He said, 'By the way, the Indian officials are very sure they'd got you a visa for New Zealand in Delhi. They suspect somebody tore a page out of your passport.'
I almost dropped my phone. 'What! But why? But who...?'
'I don't know. Maybe they are just trying to cover up their own negligence, but I don't think so. Where d'you generally keep your passport?'
'In my red rucksack,' I said, glancing across the room to where it lay on the sofa.
'In that thing?' Khoda asked, clearly not very impressed. 'Then it could've been anybody. You're always leaving that sack around.'
'It's not a sack,' I protested. Though I was secretly rather pleased that he knew what my bag looked like. Nikhil Khoda knows what my bag looks like, I thought dreamily. He knew I was careless with it. He was bossing me around at four in the morning, topless and tousled.
'You're a very careless girl, Zoya,' he was saying reprovingly.
'No, I'm not,' I replied with soft idiocy, every bit of me rolling over and purring at the commanding tone in his voice.
'Yes, you are,' he said, authoritatively.
I loved the way he sounded, but my hackles rose a little. I managed to pull my wits together enough to say, fairly composedly, 'Look, I'm really sorry that I won't be able to come with you guys to Auckland.'
Sounding just a little taken aback at my change in tone, he said, 'Hey, it's cool, stay here and do some sightseeing.'
I said, rolling over onto my tummy. 'You'll be okay, na?'
He sounded just a little dry as he replied, 'I think we can manage this one without you, Zoya.'
I thought, but didn't say, Hello, you said the same thing to me in Dhaka too, and you lost. To Bermuda only. Remember?
But I think he heard me anyway.
His voice got just a little distant as he said, 'Gotta get some sleep now. Goodnight.'
And I didn't have any option but to say lightly, albeit with a sinking heart, 'Okay. Goodnight, Nikhil.'
***
15
Zahid woke me up the next morning sounding slightly panicky and wanting to be 'blessed' before he caught the flight. He was full of conspiracy theories about the alleged 'passport tampering', blaming the Bermuda team, the Aussie press, and for some strange reason, the ISKCON temple priests in turn. He said, 'Anyways, we are through to the Super 8, par you know, we will get two more points if we win this match.'
'Of course you'll win, Zahid!' I said, irritated. I was a little weirded-out by the way the conversation with Nikhil had ended last night. 'Bless you. Kick some butt, okay?' I hung up, frowning a little, hating to admit it to myself even, the way the ugly, world-famous Indian Crab Mentality had suddenly risen up and tightened its slimy pincers around my erstwhile patriotic heart.
I had wished Zahid very half-heartedly.
Because a certain part of me wanted him to lose.
Let me be absolutely clear.
Not lose his virginity.
Not lose some weight.
Lose the match.
I wanted India to lose the match.
Why? Because - and this is pretty gruesome stuff to know about oneself - if they won they would start thinking they didn't need me any more.
No more special status.
No more Agarbatti contract.
No more Nikhil Khoda.
So much for being a patriotic girl whose whole family had served in the army and whose uncle had got a Mahavir Chakra in the '71 war.
It was in this sorry, schizophrenic state of mind, that I sat down in front of the TV to watch the match with Mon, Rinku Chachi and Armaan.
The match started badly for India because Khoda lost the toss and Bermuda said they wanted to bat. In a little while their openers strolled out and the match began. It was all okay for a bit. Jay and Beeru were saying the Bermudans were clearly intimidated by India but had apparently given Zimbabwe a couple of bad scares, before finally losing by thirty-two runs in the match before this one. They had three really good batsmen, Jay said, but the middle order wasn't too hot and the bowlers couldn't bat for toffee. Then Beeru said that opting to field first was not a very good thing to do because this team's strength was their bowlers (some of whom played county cricket in England all the time and were very savvy).
Anyway, there was this exciting moment in the eleventh over when their star opener lobbed a ball way too high and short and Robin Rawal leapt on it with a cry of joy. But he fumbled it somehow, and of course they cut to Pathan, all blazing eyes and rumpled curls, coming down from his triumphant whoop of victory and shooting filthy looks at Rawal in slo-mo for the next five minutes.
He looked all leonine and heroic, but my heart didn't go out to him.
Because, you see, my heart had a big black Indian crab wrapped snugly around it. Good scene, the hairy black crab muttered exultantly. Good boy, Rawal.
(Of course I cunningly pretended to be disappointed so that Mon and Chachi and Armaan would think I was a good, patriotic Indian girl.)
Jay and Beeru just couldn't get over the catch-that-could-have-been. Beeru said sombrely that Rawal had just dropped the ICC World Cup 2011, which was a stupid thing to say, because, hello, we were through anyway. But I'd realized by now that Beeru wasn't really a very clever guy....
