The Zoya Factor

by Anuja Chauhan

  Sheraan-wali Agarbatti wasn't going to be the only ad I would sign. Oh no, I would sign everything I could lay my hands on - Coke, soap, air conditioners, whatever. I was going to be as savvy and cynical as the man who'd told me with the love-light in his lying eyes: If you don't come tonight, it may kill me, Zoya.

  Just then my phone rang.

  It was Lokey.

  'Joyaji, congratulations!' he shouted, as if I'd personally hit the winning six that won the match. Hey, maybe I had. Then he started harassing me to shoot Tauji's ad right away. He said we had five days before the final and that the set was standing ready at Eagle Studios in Film City, Delhi, and that there was a round-trip, first-class ticket booked for me.

  'We can sign the contract tonight, Joyaji,' he yelled above the din in the stadium. 'The money will be wire-transferred into your account by tomorrow morning. Tauji wants his ad to be the first one viewers see after Khoda lifts the World Cup.'

  'Okay,' I said, suddenly weak with longing at the thought of being home again. 'Come over then, let's do it.'

  I'd showered and managed to pack most of my stuff for Delhi when Chachi and gang trooped in about forty minutes later, full of the match and how awesome the last hour of play had been.

  Mon's husband was in good humour. 'Superb,' he kept saying. 'Fan-tas-tic, amazing. One could hardly believe it was India out there!'

  They all wanted to go out and celebrate.

  '...Because, who knows if we'll win the final,' Monita said matter-of-factly and they insisted I come too.

  But I played it very smart. 'I have a team meeting now,' I said solemnly, not mentioning a word of my plans to travel. And they bought it. They all nodded, like they knew I had important 'Goddess-business' to attend to and hurtled out again, a scant fifteen minutes later, leaving me in peace.

  My phone started ringing then. It was Nikhil, of course, finally back in his suite after the team celebrations in the Indian dressing room. I ignored him. He started messaging me, but I deleted the messages unread and then, finally, the landline started.

  I picked it up on the fifth ring, my heart slamming against my ribs and the concierge told me that a Mr Chugh was there to see me. Thankful for the distraction, I went down and met Lokey in the coffee shop. He was in this real big hurry; he said he had lots of other deals all on the boil at the same time. He waved some papers in front of my face and I signed wherever he told me to. Then he hurried off, talking on his phone, and I made my way back to my room and tumbled into bed, quite worn out.

  ***

  'INDIA STORMS INTO WORLD CUP FINAL' screamed the sports headlines in The Age the next day. There was a picture of Nikhil running to embrace Balaji as the English skipper walked away in the background. There was pure elation on both their faces, Khoda's arms were outflung and there was a wild, exultant look in his eyes. Just looking at him made my heart throb with regret. You could've been with him last night, a voice in my head said. He would've claimed you like a 'prize' as Ritu would say. It would've been heaven on earth.

  Thank God I'd been spared that, I thought and turned the page.

  I sighed when I saw a picture of Vishaal's Gabby, streaking across the pitch with her vital bits pixilated. 'Unlucky Streak?' read the headline. It all seemed so long ago.

  There was another, smaller article on the same page. 'Zoya Hexed Me, Claims Goyal' - I frowned and zoomed in on it. It was very short, kind of like they'd got the news minutes before printing the paper:

  When questioned on his dismal performance at the SCG yesterday, conceding eighty-seven runs in eight overs, no wickets and zero with the bat, India's youngest player, Vikram Goyal said, 'It wasn't nerves. I was fully confident. It was Zoya, she hexed me so I would not be able to perform.'

  We then asked him why Zoya would do such a thing. Vikram said rather obscurely that Zoya disliked him for 'personal' reasons and invited us to question Zahid Pathan on the issue.

