At least Nikhil hadn't called off the Black Cats, I thought with a pang, maybe that's a sign that he believes in me....
***
The morning of the Final dawned eerily silent. New Rohtak Road was quiet. The truckers had obviously shacked up at some dhaba to catch the match. I was still fully on Aussie time so I woke up at around six a.m., which was okay, because the matches started around seven India time. When I emerged into the courtyard, rubbing my eyes, calling for tea and basically trying to act like my life wasn't in ruins, I found Eppa supervising four Black Cats who were carting our big old TV into the courtyard. 'Kair-phul, kair-phul,' she was yelling bossily. 'Sambhal ke!'
'What's up?' I asked, trying to smile and look bubbly.
'They also vants to vatch the match, Zoya,' Eppa said, jerking her head at the Black Cats who smiled at me bashfully. 'So your daddy has said, phull house vill votch phynal match, here in the aangan only.'
She packed the Black Cats off to go carry the sofas in, and scurried off to stir a massive cauldron of suji ka halwa.
'Indian brakefast, today!' She beamed at me as I followed her into the kitchen. 'Halwa puri. Okay?'
I nodded and hitched myself onto the kitchen counter, trying not to think about the breakfast huddle that would be happening right about this time at the Conrad in Melbourne.
Zoravar emerged just then, and hopping up from behind Eppa, shoved his great horny fist straight into the sizzling halwa cauldron. Eppa shrieked that he would burn himself and so of course he gave us a long lecture on how a soldier's hands were lethal weapons, weathered and toughened, and how he could strangle people with one steely fist anytime he liked. He dropped one hand onto the back of Eppa's scrawny neck, massaged it gently and asked her if she wanted to test that statement. She reminded him dourly that he used to kick and scream for all his single-finger-prick blood tests when he was a kid and that he shouldn't talk so much.
The family trooped in then, Mohindar and Anita in their tracksuits from the Ajmal Khan Park; Rinku Chachi, in her RINKU 10 tee shirt, and G. Singh straight from their bedroom looking deliciously bonded; and Yogu and my dad from the roof where they'd been hanging out with the Black Cats.
'Most of the crowd has left to watch the match,' Dad reported.
'They must have figured that even if you flew there in your own celestial chariot now, you'd never make it in time for breakfast, Zoya,' Yogu added, rolling up a puri and taking a large bite.
'They'll be back if we look like we're losing,' Zoravar warned, grabbing the squishiest sofa and manoeuvring his leg onto a little stool. The Black Cats murmured in agreement as Gajju flicked on the TV.
I felt totally nauseous when I heard the roar of the home crowd. The stadium was a riot of green and gold. Then the camera zoomed to a close-up of Beeru's familiar face under a jaunty light-blue turban, talking to a trio of groundsmen. He turned to the camera, grinned brightly and said, 'Well, the bears here have produced a Goldilocks of a pitch, Jay! It's neither too bouncy nor too dead. Neither too grassy nor too worn, neither too damp nor too dry. In fact, they've been assuring me, that it is' - he held the mike to the three grinning groundsmen and they chorused into the mike - 'jusssst right!'
Beeru asked, 'Still, what would you do if you won the toss?'
The oldest groundsman lost his grin, pulled at his earlobe, thought about it for a while and then said dourly, 'I'd bat first, mate.'
Beeru started to ask him something further, but suddenly, we lost them. A bewildering flurry of logos flooded the screen in quick succession accompanied by a rushed announcement: 'This-pitch-report-was-bought-to-you-by-Zing! - this is the young nation baby; Navratan hair oil - thanda-thanda-cool-cool; Vodafone - you-and-I-in-a-beautiful-world; Fair-and-Lovely - a-fairer-complexion-in-fourteen-days; Nero Tasha - desh-ki-dhadkan; Videocon - the-official-appliance-provider-to-the-World-Cup; and Samsung - we-are-in-the-team-too!'
Sony Entertainment Television was obviously raking in the moolah big time. When the ad break finally got over, some seven minutes later, they cut back to the match where the cameras were focused on Miss Toinnngg clad, not in her trademark Panghat sari-choli, but in a pink spaghetti top, sporting oversized dark glasses, a sleek ponytail and lashings of lip gloss.
