'Only,' I said in a dramatic whisper, giggling a little out of sheer nervousness, 'only...thee eye of thee cupboard.'
He gave an unamused laugh. 'Oh! That.' He pushed his hair back from his face again and said deliberately, 'Focus only on winning. Defy Lohia, you mean.' The words hung in the air for a bit. Then he said, 'And what if I stick my neck out and we lose anyway? What about then?'
I said, hesitantly, scared of him almost, with this odd mood upon him. 'Then you'll know you did the right thing?'
Khoda gave a short laugh, and got to his feet. 'Do you have any idea,' he said, his voice shaking a little, 'how difficult it was for me to get the captaincy a year ago? Any idea at all?'
I had to shake my head, no. Because I usually use the sports sections of newspapers to pick up Meeku's potty in.
'This is a very new, and very unstable team,' he said. 'There are no givens at all. Those guys can change us around, drop us, do whatever they like. All I have to do is make one mistake. Just one. And I'll be playing galli cricket for the rest of my life. So, what was that you said just now? Yes, knowing I did the right thing will be very cold comfort if I end up being that completely uncool thing - an ex-captain.'
I didn't say anything. There was really nothing to say.
'I have to go now,' he said.
I nodded, relieved almost. 'Sure.'
The queer glittering look left his eyes then. He let his hands rest on my shoulders, smiled and said, 'Thanks for the chat.'
'Anytime,' I said relieved, smiling up at him, like a lovelorn gaalu-aalu.
He stood looking down at me for a while, then said mildly, 'What a pugnacious little chin you've got. I've never noticed it till today.'
'Thank you,' I said crossly, giving him a little push. 'Goodnight.'
He pulled me in for a long tight hug. 'Goodnight, Zoya from AWB.'
I crawled back to my room and slept like the dead. When I woke up, there was no sun in our usually gorgeously-sunny-in-the-morning room and I realized it must be practically midday. My first thought was of Nikhil. What had he decided? I grabbed my phone and dialled his number but he'd switched it off.
So I put on the TV and flicked through the sports channels, but there was no breaking news or anything on it. Then, when I found a note for me next to my toothbrush, I realized that Rinku Chachi was missing.
She'd gone shopping with Mon, apparently, and they wouldn't be back before three. Oh great, so now I would have to fret and worry all alone.
In a bid to relax, I ran a hot bubble bath and soaked in it for a while. I got rid of all the oil in my head, then sat on my bed to comb it through with a wide-toothed comb. As I made neat sections and worked my way through the knots from tip to root, I wished there was a way I could untangle all the thoughts that were swirling around inside my head and giving me a killer headache. Basically, I was worried that my advice to Nikhil had been too filmi and unreal and that he might be hassled with me for being such a fake.
(I mean, I had been a total humbug, hadn't I, telling him to put Indian victory before all else, and see only thee eye of thee cupboard considering my dirty little secret, which was that I'd been thrilled to bits when India lost to Bermuda without eating breakfast with me-the-great.)
Supposing he woke up this morning and thought, Hmm, who does that pompous, pontificating, chubby-cheeked chick with the oily plait think she is anyway? I'm so done with her. Where's my little black book full of the phone numbers of genuine, honest people like calendar models and Bollywood actresses?
It panicked me so badly I started feeling hungry. Not just normal hungry, but Indian food hungry.
I scanned the Room Service menu but they had nothing desi on it. A quick rootle through the Mel-pages revealed no Indian restaurants close by. The closest thing to Indian food in the vicinity was a tandoori pizza from Benito's, so I ordered it and sat down to wait the mandatory half-an-hour, mindlessly flicking channels and worrying myself sick.
Maybe Nikhil values people who tell him some hard truths, I tried telling myself. He's so surrounded by sycophants and insecure people all the time.
'But you're insecure too,' my brain whispered. 'You want him to like you, you just told him what you thought would make him respect you more as a person. Would you ever see only thee eye of thee cup birrd if it meant losing your job?'