  If Vikram's claim is true, then Zoya's displeasure is indeed a terrible thing to incur if you're serious about a career in cricket. Whatever the reason, judging from his performance alone, it seems Vikram may be rested for the final next week. Meanwhile, the Zoya Factor seems to be growing more and more controversial by the minute. (ATP Features)

  What a jerk! He'd been playing lousily before he'd groped me in the passage. And what a snivelly, loser-like thing to do, to make excuses for his pathetic performance instead of just admitting he'd panicked or been outplayed or whatever. As expected, the media was playing it up.

  My phone started ringing right then. I didn't recognize the number so I didn't pick it up. Must be some journo types, I thought, feeling harassed. How soon can I get out of this country?

  Mon and Anand came in and wanted to discuss the Vikram issue, but the concierge called just then and said Nikhil was here to see me.

  I took a deep breath, fluffed out my hair and went down to meet him. He was in the lobby, looking a lot like the way he'd done in Dhaka when he'd blasted me under the big Bong tree - sleep-deprived and heavy-eyed - not at all like his picture in the paper this morning.

  'Zoya,' he said, very curt.

  'Still alive, I see,' I said snidely.

  He got all tight-lipped and started walking towards the coffee shop without bothering to see if I'd follow. I had half an urge to turn around and scurry for the lift, but then I squared my shoulders and followed him.

  So this was not going to be a romantic session by the poolside. Fine. Suited me. He walked up to a table for two and pulled out a chair for me in mock politeness. I sat, and he walked around the table and sat down too. I fidgeted with the fancy cutlery and met his eyes incuriously.

  He said, very deliberately, 'Would you care to tell me what you've been up to with Goyal?'

  'Oh, are we fighting again?' I asked, acting all surprised. 'I thought we'd made up.'

  He sighed. 'Please, Zoya, just tell me, okay?'

  I shrugged and looked away. 'There's nothing to tell,' I said tonelessly.

  He frowned. 'There must be something.'

  'Nothing,' I repeated.

  'You're saying he's making up the whole thing?' Nikhil asked in this really neutral voice that somehow completely got my goat. He sounded like he was the presiding officer at a courtmartial or something.

  'I'm not saying anything,' I glared at him and got to my feet. 'I don't have to justify myself to you.'

  He raised his eyebrows. 'How about to your fans?' he said mildly. 'Or should I say devotees? Want to tell them why you've turned against your own team?'

  'It's not my team,' I said, a little thickly. 'It's yours. No one gives a damn about me.'

  He looked puzzled at that, like he was wondering where I was coming from, then he said, 'I just want to know what happened that's all.'

  I didn't want to tell him. I didn't quite know why. Well, partly it was because I cringed at the idea of sounding like some outraged blushing damsel, flinging accusations and going: Ho ji, Vikram ne meri izzat pe haath dala; partly because the whole wretched incident had all become entangled in my head with Nikhil's feelings for the South African mother of his offspring; and partly, I thought guiltily, because I had meant what I'd said to Vikram yesterday. I'd wanted him to play badly. I'd definitely spooked him out, that's for sure. He'd totally flinched when I'd made that stabbing, witch's-curse gesture at him.

  So I just shrugged. 'It's true. I did hex him.' 'Why?' Nikhil asked. 'Because he made me angry,' I said with vague grandness. 'He displeased the Goddess, okay?' And then, as he opened his mouth to speak, I threatened, 'And don't you make me angry because then I may curse you too!'

  Nikhil just sat there looking at me, his eyes completely unreadable as I kept scowling at him, my hand drawn back into my witch-fingered jabbing stance. And then a corner of his mouth twitched. As I watched, fully mortified, this really wide smirky grin spread across his face. 'I'm shivering with fright,' he drawled.

  'So funny,' I said unwittily, dropping my hexing hand and crossing both arms acro
ss my chest. 'And now that I've cheered you up, I'll take your leave. I have to pack.'

  He stopped smirking then and shot out one hand to grab my wrist. 'Oh, didn't you pack last night?' he said, leaning in, his tone suddenly silky. 'I thought maybe that's what kept you away.'

  Of course this was the moment to tell him that his new fatherhood was what had kept me away. That, coupled with the sickening conviction that he, like his entire team, was chasing me because I made them win.

  But I said nothing.