'And that ravishing lovely lady, Jay, unless I'm very much mistaken, is the skipper's sweetheart.'
'Well, yes, Beeru, and while everybody says there's nothing official about the relationship, we have been hearing that there's a wedding on the cards soon. Let's hope her presence here doesn't distract him today.'
'Are these people commentators or gossip columnists?' Dad grumbled, shuffling around in his seat, while Rinku Chachi looked at me with large stricken eyes. He glared at the TV and shouted testily, 'Cut to the toss!'
Very obediently, the cameras cut to Nikhil and the chubby-faced little Aussie captain shaking hands at the pitch, their tee shirts fluttering a little in the breeze. When the umpire asked them formally what they had selected, Nikhil crossed his arms across his chest, looked frowningly down at the grass for a bit, then said, 'I'll take heads.'
The Aussie captain shrugged. 'Tails,' he said.
The portly umpire tossed, the coin flipped high up in the air and landed.
'Tails it is,' announced the umpire and my heart sank. The Aussie captain grinned happily and said he'd put the Indians in to field first. Nikhil nodded, his lips tightening a little. Once off the field, the commentator started quizzing him about losing the toss and whether he anticipated more bad luck during the match.
Nikhil told him dismissively that this wretched debate had gone on for far too long. 'We're focused, we're talented. We're hungry to win. If there's an "X-factor" operating today, it's just a burning need to prove that our side has been winning consistently not because of luck but because of ability.'
The commentator nodded vigorously and they cut to an ad break. I could feel the whole family looking at me out of the corner of their eyes. I couldn't take it any more.
I got up abruptly and said, 'I'm going to my room. Call me when it's over.'
My phone beeped as I lay in bed, head buried under the pillow.
Are you watching?
It was Nikhil.
I rolled over on to my stomach and wondered what to write back, my heart slamming madly against my ribs. I wanted to write, Do you really think I'm a materialistic bitch? I wanted to write, Why'd you tell Goyal about us? I wanted to write, I love you! I love you! I love you!
So of course I wrote, Oh hi, aren't you going out to play?
No, he wrote back.
No? I wondered looking at the phone screen blankly. What did that mean?
And then, another message flashed:
I'm going out to win.
He hates me, I decided then and there. He thinks I'm some money-minded cow who deserted the team at the penultimate hour. God knows what the snake Jogpal had gone back and told him.
I sat in my room and brooded. Every time the family cheered or groaned, I felt physically sick. I did emerge to watch bits and pieces of the Aussie batting. I watched horrible Vikram Goyal shuffling down the pitch and Zahid, loping about like a large cat, getting a couple of wickets. Laakhi was as cheerful as ever, clapping his gloved hands together, 'adjusting' himself, cheering them all loudly even as Nikhil chewed gum and basically stood around at second slip looking like the grimmest, most intense Boost ad ever.
I'm going out to win, he'd said to me and he looked like he meant it. In my crazy, screwed-up state I almost wanted him to lose.
'I'm-going-out-to-win,' I repeated in a squeaky mocking little voice. What an uncool, over-the-top, filmi thing to say....
The Aussies efficiently put together an impossible total and then they broke for lunch. The extended Solanki family had a working lunch of puri aloo and sat down to watch India ki batting with their hearts in their mouths. The atmosphere was electric, worse than in any of the matches I'd seen in Oz, and I don't think it was all because it was, you know, the defanged Raktdan
tini's family home. I mean, by the kind of ads that were rolling out on the TV you would think the country was going to war or something. So much breast-beating, sloganeering, chanting, chest-thumping, teary-eyed praying and supplicating...the manic dhak-dhakking of a billion brown hearts was completely deafening. It was jingoism at its naked over-the-top-and-wallowing-in-it best.
