'The last one in the first row,' I said.
As we walked together past Morris' house, his older sister called me. 'Chandru!'
I left Ranga where he was and went in. He couldn't have helped watching Morris' sister talk to me, her hand on my shoulder. She wanted me to get her the latest issue of Picturegoer. This British film magazine could only be had from AH Wheeler's at the Secunderabad railway station. It cost four British annas, but Wheeler's sold it at a concession for four annas and four pies of our Hyderabad currency. Morris' sister handed me four annas and four pies.
As I took the coins and made to go, Laura came there looking somewhat larger than usual. Ranga couldn't have helped seeing her either from where he was standing. 'What man, where you going man?' began Laura. All the women in Morris' family ended their sentences with a 'man'. The only exception was Morris' eldest sister. I had the answer to Laura's question in my mind in Tamil, but stood silent unable to decide how to say it in English, 'house' or 'home'. Laura had always taken note of these dilemmas which left me tongue-tied, and found them rather amusing. So she shot another of her questions at me, addressing me again as an adult homo sapien. 'What's blocking that mouth of yours, man?' She then pinched both my cheeks, then pulled them apart and looked into my mouth. This again was something Ranga couldn't have missed seeing.
We left Morris' house and started for mine. Just then we had another vision thrown in—Pyari Begum standing outside her house which was next to ours. She was ticket-examiner Kasim's second daughter. In my house they called' her fat swine. I had no idea what this animal was. But Pyari Begum looked like a barrel with a sweet face. The final piece of luck, the great attraction, so to speak, was the presence of Nagaratnam in my house. Nagaratnam was my older sister's friend. She was popular among the Tamil families of Secunderabad and took part in the YMCA elocution competitions and danced at school functions. Nagaratnam's tantalising eyes seemed to ask one something. Strangers and acquaintances were fair game alike for her.
And so my stock went up with Ranga. He began to look me up every time he came to play cricket with Krishnaswamy.
For some days Ranga accorded all respect to the strained relations between Krishnaswamy's group and me, and refrained from bringing up the subject. Five or ten minutes was all he could spend at my house before he got bored. Then he would leave for his cricket and I would go looking for Morris, Wahab and the others. But the games I played with them were not the kind which improved with practice, except perhaps tip-cat. Monkeys-on-trees and marbles offered little scope for finesse and didn't sustain my interest for more than a few days.
So when Ranga said one day, 'Why don't you come with me?' I went along. Krishnaswamy and Ranga were the biggest boys in their group apart from the two uncles. These uncles were frequently absent, probably because they felt bored playing with youngsters. The ten or so boys of this group went to a vast open ground half a mile away. They took with them a single pad, a cricket bat, four stumps and an old cricket ball. It was practice cricket every day, with Krishnaswamy and Ranga leading the two sides. I sat under a tree the whole time and Ranga would come and say a few words to me now and again. Krishnaswamy and his brothers kept their aggression towards me in check when they found that Ranga treated me as his equal.
Although the charming Nagaratnam was a frequent visitor to our house and there were some other attractions besides Pyari Begum in the Muslim household next door, and a few things happened which gave people the impression that I was the confidant of all the Anglo-Indian girls in the first line Barracks, it was soon apparent that none of this was likely to benefit Ranga. For there was this business of the Muslim boys who lived on our first line. They had the habit of calling everyone 'sala'. No utterance of theirs began without a prefatory 'Kya be sala?' This word which connoted a liaison with the addressee's sister was not really applicable to Ranga—he had no sisters. Yet he never failed to bristle at the expression.
I introduced Ranga to Morris and Terence, and we even went to a film at the Tivoli with Laura. It was Ranga who had recommended this particular film, Shakespeare's Henry V, with Laurence Olivier in the lead. That is where he went wrong. None of us had reached the stage where we could appreciate Olivier. I myself was an old hand at sitting through a film even if I couldn't understand it. But Terence made a noisy fuss. He blew cigarette smoke on Ranga and me. He also kept up a constant flow of abuse. Laura kept biting into a palm tuber and spitting at the chair in front of her. She would have done it even if the chair had been occupied.