Then Jay went into this long monologue about Rawal, and how stylish and wristy he was; how being left-handed he was vital to the side, and how he'd been such a great opener till Harry came along and he had to be shifted down the batting order. He mentioned some old injury of Rawal's which could've maybe caused the fumble....
'But the intelligent insect can suck nectar from the bitterest of flowers,' Beeru pronounced. 'Robin Rawal needs to be more of an intelligent insect.'
There was a long pause as Jay digested this. Then he said, 'Well, I'm seeing that Nick Khoda's giving the ball to Balaji, that's unusual so early on in the game.'
'Yes, vul! It looks like another day of experiments at the Khoda and Hardin laboratory. I'm telling you, Jay, this duo will end up making rhesus monkeys of us all!'
I tuned them out at this point as the camera cut to Nikhil, looking positively murderous, Boost-brown eyes burning as he glared at Rawal. He didn't look like he was experimenting. He looked like winning this match mattered.
Hah, he probably just wants to prove he doesn't need you, the hairy Indian crab whispered megalomaniacally into my ear. You. That's all this whole match is about.
The Bermuda opener played it very cautiously after that. It went on and on and Zahid finally got him out and then they all kind of fell apart but managed to finish it off with a respectable 232 all out in the forty-sixth over.
When they went in for lunch, I saw Khoda with his arm around Rawal, saying something to him pretty earnestly. Then the Bermuda captain came up to them and started chatting, a fully hero-worshipping look on his silly face.
What a sap.
Didn't he get it? These guys were the enemy. Show me some Indian blood, Bermuda boy!
***
They lost. (The Indians, I mean.)
They had got off to a good start but then Harry and Shivee got out pretty quickly. Then, for some strange reason, Rawal came in third instead of Laakhi. (The commentators said Khoda was experimenting because this match wasn't vital or anything, but I think he just let Rawal come in one down because he was in a sulk.) Then, when Laakhi and Rawal were doing pretty good, there was some confusion with the calling and Laakhi got run out. At this point, Nikhil came in and settled things a bit but Rawal got out LBW and then Nivi totally collapsed and got out for like five or something. Khoda soldiered on but Bala and Thind never looked comfortable, Ali got out ludicrously (the Bermuda guys actually laughed, so did Jay and Beeru) and finally Zahid was on strike for the last ball and had to make a six, and couldn't.
He looked completely bereft. He'd hit a four but that was no consolation and he was positively drooping when Khoda put an arm around him and they both shook hands with the chubby Bermuda captain. The Bermudans of course were
thrilled to bits, as the commentators said, they weren't through to the Super 8 but this was a huge, huge victory for them, they could go home very proud indeed. They'd defeated India, after all.
'That's twice in a row, Beeru!' Jay said. 'What is going on with India and Bermuda, anyway?'
Those seemed to be Khoda's sentiments exactly, when he came up to receive the Man of the Match award for his unbeaten 103, frustration writ large on his handsome face.
The commentators asked him lots of questions, which he answered frowningly, pushing his dark hair back from his forehead. He got pretty nasty when they asked him about his team's performance today and said his boys needed to pull up their socks big-time. He said the fielding had been pathetic, the collapse of the batting order even more so and dismissed his own fifteenth one-day century as not good enough.
He looked incredibly hot as he said all this stuff. And I loved him with almost all my heart.
But I didn't cry for him, Argentina.
I gloated with a secret joy.
Even at that key moment, a moment designed to bring out the patriotic deshpremi in even the most hardened of hearts, the moment when Zahid Pathan thwacked that last ball away and it soared up into the air and started dropping too early, my heart hadn't dropped with it.
Oh no.
My heart had soared on through, all the way over the boundary for a six, singing a vile victory song.
It was only after we switched off the TV and I turned around with a smug satisfied smile to see the tears standing large in Armaan's huge black eyes that the hairy Indian crab loosened its hold on my heart a little.
'We lost!' Armaan said tearfully. 'India lost! They beat us, Mummy! You said we were going to win but we didn't! We're losers. We're losers.'
And that's when the hairy crab finally dropped away from me with a hollow clunkkk, leaving me shame-faced and guilty and wondering what exactly I was turning into....
***
The next few days were pretty quiet (except for a rash of mean sms-es doing the rounds from India saying things like - What did Nikhil Khoda's mother say to him when he wouldn't drink his milk? Doodh peele beta, nahin toh Bermuda aa jaayega...). The Super 8s were drawing to a close all over Australia and New Zealand, but India had been one of the first to finish all their round robin games in the group stage. So our boys now had almost a week off, in which time they could hang loose, practise at the nets and nurse any lingering injuries. They'd holed up in a fancy hotel in Melbourne and gone all quiet. They were probably licking their wounds. I, of course, didn't dare call them. I was too scared that they would think I was gloating.