Sure I would, I thought unhesitatingly.
Not your crummy twenty-grand-a-month job, my brain said snidely. 'His, like, thirty-lakhs-a-week job or whatever. Would you stick your neck out if it meant losing that?'
The truth is, I wasn't sure.
I mean, I stand up for the national anthem, and I cried when that fat kid made all the goras sing Saare jahan se achchha in the school scene in Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Ghum but the truth is that my patriotism has never really been tested. So, basically I had no business advising Khoda the way I did. I had no idea about how much he'd struggled to get where he was today.
Damn.
Where was the tandoori pizza anyway? I was starving.
I waited and waited and was finally reduced to eating everything in the minibar before calling Benito's and abusing them. They said they were very sorry, but my delivery boy had met with an accident (they actually expected me to believe that?) and that they'd send me a free pizza in the evening.
So I was full of Planters' peanuts and Ferrero Rochers and very, very crabby when my three shaapper-owns trooped in at three-thirty.
Armaan instantly put on Disney channel in his room and Chachi went to sleep in ours so I couldn't watch the news there any more. I did try to bully Armaan into giving me the remote but Mon gave me such a filthy look that I desisted. 'Don't you dare,' she hissed. 'The child needs his daily dose of nice nourishing television and I need some adults-only conversation or I'll crack up.'
So we poured ourselves a couple of adults-only drinks and sat out on Mon's balcony, watching the sun go down.
And that's where Nikhil Khoda strode in at seven-fifteen, brandishing a copy of that evening's tabloid. He lifted me off my feet, swung me around in the air, kissed me resoundingly on the mouth, and declared laughingly, 'Zoya, I believe it now, you really are a lucky, lucky charm!'
***
The Evening Star
Sports section
LUCKY CHARM BREAKS AN ARM
DOCTORS SAY NO WORRIES, NO LONG-TERM HARM!
The stand-off between the Indian Board president and the Indian coach Wes Hardin had reached a total stalemate last night. Neither of them was budging an inch. The president wanted to retain his protege, stylish southpaw Robin Rawal, while the coach wanted him sacked and investigated for match-fixing (the surprise loss to Bermuda in Auckland, last Tuesday). The captain, Nikhil Khoda, it was rumoured, had thrown in his lot with the coach, saying three extremely talented youngsters deserved a chance to wear the country colours more than Rawal did.
'Basically, we Indians are washing our dirty groin guards in public again,' commented a disgruntled Shanta Kalra, leading sports journalist and columnist. 'Why these things aren't decided and worked out in India well before the event starts is beyond me.'
Late last night the situation reached a state of total deadlock when Wes Hardin stormed out of IBCC president Jogpal Lohia's hotel suite refusing to deny that he'd written an e-mail that somehow got leaked to the press day before yesterday. The coach allegedly threatened to quit if Rawal was retained.
Lohia mulishly showed no sign of backing off, even though he is said to have received several long phone calls from India last night, even one from the Rashtrapati Bhavan (the official residence of the Indian president). He said Hardin had no proof whatsoever, that Rawal would be suing him for libel and that Hardin was just trying to cover up how badly his team had collapsed against the puny Bermuda attack. He said Weston Hardin had an attitude problem, that he was crashing around like a bull in a china shop and had no understanding of the Indian temperament.
When questioned on the rumours of him siding with the coach, skipper Nikhil K
hoda said, 'There's no question of taking sides. I respect both Mr Lohia and coach Hardin. I am positive they will come to an understanding soon.' Such sunny optimism seemed slightly unreal - especially as riots broke out last night in Rawal-Lohia's native state of Rajasthan, further fuelling the president-coach divide. Rioting mobs took to the streets, smashed shops and set ablaze three Zing! Cola trucks in the mistaken belief that coach Hardin is American, not Australian.
