The Zoya Factor

by Anuja Chauhan

  The match rolled on, slowly and uneventfully. Jay and Beeru tried to liven it up by talking about the celebrity types who'd come to watch it. They pointed out Russell Crowe and the governor of New South Wales and any number of Bollywood stars and sparred at length about who was going to win the five-buck wager.

  Thind finally struck in the 14th over, and the stadium exploded with chants of 'Indiya! Indiya!' One of the openers departed to be replaced by the seriously hot English captain. Gabby stopped talking to Vishaal and started concentrating on the game.

  Nikhil gave Vikram Goyal the ball, and the run rate, which was low in any case, now dipped to an all-time low.

  'This is Goyal's USP, isn't it, Beeru?' Jay said as the camera followed Vikram's queer, lopsided, run-up down the pitch. 'He doesn't often get wickets, but he sure can bring the scoring to a crashing halt. Handy with the bat too, I believe.'

  'Yes, vul, he's very young too, only seventeen, Jay, and he's in a hurry. He's definitely not going to let us miss Zahid Pathan today, that's for sure. And why not? When there's a fire in your belly you'd be a fool to consult a gastro...'

  Jay didn't reply and I didn't blame him. I mean what possible answer can you give to a remark like that? The hot-looking English skipper seemed to have Vikram's number though, because he blasted his third delivery away for an awesome six over the covers.

  Beeru changed tracks smoothly and shamelessly started talking about how inexperienced Vikram was. 'That ball was looking like an alcoholic, it was so high!' he rhapsodized. 'A clumsy delivery from young Vikram Goyal that was shown absolutely no mercy by the English skipper. And India is sorely missing Zahid Pathan here today at the Sydney Cricket Ground!'

  The rest of the over was a total disaster. When it ended England were 93 for 1 in 17 overs and the run rate had jumped to well over five.

  Zahid's face had turned ashen. He'd been chatting happily with Ritu, but now he hurried over to me, lifted Armaan onto his lap and settled down right next to me, groping for my hand. 'What?' I snapped at him nastily, moving my hand away.

  'Nothing,' he said meekly. 'Cheer, no, for India!'

  I turned around to give him a piece of my mind, but he was looking so stricken that I didn't have the heart to do so. I realized that he was in exactly the same boat as I was.

  If India lost he, too, was going to think it was all his fault.

  'Lots of cricket still to be played yet, Zahid,' I told him comfortingly. 'And why are you looking so sad, anyway? I thought you didn't like Goyal?'

  'Zoya, what are you saying?' he said, genuinely hassled. 'He's wearing the blue uniform! We are all in this together.'

  Armaan, feeling the tension, had stuck one grubby forefinger into his mouth. 'Are we going to lose again, Zahid?' he asked in a doctor-tell-me-the-worst-I-can-deal-with-it kind of way.

  'Arrey, of course not, mere sher! ' Zahid said heartily.

  Armaan sighed and turned to his two-year-old brother. 'We're going to lose, Aman.'

  'Okay,' Aman said stoically.

  The energy levels were definitely low. All round us English supporters were waving their flags, yelling and stamping and taking off their shirts.

  Vishaal's Gabrielle was on her feet, whooping every time Balaji's ball rose to make contact with her idol's bat.

  It went on like this for what seemed like forever. Their score climbed steadily and the run rate stayed well above five right through the slog overs.

  Vishaal passed me to go get a couple of beers for Gabby and himself and mouthed, I think I'm in love, as he went past.

  I leapt to my feet and followed him. 'Really?'

  He turned and grinned. 'Really! Wham! It was like a thunderbolt. She's a simple girl from a small Irish town, you know. Very conservative. Educated by the nuns. I mean, look at the way she's dressed, it's way more modest than what even you've got on!'

  I glanced down at my shorts and ganji and said, 'Yeah, wow, well good for you, Vishaal.'