My being friendly with Anglo-Indian boys didn't bother Krishnaswamy much, but in Ranga's case he seemed to have taken some drastic disciplinary measures. One day Ranga gave up cricket and came to play monkeys-on-trees with my group. It fell to his lot to stand at the foot of the tree and protect the stick in front of the circle. The rest of us were on the tree and whenever he tried to catch one of us, some other boy would jump down, touch the stick and hurl it far. Ranga would then have to run after the stick. What a fall this was from his cricket where he lorded it over everyone! In our game he was at the mercy of a collection of hooligans – Morris, Terence, Sattar, Wahab – all hell-bent on seeing him humbled in the dust. I tried to give him a chance of Catching me by sitting in the lower branches of the banyan. But every time, before he could reach me, another boy would come gliding on a hanging root and touch the stick.
I saw Ranga cry that day. This boy who always appeared cheerful, whether in college or at the bus-stand, playing cricket or travelling in a bus, was now crying, not outwardly but within. One look at his face and you heard the silent scream. This however only served to boost Morris' and Terence's sadism to a vandalist ferocity. They kept throwing the stick over the compound wall onto the street. During one of his retrieval jumps over the wall, Ranga tripped and fell and hurt himself badly, but his bleeding knee earned him no respite; he was forced to carry on playing.
After this incident, I didn't expect Ranga to speak to me. But he did come home. (Here the gravitational pull of the Pyari Begum–Nagaratnam combine should not be underestimated.) As for this game of monkeys-on-trees, I had had more than my share of hurt and harassment, though what Ranga had to take was nothing compared to what was dealt out to me, I felt sorry for him. He was older than me, more experienced. Which was really why I went readily with him when he asked me to Krishnaswamy's and his brothers' cricket field. At first I sat watching the whole time, and spoke only to Ranga. A few days later, I picked up a ball that came my way and threw it back to the players. One day when it was nearly dark, Ranga called me to the pitch and asked me to bat. After that it didn't take me long to become a part of their team.
The fact that I had rejoined Krishnaswamy and his brothers after a feud stretching over several years brought me special status. Normally I would have been treated on par with Krishnaswamy's younger brother Balu, who was in my class. But now protocol demanded that I be considered Ranga's equal. Even Balu kept away from me.
In the earlier phase of my cricket, during its good old Santanam era, it was possible for me to have illusions of being an expert. Not any more. Here before me were a set of devoted practitioners of the game. They had put in long hours of sustained practice. Krishnaswamy was good both with the ball and the bat. As for Ranga, he had great style, but his batting was poor. Krishnaswamy's brothers, Balu and Goku, were both splendid bowlers, especially Goku. Three balls in every over he bowled came straight to the middle stump.
During my first few days in this group it was invariably Goku who bowled to me. Most often his very first ball would come straight for my wicket. Within the few seconds it took for the flying ball to reach me, I was fairly certain that it wouldn't fail to hit its target. Yet I would make an effort with my untrained limbs and body to stop it, conscious of a crippling sense of inadequacy, anger, sorrow, despair and anxiety. And then I would wait for the crash which was sure to follow in the next split second when the leather-covered sphere of five and a half ounces struck the metal-capped pieces of wood, and I was s
eldom disappointed. The loud cheers that followed the fall of other players were not heard when I was bowled, only remarks like 'Bad luck' or 'Better luck next time'. All because I was close to Ranga, and Ranga was the equal of and in certain respects better than Krishnaswamy. My cricket, however bad it was, drew very guarded comments because of my exalted position. But being considered Ranga's equal had its problems as well. It deprived me of the coaching which is the privilege of a young novice. For me the daily drill was: go in to bat – face Goku's ball – get bowled out – hand the bat to the next player and leave. That was all. Ranga's friendship for me, however, was not contingent on my expertise or lack of it in cricket.