And in this, India's darkest hour, salvation came through the diminutive form of the team's very own 'lucky charm' Zoya Solanki who woke up this morning feeling peckish (and no doubt a little homesick for the lovely land of India) and ordered a tandoori pizza from the Benito's outlet on Brunswick Street, Melbourne.
The delivery boy, rushing through traffic to make the half-an-hour delivery deadline, crashed into a pedestrian who was crossing the road to enter his hotel.
The pedestrian, who broke his left arm and requires a full arm plaster for one whole month, turned out to be (oh the beautiful ironies of cricket!) controversial man-of-the-moment batsman Robin Rawal himself.
The name of the person the pizza was meant for, Ms Solanki, was discovered by our reporter on the crumpled Benito's bill at the scene of the accident.
'It's a clean break,' said Dr Matthew Patnaik of St John's Hospital Fitzroy, where Rawal was rushed moments after the collision. 'There's no reason why Rawal shouldn't play as well as ever once the plaster is removed,' said Indian physio Dieter Rund. 'Cricket lovers need not worry.'
Yes, cricket lovers need not worry indeed, because the bone of contention having being removed (or rather broken), the Board president and coach have made up again. Mr Lohia has not lost face, India has retained their tactically brilliant coach and Vikram Goyal, a capable young all-rounder (whom Aussies will remember from the Under-19 cup a year ago) will be making his World Cup debut in India's first Super 8 match against New Zealand on Friday.
Of course, Lucky Charm Zoya Solanki will be there to cheer the team on.
All, as the Indians say, delightfully misquoting the immortal Bard, is in the well!
***
I hadn't had time to recover from being whirled around the balcony when my phone rang, and I picked it up, fully breathless.
'Traitor,' said a very familiar, irascible voice fondly.
'Sanks!' I cried. 'How are you?'
'Don't you Sanks me, Zoya, you brat!' he said, between snorts of laughter so hard I thought he would choke. 'How dare you order baasi thakela, no-good, stale-dough, frozen-chicken, bottled-tandoori-paste, Benito's pizza? Do you have any idea how hassled the HotCrust people are?'
We all just stayed in Mon's room that night. Nikhil hung around, lying on his stomach on the bathroom floor, playing Beyblades with Armaan (it was the only uncarpeted area in the suite). Armaan won every match and crowed about it, while Nikhil chewed gum and grinned indulgently. And when my complimentary Benito's pizza finally arrived, we all fell on it with cries of glee and absolutely no guilt pangs about betraying our client whatsoever.
Armaan went off for a bath, emerged looking angelic in his Spiderman pajamas, and sat down between the two of us, as we watched a recap of the news, wanting to know why I was so important. 'You are the Boss of India,' he said pointing at Nikhil. 'What is she?'
I think Nikhil muttered good question under his breath but all he said, feigning ignorance of the world famous masked menace, was, 'What's this suit you've got on, dude?'
Then, of course, we all got a long lecture on Spidey and how he does phhfchikkk phhhchikkk and shoots out webs from his wrists. 'But, shall I tell you, he only webs the bad guys,' Armaan said, waggling one chubby finger at us solemnly. 'Not the good guys. Or the weak guys. He is very powerful but he doesn't...uh...mis-yooooz his powers or robs banks or steals cars or doos bad stuffs...if he did, he would just be a selfish bully.'
'That's cool,' Nikhil said approvingly.
'Spidey's uncle Ben told Spidey that with Grrreat Power comes Grrreat Res-tonsibilty,' Armaan informed Nikhil, rolling his rrrs impressively.
That made me giggle, because it was really such a Nikhil Khoda thing to say, totally the kind of Nike-ad philosophy he was always spouting at me.
Sure enough, he told Armaan, 'You, young man, are wise beyond your years,' lifted him up by the seat of his pants the way I would lift a kitten, and started flying him around the room.
Then Mon, after a couple of extremely theatrical yawns, grabbed Armaan and went off to crash in the next room with Rinku Chachi, leaving the two of us to chat on our own. (She left the door very pointedly half-open, though.)