The day before yesterday, some megalomaniac billionaire had run an ad saying that if the team brought home the World Cup, he'd give all eleven of them five lakhs each and the man of the match fifteen lakhs. It was so stupid. Did he think the boys weren't trying their best already? This morning he'd run another ad, upping the five to ten, and the fifteen to thirty. Well, it was one way of not feeling too bad if India lost...at least he'd save 140 lakhs!
The stock market had totally lost the plot. Stocks were booming at crazy unrealistic prices. There were news flashes crawling along the bottom of the screen predicting a stock market crash if the team lost.
Then another news flash crawled along the bottom of the screen to say that the Vidyut Board office in Navi Mumbai had been trashed by an irate mob because the light had gone three times during the first half of the match. The Vidyut Board was pleading with the public to remain calm, that the electricity would come back soon. How they expected people to read the crawlie on TV if they had no electricity was beyond me.
And some hardcore fan who'd gone on a no-food-no-water fast the day India made the Super 8s and vowed to break it only after we won the final had just been admitted into hospital because of an irregular heartbeat and a generally weakened condition.
Anyway, the reason I was reading all the crawlies was, of course, that I was way too tense to watch the batting. It wasn't going too well.
Jay and Beeru kept adding their irritating comments. Beeru especially kept harping on the fact that I wasn't there today and how badly the Aussies had behaved, and that it was disgraceful the way they'd gained a psychological advantage over the Indians because of their nagging and their cries from the stands. He sounded fully hysterical, actually. I wondered if he'd bet money on the outcome of the match.
Jogpal-the-choot was watching the match too. Sitting next to Rawal-the-creep who had his arm in a sling. He kept shaking his head and sucking in his breath and wincing in a I-would've-handled-that-better kind of way. Just looking at them made me feel all murderously, bloodthirstily, tooth-grindingly Raktdantini again.
'C'mon, Khoda,' I muttered, looking at him sitting all padded up and ready to go in the players' balcony. 'Win this thing.'
***
The mob came back around three in the afternoon.
It created a commotion by our front gate, listening to the commentary on the radios of parked cars. The squawking of the hysterical, over-descriptive radio commentators and the matching-matching grunts and groans of the crowd infiltrated into the aangan, sending Zoravar hobbling to the window to investigate. The Black Cats leapt smoothly to their feet and took up their positions all along the boundary wall.
The Indians needed to make twenty-two runs in two overs. It was doable, of course, but this was Team India we were talking about. These guys had lost every ODI final they'd played, in the last seven years.
The mob's agenda was clear. If it couldn't burst any firecrackers that evening, it was at least going to smear the greedy Goddess's face with gobar. Then, of course, it would trawl the city, drown its sorrow in bad liquor, deface the hoardings of every product the cricketers endorsed, maybe even torch a cola truck or two. Sensing the mood outside, the Black Cats went into a huddle and started fine-tuning their eviction plans. Meanwhile, on the TV screen Khoda and Thind were on the pitch, looking snarly, scowly and fully fuck-you at the roaring Aussie home crowd.
'It's anybody's match still, isn't it, Beeru?' Jay said as the Aussie speedster hurled a wicked-looking delivery at Thind who eased it away casually for a four.
I couldn't hear what Beeru said because Gajju and Yogu whooped and chest-banged so hard they fell about on the sofa and had to drink a glass of water each. Yet another ad break came on then and we watched bemusedly as Hairy and Shivee extolled the virtues of a particular brand of razor with a triple-blade shaving action. And then back to the action, where Nikhil had the strike. He got a single off the delivery and then Bullabullaroo Butch struck on the very next ball and Thind was out and India was down to its last cookie in the jar. They cut to another quick ad break which, ironically, had Thind and Hairy again, dancing some moronic jig for a brand of multi-flavoured, multicoloured, choco-candy, and then it was back to the match.
I wondered who the last man in was and suppressed a major groan when I saw Vikram Goyal's hairy, chubby little form loping onto the pitch. Khoda ran forward to meet him, spoke to him urgently, slapping him on the back so hard he almost buckled over and then, there he was. His pendulous lower lip between his teeth, Vikram Goyal faced the scariest moment of his life.