Meanwhile, Morris' eldest sister became thinner and thinner. Terence ran away from home and then returned. A big explosion in Bombay harbour claimed a large toll of lives. Many buildings were damaged. A Parsi family in Lancer Barracks claimed that during this explosion, a block of gold descended through the roof of one of their relatives' houses in Bombay. A collection was started by Kalki magazine in Madras for a memorial for the poet Bharati at his birthplace Ettayapuram. The contributors' list was published for months on end in this magazine. Two lines recorded the efforts of my father and two others in our city in this cause. Madras and Tiruchi stations began to be received in the evenings on our secondhand GEC radio set, fragmented by crackling static which got worse every day.
In the Regimental Bazaar, a vegetable shop, a grocery and three flower stalls were destroyed. All these stood opposite a small mosque. The police fired three rounds in which a boy was hit below the knee.
Krishnaswamy got an apprentice's job somewhere in the north.He quit his studies and within a week had quit the place as well. Ranga and I became the leaders of our two cricket teams. We had three Telugu boys playing with us now. We harried them outrageously and spoke to them only in Tamil, though whenever they talked about the fear that pervaded Hyderabad and Secunderabad those days, we listened intently.
Goku continued to get me out with his fourth or fifth ball. It was then that a few Muslims began to practise hockey on our playground. They kept directing their white ball towards us. One day Kamesh, a boy in our group, picked it up and threw it away. At this the whole hockey group converged upon us with raised sticks. They hit Padmanabhan on the head, drew blood and fled from the place. We hoped that as he was a high official, Padmanabhan's father would do something about it, but he didn't. We kept away for the next two days. But when it transpired that the hockey group hadn't turned up for play either, we resumed play. We didn't want to abandon the place when we had spent money preparing a good pitch there. Ranga's bowling was spectacular at the time.
After Krishnaswamy left, our group played a match with a rival team with Ranga as captain and me as vice-captain. The other side was all out for 81 in the match. We played next. Our score was 77 according to their score book, but 102 according to ours. It was Ranga who had written down the score most of the time. The other boys set up a cry of 'Cheating!', 'Cheating!' and asked Ranga to sign. Before I knew what was happening, our team had run away from the field and Ranga with them, leaving me to cope. As vice captain I was forced to sign in the book. I wrote an illegible 'Ramaswamy' instead of my real name. I was out for a duck as usual in that day's match. There had been a Goku in the rival team as well!
One day Ranga announced that he was leaving Secunderabad, and then his family left the place. Ranga never came back.
And I became captain of our cricket team.
3
Chandru pedalled home at full speed. As he approached the Raniganj railway bridge, Narasimha Rao stretched out an arm and stopped him. 'Where are you coming from?' he asked Chandru in a voice taut with anger.
'Cricket practice.'
'Where?'
'At the college.'
Narasimha Rao spat out scornfully. 'Thoo!'
'Why "thoo"?'
'Aren't you ashamed to play with those half's?
There was a time when Chandru didn't know what the 'half' referred to. It was Morris who had enlightened him by making a Muslim boy take down his shorts.
'Well?'
'Nasir Ali Khan is the captain, isn't he?'
'So what?'
'Thoo!'
'Let me move on now,' Chandru said. 'It's dark and I don't have a light on my bicycle. A lot of people are being caught for it these days.'
'Is that surprising?' Narasimha bristled, 'When every single policeman here happens to be a Muslim. It's only we Hindus who are booked for all these things. Invariably. Do any of these bastards, these Razakars, bother about their bicycle lamps and all that? Are they ever caught for it? And think of all those people who roam the streets with swords and knives. Are they rounded up by the police? Never. But here you go blithely playing with these people. The times aren't made for play, can't you see that, you fool? And by the way, do you know, you boot-licker of Nasir Ali Khan, that his father offers military training to the Razakars?'
Chandru was amazed at Narasimha Rao's easy arrogance, the presumption that everyone else was an ignoramus. It was not as if Chandru had been ignorant of the activities of the senior Khan. Why, he'd seen the whole family. He'd never been able to think of Nasir's sister as a mere human. As for the father, there was something extraordinary about his personality too despite his huge moustache, bloodshot eyes and sheer bulk. Nasir, however, had the rare gift of the common touch. Along with his arrogant and commanding manners, he had a graciousness that allowed him to mix easily with humbler people like Chandru. He had had a taste of it today at the nets. What had happened was this.