Nikhil made the wryest of faces at the sight of Monita's hot pink bathroom slipper jammed in the door, keeping it from locking shut, shrugged, and turned to me. 'That was good advice you gave me last night. Thank you.'
But I shook my head guiltily. 'It was all fake, really,' I confessed. 'I wanted you to think I'm a good person. A brave person. I would probably never have done what I told you to do if I'd been in your place! I did the whole remember-what-the-children-said goody-goody act just to impress you.'
I had thought he would laugh at this vacuous-sounding speech but he didn't. 'Well, I was very impressed,' he said seriously. 'And very inspired. You may not believe it, Zoya, but if you hadn't intervened with your pizza this morning, I was planning to call a press conference and side openly with Wes today.'
Wow, thank God it hadn't come to that. Lohia would've probably strangled him to death with a sarangi string or something.
He said, very formally, his deep voice smiling, as he lounged back on the sofa and looked at me, 'So, what are you doing tomorrow night, Zoya from AWB?'
'I'm having dinner with the Indian skipper,' I told him airily.
He laughed. 'You'll be lucky if he's still awake after a long day at the nets.'
I looked up and smiled demurely. 'Oh, but I am lucky,' I told him cockily.
***
16
The Super 8s began six days later. There were no surprise upsets in the teams that had made it through - all the usual suspects were in. Australia, South Africa, India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, England, West Indies, New Zealand. They would all play each other once (seven matches each) and the four teams that won the maximum number of encounters would make it to the knock-out semi-final stage.
'This is where the real fun begins,' Shanta Kalra told me, practically licking her chops as we chatted at the lunch table at our hotel in Melbourne. 'Now we'll see some world-class cricket!'
I smiled politely at Shanta and said, 'Can't wait.'
She put her hand upon my arm and said, 'Hey, Zoya, d'you girls want to go out pubbing with me and some journos tonight? We'll go up to St Kilda, you know, the boho district by the beach.'
It sounded like fun. Better than staying in the hotel and watching television. I looked at Mon and Chachi and they both nodded happily. So, at eleven in the evening, we left a sleeping Armaan in the room with the hotel babysitter and sneaked out, all duded up in our clubbing clothes.
'You know, girls,' Rinku Chachi said, tightening the clasps of her dangling earrings as we all piled into the hotel cab, 'this is the first time we're all three going out together for a night-out in Australia!'
'You're right, Rinku!' Mon said, adjusting the bosom of her clingy dress. 'Let's have a bloody blast!'
We followed Shanta's car all the way to St Kilda. It was a pretty hip quarter, full of people in purple and black clothes with piercings and spiky, odd-coloured hair. There was a winding main street full of cake shops, hat shops, painting galleries and lots and lots of pubs. Mon totally loved it. 'D'you know this is where the AWB office is, in Melbourne!' she told me. 'Think of us, stuck in Vanijya Nikunj, Phase 5!'
Shanta really seemed to know her way around. She swung us into this happening nightclub kind of place and snapped a finger very authoritatively at the burly-looking barmaid.
'Yeh toh badi cool nikli!' Rinku Chachi muttered into my ear as she hauled her bulk onto the zany-looking bar
stools. 'Beta, she must be my age only, no?'
I looked at Shanta carefully, even as I inhaled great gulps of the wet woody aroma of draft beer. Yes, she'd be about Chachi's age all right. Maybe a few years younger. 'No way, Chachi,' I said comfortingly. 'She looks at least ten years older than you!'
Soon we had all ordered naughtily named cocktails and had been introduced to Shanta's little gang. Most of them were younger boys, all vaguely familiar because they were cricket reporters from various television news channels. A couple of sporty-looking babes were there too, and - a bit of a surprise this - Ritu Raina, ravishing as always in a tight pair of jeans and an extremely abbreviated version of the India team tee shirt.
The Zoya Factor Page 26