  He grinned, pushing his hair back from his brow boyishly, 'Yeah, true love, finally, huh? You know, suddenly even the Nike film getting bombed doesn't seem so bad...'

  I nodded sympathetically. Then Zahid yelled for me and I hurried back to my seat. 'What is it, Zahid?' I said testily.

  'Concentrate, Zoya!' he said. 'The game is slipping away from us.'

  God alone knows what he expected me to do. I sat down and looked out at the field, trying not to absorb the stress he was radiating. Beeru and Jay were doing some serious analyses:

  'England's really intent on taking that trophy home this time, Beeru.'

  'Yes, we're definitely seeing some very superior batting today, Jay. India are doing their best, I can't fault them really, but England look all set to end with much more than 300 in their kitty and as the groundsmen said earlier today, the pitch is going to deteriorate towards the evening.'

  'So, was putting them in to bat such a good decision on Nick Khoda's part?'

  Beeru said Khoda was playing to his team's strengths and that the Indians had chased well right through this World Cup. Then Jay started going on about how Nikhil hadn't lost a single toss right through this tournament, and Beeru corrected him to say that he had actually, twice, and then Jay went on to add, 'Never after breakfasting with Zoya.'

  And then they got into that whole damn dreary debate again.

  Jay said that if India won today too, then Australia (or South Africa, whoever won the other semi) was going to raise a huge stink about India's voodoo doll, and the unfair advantage of the Zoya Factor.

  Beeru told him that it was appalling that an educated man like himself was talking like this, and Jay said that if he (Beeru) was so educated surely he wouldn't mind if Zoya was 'rested' for the final. Beeru started to say something in return but just then Jay said (way too triumphantly for a neutral commentator) 'that looks like a big one, yes it is!' and as Zahid cursed loudly beside me, we saw Vikram Goyal's delivery soaring way over Nikhil's outflung arms and on through the boundary.

  The skunk-haired heart-throb got a standing ovation; he'd definitely arrived at his century in style.

  Vishaal, on his return from the snacks counter laden with beers and crisps, looked hassled to see his new English friend Gabrielle jumping in her seat, whooping madly. He slid in next to her, treading over Sanks's toes, grinning a good sportsman-spirit type of grin and started trying to hand her a beer, but she pushed him away and got to her feet. Then, chanting 'God Save the Queen' in a high, unsteady voice, she ripped open her long canvas overcoat to reveal that she was stark naked underneath, and leaping lithely over the railing, sped across the outfield, weaving her way past a startled Laakhi, and headed straight for the skunk-haired opener.

  The crowd roared its approval, and a million cameras flashed as she streaked past the Fly Emirates guy and closed in on the skunk-head.

  He had his bat up in the air, acknowledging the roar his century had evoked and hadn't quite realized that the crowd wasn't cheering just him any more. As Vishaal's Gabby grabbed his arm and spun him around, his eyes widened in total shock and the next moment she was laying the wettest smooch ever on his sunblock-slathered lips. By the way, she'd pulled off the ultimate matching-matching coup. She was sporting a skunk-style hair-do too, but not on her head....

  'The lady seems to be feeling the heat, Beeru,' Jay said suavely as a couple of security guards hot-footed onto the pitch, bearing a big blanket.

  'Er...yes,' said Beeru in a stunned sort of voice, sounding shocked to the core of his middle-class mind. But then he rallied valiantly, 'Vul!' he said, sounding more urbane by the second. 'Vul, vul, yes! It's a' - he was obviously trying to think of something super-witty to say, you could practically hear the wheels of his mind whirring - 'it's a display of naked emotion all right,' he proclaimed finally.

  Vishaal, of course, had heard none of this. He was still standing exactly where Gabby had left him, his eyes twin pools of regret, clutching her discarded trenchcoat to his broken heart....

