Finding the Unseen

by Taj63622

  Chapter 17

  The less experienced in the affair of traditional weddings will now come to learn that the bride and groom are assigned the smallest, but the challenging yet, roles of merely turning up on the day of their wedding. Family members from both sides seize the associated chores, while the groom endures the wedding chaos in the single hope of gaining the delayed prize of his bride, and the bride is unable to voice her choices, unarguably agreeing to those her family makes. It was the custom of the country. It was inappropriate for a bride to show eagerness or excitement towards her marriage, and voicing her choices was a prominent sign of disobeying the customs. In this restriction and a heart heavy with thoughts of separation from her family, the bride would not pass on opinions about the arrangements of her wedding.

  He also thought it wise to let his mother do as she pleased. To escape talks of weddings and exchanges of gifts, he stole away onto the grounds before his house.

  He believed a late morning game of cricket was in order, despite football being his sport of preference. The broadcasters, consisting of his two cousin nieces and three nephews, aged between five and ten quickly spread the word of tournament throughout the neighbourhood. Children from local households quickly took up the invite of Shah bhai’s tournament, expertly converting the front yard of his house into a cricket pitch.

  He and his team of miniature punters return to their fielding position, as the next batsman comes forward. There was a mix of both sexes in each team. His ten-year-old cousin niece took up the Umpire position. She knew all the rules of cricket despite her sex, while one of the local boys employed the commentator’s position.

  There are merely nine runs left to decide if his team will win. If his team should lose, then his reputation will not only suffer before these youngsters, but also under the witness of that audience, who secretly watched from their homes. Many of these witnesses were his female admirers who, having conjured some excuse or other, were able to catch a glimpse of the London return hero, whose focus was so much on the game that he was unaware to the attraction he was unknowingly inciting amongst his selective viewers.

  ‘And we seem to have ran into a problem,’ the commentator informs. ‘An unexpected call has deprived Team Bangladesh of its final player. Tension is mounting, with Team England suddenly gaining an upper hand. . . ’

  ‘Baba,’ his Umpire niece calls him.

  Brought up in a family that affectionately called him Baba, his nephew and nieces addressed him the same, although by relation, they ought to call him Shah Sasa.

  He goes over to her to learn the cause of the rising tension. ‘The two traitors, Soiful and his brother,’ she informs, clarifying the name, ‘have been called home by their mother. They were the remaining batsman, so the team has become short of a player. Shall I let the team use a dismissed player instead?’

  The suggestion seemed sensible enough, and he would have agreed without hesitation had he not caught sight of a plausible substitute. This substitute has been watching the whole game from the side, cheering at the success of both teams, whenever it was due. Unlike the other children, the boy could not be a player. The neighbourhood knew him as Polo. His name is the pronounceable version of his condition. The boy had Polio, reducing him to seek the lifelong support of a crutch.

  Fate had struck him unfairly. Those, who could afford it, took the vaccination against the illness. Unfortunately, Polo belonged to a poor family. His parents’ illiteracy made them unaware to the fatalities of the illness. Perhaps unknowingly, but they sacrificed their son's future by not taking a simple means of prevention. The harm done, the boy’s father then lamented over his foolishness, not because his son fell victim to the incurable disease, but he disabled his support of a most prized sex. Two years later, Polo had a sister. His father had reason to lament again. Thinking lowly of the inferior sex, he was negligent to take the necessary precaution to prevent repeating a similar misfortune. With the worse done to his son and his own fate, what purpose was there to his daughter's wellbeing. “Let her die,” he would shamelessly declare. “It will save me from expenditure”.

  By good fortune, he was on one of his visits home, thus these accounts fell under his direct witness. The father’s neglect had infuriated him severely. In possession of a brother’s compassion, he took the initiative to have the child properly vaccinated.

  It is unfortunate that not all complaints have remedies. Simple prescriptions can treat illnesses, but the expensive route of education alone can overcome one’s infected thoughts. Polo’s father continued to worry for his own future, wondering who will look after him throughout his old age. In his effort to secure a comfortable future, he became the father of two more daughters. He cursed his wife's inability to deliver him a son. Not a day passed without an audible argument coming from that particular household, disturbing the whole neighbourhood’s peace. He took to drinking. It made him violent. The neighbours have given up hope to better him. His poor wife and children alone bear his aggression.

  ‘Discussion,’ the commentator announces, ‘between the Umpire and our Captains seems to be finding no solution to the sudden unfolding of events. What will happen now? Will the Umpire adjourn the game or suspend it completely. They have two minutes to decide before the Umpire rules timed out. . . ’

  He looked carefully at Polo. He was not naïve to overlook the boy’s yearning to play. The boy's smile and cheers of encouragement had a hidden but known sorrow.

  ‘Baba?’ his niece calls, waving her hand before him in the hope of retrieving her lost uncle. ‘We’ll offer Tanvir another turn,’ she suggests. ‘He only managed one run earlier. I’ll call him,’ but he stops her quickly. He picks up the bat, walks across the field to offer Polo the bat.

  ‘Aha,’ the commentator adds in delighted tones, ‘there appears to be a solution. The game will continue, saved by . . . We have a new face. . .’