Nasir had called out 'Next!' but the player at the net continued to bat. After he hit two balls, Nasir bellowed out in English, 'Get out!' Without waiting for any further orders, Chandru walked up to the net and stood before the wicket.
He had never practised cricket like this, surrounded by nets on three sides, like some animal in a cage. A strong rope-net some six foot high had been stretched between the four poles at the corners of a flattened 'U', the opening being meant for the bowlers to bowl from. The net was not tied tight and it flapped continuously, distracting Chandru as if someone was clapping to call his attention. Luckily for him, the first bowler was slow. The ball pitched some ten feet in front of him. He tipped it but the ball went ripping through the air, perhaps because it was hit at a crucial angle. The next ball bore down fast upon him and nearly struck him. He raised his bat in self-defence and hit it. This deflected the ball which soared away but was stopped by the nets which began to sway furiously.
After that, during those alarmingly endless minutes of play, he was unable to block or drive properly. The stumps fell twice and he was also hit by a ball on his thigh.
Any moment now, Chandru was expecting the captain's words, 'Next batsman!' All his illusions about his prowess at cricket lay shattered after the first minute. This game was not for him. A man born to the game would play well under every circumstance and with everyone. Every game is a journey towards a destination, and a good player completes it quickly, confidently, unhesistatingly. But he must also have an intuitive knowledge of the game or should have acquired it through practice so that he plays it with every part of his being, every cell in his body. To watch Nasir play was to realise this intense communion between the player and his game. Whatever had made Chandru get himself so foolishly trapped in the nets today? The three bowlers had almost certainly vowed to themselves to shatter him to smithereens today. Why was it that even the slow bowlers had turned so vicious? Net practice which had appeared so easy from the outside, had turned into a horrid experience. But the flip-flap of the net and the unremitting attack of the balls had not deterred the boy who had played before him. He had not been flustered. In fact he had been eager to continue in the face of the captain's displeasure. He could, poor boy, have been asked to play some more. And where was the need to make me bat anyway, thought Chandru. Having already refused to bowl, there was no way he could refuse to bat when asked. Nasir might easily have r
ounded on him and asked, 'Why the hell did you come then?' Here is Sundar Singh bowling again. The friction between him and me is of long standing. Something always happens to aggravate it. First there was this thing about the tickets. I had sold a few tickets for our college play to four of Sundar Singh's neighbours. He seems to have approached some people later with his quota of tickets and found that he couldn't sell any. So he came and shouted at me. Then there was the business of Padma Sivarao. Padma Sivarao was the only reasonably good-looking girl in our science section. The science section as a rule never attracted more than five or six girls. During the practical sessions, each cupboard in the laboratory had to be shared by two students. Sundar Singh and Padma Sivarao were a diad at first, but later she asked for a change of partner. Perhaps she was put off by Sundar Singh's sideburns. She was timid by nature. Possibly it was some defence mechanism at work. Anyway it was I who was chosen to replace Sundar Singh, though there must have been thirty names between mine and hers in the attendance register. Sundar Singh's chagrin is evident in every ball that he bowls at me, savagely aiming at my head. He keeps it up, intent on denying me a breather. This wretched mat spread on the ground seems to have joined the conspiracy against me. It hasn't been nailed down properly. A big tear on its bumpy surface just where I stood keeps tripping me up. Here comes another ball, from another slow bowler this time. The ball goes up in an arc, curves down and spins off at an angle – an easy one to play on other days – but now it sails past me. My bat is nowhere in its path. This is net practice, it isn't meant to just block the ball without taking any risks, as may happen in a match. Everyone is keen to tackle every ball, however well bowled and difficult. That boy who played before me, what a ferocious hitter he was! And here I stand, trying to block the ball and failing. Here's Sundar Singh again. The rascal, the blackguard. I wonder who chooses these people to bowl. The same person who asked me to bat, I suppose. If Sundar Singh persists in aiming at my head