Zoravar groaned, 'I can't watch.' He hobbled to his feet and went to confer with the Black Cats about whether we should clear out of the house or barricade ourselves behind the stoutest door. Gajju and Yogu sat one behind the other, muttering: 'C'mon, Vikram, C'mon, Vikram,' even as Anita Chachi and Rinku Chachi took up the Gayatri mantra in quavering, desperate voices.
'C'mon, Vikram,' I whispered under my breath. 'I hope you win the World Cup, asshole!'
Vikram practically ran forward to meet the ball, a set look on his chubby baby-with-pubic-hair face, hoicked it up into the air and hit out blindly before taking off for a run. And another. And another. The Aussie fielder at cover sprinted after the ball, picked it up and threw it hard at the stumps. The keeper reached for it but it eluded his gloves and before anybody could react, the ball was off and rolling away. Five runs!
Somebody screamed. Me.
I screamed and yelled and whooped with glee. Now all we needed was three runs off the last two balls.
Vikram almost ruined it for everyone, including himself, by nearly getting out on the next ball. Thankfully he managed to scramble to the other end somehow, collapsing with relief at having managed to successfully hand the strike back to Nikhil.
The bowler took the longest run-up I've ever seen anybody take, even as the fielders closed into a tight circle around the pitch. I closed my eyes...tensing and clenching involuntarily...and opened them when everybody groaned.
No ball.
Looking a little shaken, Bullabullaroo Butch started his run-up again. Khoda's eyes were mere slits in his dark, grimy face as the ball pitched really high and came on to the bat. He went for it. I closed my eyes again....
And opened them to find he'd hit it away and was running for the last vital run.
He made it. Almost. As he ran in, bat fully out, the wicketkeeper swung the ball at the stumps and knocked the middle one over.
Deathlike silence.
The manic dhak-dhakking of a billion brown hearts.
And the portly umpire indicated for the third umpire. As the entire stadium held its breath, Nikhil Khoda threw down his bat and sprawled onto the grass, panting lightly, looking up at the scoreboard with slit, glinting eyes, his body unnaturally still with a painful tension. I shut my eyes tight.
God, please let him win. He deserves to win. He'd better. Please, God. Think how cost-effective it'll be. I mean, why stop at making a few crummy million souls happy, when you can make a round billion delirious with joy? Please, God. If India loses, the mob outside will probably lynch me and why would you want me to get lynched so young? Please, God. Let Nikhil win because this country needs a hero not a Goddess.
I opened my eyes. The light flashed.
Not red.
Green.
And all of us exploded into a massive, riotous celebration.
Nikhil's face had that blazing exultant look again as he leapt up and raced, screaming hoarsely down the pitch to lift Vikram off his feet. They collapsed onto the grass, laughing crazily. And then the rest of the gang poured out onto the field - Zahid, Hairy, Shivee an
d the rest of the team, Weston Hardin, and with constipated smiles on their ugly mugs, Jogpal-the-choot and Robin-the-creep....
Jay ran out with his mike to talk to Nikhil.
'How d'you feel?' he yelled above the din.
Nikhil stopped thumping Zahid madly on the back, grinned into the camera, looking heartbreakingly handsome, and said, 'Happy.'
It was at that point that Rinku Chachi burst into tears and ran out of the room. Me, I just sat there, happy for him, suicidal for myself.
Jay was saying laughingly, 'C'mon! That's not enough! Say something more!'
Nikhil, with Zahid and Hairy hanging off each arm, thought a little, then said, 'Uh...I'm very, very happy,' he grinned. 'I think I already said that. So okay, hang on, let me think....' He paused for a moment, while Jay, the entire team, and one billion Indians glued to their TVs looked on at him indulgently. Then he looked up at the sky and shouted, 'Thank you!' He took a deep breath and said into the mike, 'The boys have performed brilliantly. It was truly a team effort. Vikram was superb, Laakhi, Zahid, Harry...all of them! The Australians have been brilliant hosts.' (The stadium cheered.) He waved out to the stadium, then looked into the camera and said, 'And I'm glad the viewers got to see a match that was exciting all the way to the last ball.'
The Zoya Factor Page 40