  They close
d at 331 for 6, and the mood amongst the India supporters got pretty grim. Zahid said he'd go sit with the team and insisted I tag along with him. 'Just come and say hi to everyone, Zoya,' he said when I protested that this was against the ICC rules.

  We walked out of the main pavilion and down to the dressing rooms. People kept waving to us. It was strange the way everybody in light-blue shirts was looking at me - with a desperate look in their eyes, like they expected me to wave a wand and pull off a miracle or something. I kept my eyes glued to the floor till we entered a long, echoing corridor, hit a big wooden door and Zahid said, with fake heartiness, 'Here we are!'

  I could hear a low murmur of conversation from inside and suddenly felt like I couldn't possibly go in. There had to be a limit to this whole stupid charade. I shook my head, 'No way, Zahid,' I said. 'I can't.'

  He shoved his hands into the small of my back and tried to propel me forward, the way he had when he'd talked me into bungee jumping. 'C'mon, c'mon.'

  But this was way more serious than that.

  I pushed him away, turned around and started to hurry back to the main pavilion. He called out my name a couple of times but he didn't follow me. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere because the corridor seemed never-ending. I'd just started to panic when I rounded a corner and practically collided into somebody. Pulling back a little, I registered that it was that chubby baby-with-pubic-hair, Vikram Goyal.

  'Zoyaji,' he said surprised.

  'Uh, hi, Vikram,' I said relieved. 'Kaise ho?'

  He looked at me, a little blankly. Then, of course, I realized it had been a dumb thing to ask; he'd had a terrible first half. The English attack had broken the back of his bowling. How insensitive of me to go kaise ho? to him.

  I started to say something soothing, but then the blank, bewildered look left his eyes to be replaced by a fully attentive, rather cunning one. 'Please wish me luck,' he said, his just-broken voice wobbling unpleasantly.

  'Best of luck,' I said brightly.

  He shook his head slowly. 'Not like that,' he said. 'Theek se. Properly.'

  'Best of luck?' I ventured, ending the sentence on a high instead of a low, as I edged away from him, hoping a variation in cadence would satisfy him.

  But of course it didn't.

  Instead he mumbled, 'Jaise kal skipper ko kiya tha.' Then he lifted two pudgy, clammy hands, placed them on either side of my ears, swooped down, and mashed his little-pink-orifice-amongst-a-thicket-of-pubes-mouth down on mine.

  It was completely sick-making. Not just physically - though that was horrible enough, I mean, I could taste his entire lunch, and it had obviously been a six-course meal, onions, mutton, Pan-Parag being the top notes over a basic bouquet of sour, stale sweat - it was the way he just assumed he could do this. That I was some kind of team amenity, like a bottle of Gatorade or a pain-relief spray or an ice pack. Luck levels dipping, boys? Just smooch some Zoya. It made me so tothe-pit-of-my-stomach mad. I could have killed him.

  I pushed him away as violently as I could and he flopped backward, his fleshy little mouth forming a little 'O' of surprise. 'I hope you get out for duck, asshole,' I snarled at him, and he backed away from me hurriedly, looking - I was pleased to see - rather scared of me. I shook back my dishevelled hair, lifted my hand, made a jabbing evil-eye gesture at him, and dashed away from there, rubbing my mouth furiously with the back of my hand.

  I was still seething when I emerged onto the ground. My chest felt tight with anger, my cheeks were hot. I stomped my way out of the stands, made my way to the main gate, and phoned the driver. The phone rang several times; the driver was obviously engrossed in the match.

  Around me, the cricket carnival raged on. The entire stadium seemed to be cheering for England - even the Aussies seemed to have their hearts set on an Australia-England final, and couldn't seem to wait to get us Indians out of there.

  Frankly, neither could I.

  The encounter with Vikram Goyal's eager plump tongue had put me off the light-blue uniform big time. How was Zahid any different from Vikram? Or Harry? Or Shivnath for that matter? How was Nikhil Khoda any different? I rubbed my hand across my mouth so hard it hurt.