with a full toss every time, his chances for a place in a team are rather slim. Maybe, that's why he is enjoying himself here. Everyone is. I should too if I weren't like a mouse in a trap. Here is another ball coming straight for the wicket. It shouldn't be a problem. Left foot forward, bring the bat down and the ball ought easily to take off for extra cover. Hell, it's gone. I'm clean bowled again. In a real match, one would have been spared this humiliation of continuing to play. Once out, the batsman can leave the field. With nets, one has to set up the wicket oneself and begin to bat again. The ball escapes the bat, hits the net, and then comes the most humiliating part—I pick it up and toss it back. There's no point in playing like this. Am I practising to bat or to pick up the ball? Here comes Nasir himself to bowl. His bowling resembles mine somewhat. If I had trained with good players from the age of five as he had done, and like him, had had no thoughts but cricket on my mind every minute of my life, I could now have been bowling like him, or even better. No, perhaps not. Because even the minutest movements of a good player should be infused with the game. That is what is lacking in me...Here comes Nasir's ball, pitching far off. Meant to be hit with the body swinging on the well-planted right foot, and a sure boundary at square leg. But no, I swung the bat a bit too early before the ball could reach me, and—splat! What was that hitting my thigh? Nasir said, 'Sorry, dost.' Nothing for him to be sorry about. Sheer incompetence on my part. But then I had captained the team for a whole year, hadn't I? And been quite successful at it. Though it was a mixed team of young and old, and only three could boast of some sort of cricket boots. I myself had played barefoot for four months before I had a pair of boots made for twelve rupees. Cheap, wasn't it? Not much to look at, though. How could one expect anything better from the cobbler under the tree. But the boots were quite comfortable...This tear in the mat keeps tripping me up. Here comes another ball from Nasir. Must play it well. Thank God I was able to block it, but then I was blocking a ball which ought to have been smashed with a powerful swing. Now it's a shortie bowling, not bowling, just slinging. He wouldn't be allowed to do that in any match. His ball always comes rolling over the ground. Wonder how he manages it. Like Ramanathan in my old team whom we called 'the ground ball roller'. Curses. Another miss. I won't come for net practice in future. Never. But then how does one get into the college team without any net practice? Might have been possible if one had proved oneself beyond doubt and had won recognition outside. Nasir has certainly proved himself. And yet, look at him here today, fielding and bowling like the rest of them. Is it a sign of overconfidence that he hasn't yet come to bat? Or is it just self-restraint—that as the captain he must be careful not to take any undue advantage? He allots the other boys their turns at bowling and batting, often choosing the most unlikely players. Look at this now, a lot of boys got no more than four or five balls, but this Sundar Singh has been at it for hours. It's been hell. How does one escape a ball aimed at one's head in this cramped net? There's room enough to save your head, just. Even great players must have gone through a spell of training in a similar cage. I've watched some of the big names myself here on this very ground, always watched with a welling desire to play myself. That was one reason I put up with that unruly team, with Balu, Kamesh, Goku, Ramanathan, Aleck...Now this Sundar Singh is bowling exactly like that Venkatesh. They must get their rice from the same grocer. Now this ball here. I drove it to the right, but it went somewhere else. Nasir bowling again. The ball comes sailing through the air humming with its spin as it comes, and pitches exactly six inches in front of me. Ought to have hit it before it touched the ground. Failing that, one could have pushed it off with a forward tilted bat placed just at its pitching point. A dangerous ball this. Should be warded off. sure to get bowled otherwise. Nuisance of it, why is it that my hand foolishly swings the bat? Bowled! Won't this Nasir ever call out 'Next batsman!'. Has he decided to keep me in this cage forever and subject me to every indignity in the game? This is perhaps his way of asking me, more or less, 'How dare you come to play with the likes of us? Playing with a rag-tag team for a year doesn't qualify you for a place in the college team, understand?' Is he humiliating me in public? I shall never play here. Not with these snobs. Never. Never. Never. These lords and nawabs and their games are not for me. Not at all...
The Eighteenth Parallel Page 4