Meanwhile, the four of us did a lot of sightseeing around Melbourne. We rode on romantic trams everywhere, hired bikes and went cycling and took the Met to look at the World Cup trophy in the legendary MCG gallery.
It was on the train back from the MCG that Rinku Chachi suddenly got a call from Gajju. 'Haan, G. Singh?' she went, her face lighting up happily. 'Hain? Kya? Oh, Zoya se baat karni hai...' Looking a little miffed, she handed me the phone. 'He wants to talk to you,' she said, disgruntled.
'Hi, Chacha,' I said cautiously.
'Zoya!' Gajju sounded excited. 'What is the true story? Everybody is asking me! They are saying you will know for sure!'
'Sorry, Chacha, what true story?'
'Uff, you don't know?'
'No,' I said puzzled.
He tched in an irritated sort of way. 'Hardin's e-mail. Get a newspaper, child. What is the use? You must know all these things. Information is power, you know!' And with that ambiguous remark, he cut the line.
Rinku Chachi snorted. 'Stingy as always,' she said. 'Worried about the phone bill. What did he want, Zoya?'
'He wants me to read the paper, Chachi,' I said, as puzzled as she was. 'Something about an e-mail...'
We grabbed one as soon as we could.
***
The Age
Sports Section
[email protected] to [email protected]
cc [email protected].
Dear Sir,
Twelve months ago, your predecessor met me in Sharjah and very kindly asked me to coach the Indian team in preparation for the 2011 World Cup. You accompanied him, and may remember that I had another, very flattering offer in hand at the time, but the youth, malleability and potential of the side and the promise of a free hand, won me over.
At that very time I had voiced a few misgivings about the process of player selection in India which is infamous across the ten Test-playing nations, to say the least. At that time your predecessor gave me the verbal assurance that your captain and myself would be allowed to pick the side we wanted without any outside interference. Advice of the senior players on the side, senior ex-players and the more savvy selectors was of course, most welcome, if it was without zonal bias of any sort.
A year has passed, and I am still to receive that assurance in writing.
I had also been apprehensive about the continued presence in our proposed World Cup squad, of a player who seemed to be lacking both passion and performance in alarming quantities. On top of that, he was plagued by constant injuries, wore a crepe bandage sometimes on his left arm and sometimes on his right and was an unsettling presence in the nets and dressing room alike.
His cynical attitude towards discipline, training and the noble concept of patriotism itself was having a bad influence on the youngsters on the side.
I expressed my doubts about his inclusion in the World Cup repeatedly, but was informed, by you personally, at the time of your installation as IBCC president, and by the chairman of the selectors committee on many occasions, that Robin Rawal's inclusion was non-negotiable.
Ever since our arrival in Australia his attitude has been arrogant and negative to the extreme. Tardiness and no-shows at the nets have been frequent. He has given interviews and made public statements that deviate diametrically from the point of view of the captain and coach. His sour demeanour and mysterious straight-from-the-mouth-of-Jogpal-Lohia utterances have been playing havoc with the morale of our young side.
This kind of behaviour is totally unacceptable from a player who has worn the country's colours for over nine years. And now he has upped his game from the merely irresponsible to the downright criminal.
I am not making the following allegation loosely.
I have just finished watching three hours of slow-motion television footage, capturing the dropped catch against Bermuda from every conceivable angle.
And I can confidently say that the blame for Tuesday's ignominious loss can be laid squarely at Robin Rawal's door.
Desultory fielding topped with a dropped catch that a child of five could have taken would be enough reason to have shown him the door from the playing eleven. Add to that his eleven runs in thirty-nine balls (two of them extras) and the fact that he got a set player run out when he was looking good for a big total at a vital point in the game and a clear case for criminal prosecution begins to emerge. I am aware of what everybody must be saying on the streets in India, and just this once, I tend to agree. Robin Rawal, Navneet Singh and Anzaar Ali should be recalled to India and investigated thoroughly for throwing matches.
Which is why I must state, in the strongest language possible, that it is no longer possible for me to function with this player on the side.
It is not fair to the rest of the side, which has worked long and hard to make India's World Cup dream a reality. It is not fair to the lads who lost their place on the World Cup squad so that there would be room for Rawal and his ilk. One more thing.
While I respect your religious beliefs, and those of the beautiful country of India, very much, the fact that you have foisted a so-called good-luck charm onto my squad at the behest of your guru, Swami Lingnath Baba, is causing me no end of discomfort. It's a flagrant departure from every cricketing norm to have a strange young lady present at our breakfast table.
The fact that she could not be present at the match in New Zealand is being touted as pro
of that 'her medicine is good'. This is sure to either make the side complacent, if she does make an appearance before a match, or eat into their self-belief, if she does not.
I am not asking for her to return to India. I am just pointing out that I am putting up with a lot of unorthodox practices already.
Please do not expect me to put up with Robin Rawal too.
The Zoya Factor Page 24