  My cheeks burned with humiliation as I realized that I'd been kidding myself all along. All the wooing, the cute text messages, the poolside meetings, they were probably all fake. Obviously, they all talked about me in their stupid locker room, like it was team strategy or something. Woo that chubby-cheeked girl with the lucky streak, it's for your country after all, where's your patriotism, keep your eye on the cupboard.

  And I'd fallen for it!

  This movie was so going to end with a supermodel making a guest appearance in the last shot. Nikhil would kiss her, hand her the World Cup trophy and drive away with her in a fancy car.

  I would probably end up with Vishaal, all my luckiness sucked out of me, and would have to listen to him carp about his wretched Nike ad for the rest of my life.

  I blew my nose gloomily and looked around, hoping nobody would look my way. I needn't have worried. Everyone was intent on what was happening down there on the pitch - the match was neck-to-neck. A glance at the display screen informed me that our run rate was steady, hovering around the required 6.06, which was pretty good. If you wanted India to win, that is.

  Oh God, I was so sick of cricket! I felt suddenly, violently, homesick. What was I doing here? I didn't even like this game, I used to have a life, a good one, one I was perfectly satisfied with. What did I really hope to achieve out of this whole idiotic circus?

  Almost like an answer to that question, the stadium started chanting Nikhil's name. Fighting an urge to cover my ears, I blundered out of the stadium and got into the car, which had just pulled up in front of me, commentary blaring from its radio. I ignored the puzzled look the driver gave me and I told him to take me back to the hotel. As we swung out of the exit gate, a loud groan sounded behind us.

  Vikram Goyal had just got out for duck.

  ***

  Cape Times

  Page 26

  A file photo of Nikhil Khoda acknowledging his sixteenth

  one-day ton in Johannesburg

  MAYBE BABY?

  Evalene Adams, the stunning, blonde South African model and actor from the hit TV series Hospital was blessed with a sturdy little bundle of joy, christened William Nicholas Adams, late last night. Both mum and bubba are doing well.

  Nobody's seen the birth certificate yet, but the local press is making much of the fact that baby William was born almost nine months to the day since the Indian cricket team toured South Africa last year.

  Ms Adams was sighted with the players quite often during the tour and that, coupled with the fact that the baby's middle name sounds a lot like that of the Indian skipper, Nikhil Khoda, has got most people nodding knowingly, even though Ms Adams has neither confirmed nor denied the rumours.

  'Evalene's over the moon,' is all her publicist would tell the media. 'A boy after two girls has made her family complete. She's ecstatic but exhausted as the labour was six hours long.'

  The doctors wanted to administer an epidural but reportedly Ms Adams, a yoga and wellness enthusiast, insisted on having a completely natural delivery.

  Baby William weighs in a lusty nine pounds and, according to the nurses in the maternity ward, seems to be an alert and unusually muscular baby.

  Ms Adam's two daughters have been fathered by Black Sunday frontman Davy Keiths and soccer star Mohammad Montana respectively. She is known for her 'exotic' men-friends.

  Her publicist said Ms Adams and baby Will's father have no plans to marry.

  ***

  I found the article slipped under my door when I got back into my room. Somehow, my brain, miraculously unaffected by the pummelling my emotions was receiving, sat back and did the math. And the answer was this.

  Nikhil was just using me.

  All the pieces fell into place as I stared down at that article. Hadn't that guy, Jagdish or whatever, in the nightclub in
Melbourne, been telling Zahid something about how his skipper was a fool, going around having babies for free with random babes? I think he'd even mentioned a name, but I'd just assumed he'd been talking about some other captain, an earlier one....

  Now, of course, I realized it had to be Nikhil.

  I heard those six damning words again.

  'Jaise kal skipper ko kiya tha.'

  Screwing the newspaper up into a ball, I made up my mind.

  All this time the Men in Blue had been using me; now it was time for me to use them.