  He looked at me in silence for a bit, then sat back and asked, doing a great imitation of being genuinely mystified, 'Why?'

  I said nothing. Just sat there, hoping I was looking dignified and not, you know, just brattish.

  He went on, 'I thought you were teasing me first, hiding somewhere. I opened all the cupboards, looked in the loo, out on the balcony.... I called your number a million times. Why didn't you pick up the phone, Zoya?'

  I shook my head, irritated with myself for warming to the urgency in his voice. Instead I forced myself to think, Serves you right you cocky, two-faced, Khodathing! What do you think I am, some kind of doggie who hides under your bed and comes out when called?

  He kept looking at me, willing me to speak, and who knows what I might have blurted out, had a young voice not broken in just then, 'Nikhil-sir? Dilip Prakash, Sports News. Can we get your reaction to the Australian captain's statement?'

  Nikhil frowned, let go my hand, and turned to look at the two young eager beavers with close-cropped haircuts who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. 'Guys, this is a private conversation,' he said, sounding totally exasperated. 'Please! I'll chat with you later.'

  'Fine sir, sorry sir,' the first one said, not moving an inch, 'but perhaps you're not aware of this latest development...'

  The second one addressed me. 'What do you think of the statement, Ma'am?'

  Nikhil moved forward and grabbed my arm at that, preparing to get all chivalrous and protect me from the paparazzi, but I didn't need his help. 'Buzz off, buddy, or I'll hex you,' I hissed and the two young journos backed away hurriedly, swiftly retreating to a nearby table where they made a couple of furtive calls, with both eyes peeled on me.

  Nikhil said resignedly, 'We'd better leave. They'll be descending here in hordes.'

  'Okay,' I said. 'See you then.'

  And I walked out of the coffee shop without even saying goodbye.

  Chachi and I checked out by eight o' clock that evening. The flight was at midnight but I wanted to get to the airport early. So did Chachi, but that was because she wanted to shop. Her big issue, when I'd told her we were leaving the same day, had been: 'Presents! Zoya! We can't go home empty-handed!'

  As she'd done nothing but shop ever since we'd got here, I'd been a bit taken aback, but she claimed there were still a million things left to buy. I told her we'd be back in Melbourne in four days time, but she said she had to shop anyway. 'Chocolates,' she muttered to herself. 'Opals, transparent, detachable bra straps...'

  I had called Dad earlier and told him to come to the airport the next morning. He'd sounded pretty surprised but hadn't asked any questions. Just said cryptically, 'Good, I want to talk to you.'

  I'd told Mon I'd see her soon and she'd said, 'I know you want to go home, Zoya, and I know the money's good, but I'm not at all sure you should be doing this dodgy ad. Have you seen the script?'

  I admitted I hadn't and she'd insisted, 'Ask for a script narration before you get on that flight.'

  I'd shaken my head resolutely. All I could see before me was the garden at Tera Numbar. I just had to get back there and drink adrak ki chai and listen to my dad rant on about Gajju and Yogu Chachas' latest peccadilloes.

  'Okay,' she'd sighed. 'If it sucks, ask for changes, okay? Don't let them walk all over you. And make sure Lokey's at the shoot.'

  I'd promised her I would.

  Then Vishaal came bursting in to give me a big hug and to extract a promise that I would definitely be back for the final. 'These flights are all fucked up, man,' he said. 'If there's a problem, just call up Vijay Mallya or someone and ask them to put you on a private jet! They'll have to do it if they're patriotic, dude.'

  I laughed. 'Don't worry, Vishaal,' I said. 'I'll be back. But I must say, for someone who made that famous Nike ad, you've become pretty superstitious...'

  'Don't mention that ad,' Vishaal said fiercely, 'my eyes had not been opened then. Now I'm like your Devotee Number One, Zoya.'

  And then he said, all in a rush, 'It was I who tore up your New Zealand visa, you know.'

  What?

  He went on hurriedly, without looking me in the eye. 'I was hoping they could win without you. I thought if they did, maybe my ad would finally see the light of the day.... Sorry, I didn't know you were a Goddess then.'

