley Street, one of the largest streets of the city which led on to Vulture Street.
Rinku Chachi got very excited. 'Stanley Street! See, Zoya, on TV they always say ki he is bowling from the Stanley Street end or the Vulture Street end!'
I nodded, and I had to admit that the stadium looked like a carnival, all lit up and gleaming like a massive doughnut, festooned with buntings for the match the next day.
At the hotel, the guy at Reception handed me a note from some IBCC sidekick saying they'd be picking me up for breakfast at seven o' clock sharp, so that put an end to any ideas I had of venturing out and discovering the city. I got an instant headache instead, wondering what I'd do if our team lost tomorrow itself.... I couldn't possibly stay on and abuse the Board's hospitality, could I?
The Zoya Factor Page 17