  The boy rightly looked puzzled by Shah bhai’s gesture, his eyes darting from the bat to Shah bhai. He fearfully shook his head, declining the offer, understanding too well of his inability to live up to the team’s expectation. But Shah was resilient against the boy’s refusal, obstinately nodding towards the bat. ‘Shah bhai,’ one of the boys from the batting team addresses him, ‘how can we let him play! He can’t run!’

  He did not react to the child’s insensitive remark, focusing more on encouraging the Polo to take the bat. ‘Will Polo accept the challenge?’ the commentator asks dramatically. ‘Can he be the reason that Team Bangladesh walks away in triumph? Or will he be the reason to their defeat...’

  Suddenly everyone's attention is upon him. Some looked at him encouragingly. Others looked at him as if they had lost game already. There is less than a minute before the Umpire declares timed out. He looked at Shah bhai’s determined face. He could not disappoint his believer’s faith.

  ‘Polo accepts!’ the commentator cheerfully announces.

  A round of applause spreads around the pitch. With the support of his crutch, his heavy steps take him to the wicket line. He scanned the dusty grounds, absorbing the numerous faces glaring at him. Some peered at him uncertainly, and others in great hope that his disability will ascertain their victory. Either way, many relied on him. Furtively, he often practised batting, but the mounted pressure was almost threatening to disable his arm too. He struggled to find his balance, the offending crutch making his hold on the bat difficult. In irritation, he releases it completely, balancing his entire weight on his healthy leg alone.

  ‘We have nothing to worry about,’ he overhears an indiscreet comment passed between the two fielders behind him. ‘He’s lame. We might as well be declared the winners now!’

  Remarks like this were common to his ears, especially when he bears the constant dose of it from his father. Yet, each time it renewed the realisation of his invalidity. He looks at Shah bhai, hoping he can communicate his desperation to retract from the game, but an encouraging nod from him was enough to recov
er his hopes. If there is defeat, then let it be the result of trying.

  ‘A tense silence blankets the cricket ground,’ the commentator says, being the only person talking. ‘The bowler prepares to strike. It doesn’t seem as if he will take compassion on the batter’s visible state of health, or maybe he will,’ he contradicts himself, realising the bowler slowing down earlier than necessary in his run-up. The bowler threw the ball, spinning perfectly on its axis as it cuts through the dusty humid air. Every person observes it in a trance. Polo kept his gaze fixed on it too, deliberately replaying the overheard sniggers in his thoughts so to encourage him. The ball comes closer and closer, and . . .

  ‘And we have a hit!’ the commentator blasts in disbelief.

  Polo batted with such force that the ball stayed suspended in the air long enough so that the saying, “never underestimate your opponent” had perhaps no better opportunity to demonstrate its truth. The eyes of every disbelieved and aghast observer travels an elongated arc as the ball escapes the boundaries of the pitch, landing there in the far distance. The Umpire automatically assigns six points, while the fielders fall into a state of flurry to retrieve the ball. The members of the batting team cheer on, encouraging the runners to score quickly. But where his fellow runner quickly reached his end of the wicket crease, he did not manage to get far away from his. The fellow runner waited impatiently for him to reach the opposite wicket crease, but he found walking without his crutch almost impossible let alone run.

  Shah watched apprehensively between the fielders and the invalid. Suddenly, forgetting whose team he was on, he leaps into the invalid’s aid, carrying him in his arms and completes the runs on Polo's behalf. ‘That’s cheating,’ one of the defence voices his objects.

  ‘Play on,’ the Umpire commands, secretly hoping the runners make the necessary runs.

  ‘The fielders have retrieved the ball,’ the commentator informs, his voice carrying every ounce of excitement. ‘Four runs is all that is needed to decide on the winners . . . The final two remaining . . . Can our players make it . . .’

  Breathless, the fielder watches the runners threateningly, striving to reach the wicket line with the ball firmly in his grasp. His struggles were close to fruiting . . .

  ‘And score!’ the commentator confirms as Polo touches the bat onto the crease merely seconds before the ball knocks the wicket out. The Umpire confirms the winners. The winners erupt into cheers, praising Polo the invalid, while the audience around them applause. Shah hoists Polo onto his shoulder so he stood the tallest.

  This commotion had enticed Shumi to come out onto the veranda. She noticed nothing but muddy stains on her son’s white shirt, which she only gave him this morning to wear. He was invited to lunch at Sabina’s in-laws’ house. The original invite was for the whole family, but with so much wedding arrangements to resolve, she had to decline.

  ‘Look at this,’ she remonstrates coming onto the porch, and tugging disapprovingly at his dirty shirt, while the punters wisely disperse. 'What will Sabina’s in-laws think?’

  ‘What will they think?’ he says in apparent confusion. ‘They will think I have taken my country’s blessing before I seek theirs.’

  ‘Well, before you do go to display this blessing, make sure you make a stop by the sweetmeat stop.’

  ‘Why, are the gifts from London not enough that I should take them sweets as well?’ he humours.

  ‘We are from the girl’s side,’ his mother explains. ‘The more we gift the groom and his family, the happier they will keep your sister. I’ve made a list of what sweets to buy.’

  She makes a start to walk into the house, when another important thought stops her again. ‘Oh, and make sure you change out of this blessing,’ she gestures towards the sandy stains on his shirt.

  It is of little worth here.