  I just stared at him, uncomprehendingly, as he shoved my bags into the elevator and mouthed a last sorry as the lift door closed on his face.

  ***

  I was standing in the lobby, waiting for the car and wondering if anybody was who he seemed to be, when a voice behind me went, 'Where d'you think you're going?'

  It was Nikhil. I quickly closed my eyes because if I couldn't see him, he wasn't really there, right?

  Then he said, 'Actually, don't bother to tell me. I know already.'

  I opened my eyes warily. 'You do?'

  He nodded, 'Sure. You're going home to shoot that Agarbatti ad, for which you will be paid the grand sum of fifty lakh rupees. You're going home to sign a bunch of contracts to endorse products ranging from HB pencils to small-sized cars. You're going home to talk to the Youth Congress about getting a ticket for the state elections...'

  I raised my chin. 'You're wrong,' I said.

  'Oh?' he asked.

  'It's the RJP, actually.'

  Khoda's mouth tightened into a thin line. 'Zoya.'

  'Don't you Zoya me,' I said. 'I've had enough of your goody-goody speeches, when all the time you've been sucking up to me to win matches.'

  He said, very slowly, like he was talking to an idiot. 'For the hundredth time, I don't need you to win matches!'

  'Really?' I said, breathing hard. 'When's the last time you won a match without me, huh?'

  'You're irrelevant,' he said bluntly. 'I don't need you.'

  'You're incompetent,' I shot back. 'You're nothing but a loser without me, that's why you want me to stay.'

  He said, in this really irritating, patronizing way, 'You know, you have some serious self-esteem issues...'

  I said, 'And you have a baby boy...'

  His expression changed. 'Where did you hear that?'

  'Never mind,' I said tersely. 'I know it's true so don't bother to deny it.'

  He gave a short laugh. 'Oh, I won't,' he said, his eyes glittering. 'Especially since you've been romancing Zahid behind my back and attempting to sabotage his rival Vikram. And you're the one rushing home to rake in the moolah, preying on the religious beliefs of a credulous nation...'

  I stared at him in complete incomprehension. What was he talking about? And where did he get that vocabulary? I mean, preying on the religious beliefs of a credulous nation? It was bad, even by his pompous Nike-ad standards. Wow, I said to myself, I am so well rid of this two-faced, opportunistic bastard!

  I hitched my red rucksack higher and turned to go, wondering where my shopaholic aunt had wandered off to.

  'See you Friday?' Khoda called after me, his tone betraying... what? Sarcasm? Guilt? Panic, that I wouldn't be back in time and he'd lose? I turned around and looked at him.

  There was definitely a question in his Boost-brown eyes.

  ***

  GREED OF THE GODDESS

  By Andrea Mehta-Meyer,

  (The author is a Wicca Witch of Indo-Dutch descent)

  The Straits Times,

  Inflight copy.

  The archetypical Goddess, says ancient Indian lore, was created by the gods to vanquish demons that the gods themselves could not defeat. The Sh
e-mother was a drunken, wide-hipped, bow-twanging, battle-loving warrior with rolling red eyes and a lust for blood. A million manifestations of herself emerged from her large swinging belly and battled with the demons, defeating them effortlessly. And no matter how thick the fray, she always kept one of her eight arms free to quaff a tankard or two of kick-ass celestial nectar along the way.

  When it was all over, the gods would scurry in with bowed hands, step fastidiously over the devastation and the spilt blood, interrupt her as she played happily with the severed heads of the demons, thank her and beseech softly, 'Now return to your abode, Goddess, return to your dwelling place. Remain there in slumber till we summon you again.' The Goddess usually returned. She had no great love for the Gods, they were almost mortal in their petty concerns. She had no taste for their little lives, full of mincing, hair-splitting rules about good and evil, dharma and adharma, right and wrong. The Goddess preferred to take a broader view of things. So she would return to her home in the mountains and stay there till they came bleating to her for help again.