Across the Line

by Nayanika Mahtani

In a makeshift cricket pitch, Inaya did warm-up stretches along with the dozen or so other girls who were also trying out for the tape-ball league.

  ‘Will we really get to play in a league tournament if we’re chosen, Inaya?’ asked Fariha, breathless with both excitement and exertion.

  ‘Yes,’ Inaya grunted, between stretches. ‘But we . . . only have . . . one chance . . . to impress . . . the selectors . . . We need to . . . give it all . . . we’ve got . . . in the next few weeks . . . ’

  ‘That’s the easy bit, Inaya. But if we’re selected, will we have to go to Karachi for the actual matches?’

  ‘No, not Karachi . . . London . . . The league matches . . . are in the UK . . . ’ she wheezed.

  Fariha’s face fell.

  ‘I can’t try out then,’ she stopped halfway through a deep squat. ‘I’ll never be allowed to travel abroad on my own—and that too to play tape-ball.’

  ‘I felt that way too, at first,’ panted Inaya, continuing her sit-ups without missing a single beat. ‘But then I thought . . . if everyone else was going to be writing my life’s story, what was I even doing in that book?’

  ‘Huh? What are you on about, Inaya?’

  ‘All I’m saying is . . . what’s the point of . . . all the breathing in and out, Fariha? Why not do something . . . that actually counts?’

  Inaya sprang to her feet from her last sit-up and thumped Fariha on her back.

  ‘I need to work on my cover drive. Are you ready to bowl?’

  Inaya picked up her bat and raced on ahead, swinging her torso from side to side. Fariha took a deep breath, reached for the taped tennis ball lying next to her, spun it into the air and neatly caught it. She ran on to the field behind Inaya; the spring was back in her step.

  Blue-Black Nothings

  New Delhi, India

  ‘How did you get that nasty bruise on your tummy, Jai?’ asked Arathi, as Jai changed into his pyjamas for the night.

  Jai hurriedly buttoned his shirt.

  ‘It’s nothing, Ma,’ he muttered.

  ‘Well, that’s the biggest blue-black nothing I’ve ever seen,’ said Arathi. She lifted his shirt and scrutinized the bruise.

  ‘Is someone at school hurting you, Jai?’ she asked, frowning. ‘Is it that Muslim fellow? Rustom what’s-his-name?’

  ‘Rustom is my best friend. You really have to stop thinking that all Muslims are bad, Ma.’

  Just then, Badi Ma walked into the room and began rummaging through Jai’s things.

  ‘Where could they be?’ she muttered under her breath. Arathi, who was still clucking over the bruise, barely noticed her mother-in-law in the room.

  ‘This is not about what I think, Jai—this is about you. I hope you aren’t quietly putting up with people inflicting bruises on you, shoving you aro—’ She suddenly noticed her mother-in-law, ‘—ask Badi Ma. She has had to put up with so much because of those people.’

  Both Jai and Arathi looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Ah, there they are,’ said Badi Ma, picking up her spectacles from the dresser. ‘It makes such a difference when you see the world through the right lens.’ She sighed deeply and sat down on the bed beside Jai.

  ‘I was just saying to Jai—’ began Arathi.

  ‘The Muslims suffered just as much as we did during the Partition, Arathi,’ interjected Badi Ma softly. ‘Sometimes, when I hear about people who had to leave India and go to Pakistan, I feel like I share something with them that perhaps not even my own family will understand.’

  This was definitely not the first time that Jai’s grandmother had broached this topic, but she usually left off without completing her stories.

  ‘Why were you so saddened by that diary and pouch we found, Badi Ma?’ Jai asked.

  Badi Ma was quiet, as if riding some spiral of memory. Then Jai saw her shut the windows to whatever there was in her past. It was a look he knew only too well. It meant there would be no more information coming.

  ‘Did you read that diary, Ma?’ asked Arathi. ‘What did it say? Any clue to whom it had belonged?’

  Badi Ma hesitated for a split second. Then she fiddled with her hearing aid, as she sometimes did when she wanted to sidestep a question. ‘Isn’t it time for that wildlife show that Rajan and you watch every week, Arathi?’

  Arathi glanced at the clock.

  ‘You’re right. Thanks, Ma—what would I do without you?’ Arathi gave Jai a quick kiss on his forehead. ‘Sleep tight, Jai—and remember, give as good as you get, okay?’

  Jai nodded in outward agreement, knowing fully well that the last thing he could get away with was punching Ansh and gang in return. The very thought was ludicrous. They would beat him to a pulp after that. End of story.

  ‘Do you want to tell me how you got hurt, Jai?’ asked Badi Ma, as Arathi left the room.

  Jai said nothing. He sat there, pulling at the dry skin around his fingernails.

  ‘Well, I guess I should also go and change for the night,’ said Badi Ma, standing up to leave.

  ‘I know your hearing aid battery is fine, Badi Ma,’ said Jai, looking up at his grandmother. ‘Why didn’t you want to answer Ma’s question about the diary?’

  Badi Ma refused to meet his eyes.

  ‘If I tell you who punched me, will you tell me why you are sad?’

  Badi Ma turned to look at him, tenderness in her gaze. ‘Okay, tell me about that bruise,’ she said, sitting down again on the bed beside him.

  Jai quietly told his grandmother about the four boys who had been bullying him for the past few months. When he finished speaking, Badi Ma looked him straight in the eye, ‘Why do you think they pick on you, Jai?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . Maybe it’s because I . . . I don’t like playing sports. I’m fat. I like cooking, drama—that’s stuff they sneer at. They don’t like me because I’m . . . not like them.’

  Badi Ma let out a long breath. ‘Let me tell you a little story, Jai,’ she said slowly. ‘There was once a little boy called Tarlok. He looked a lot like you, in fact. And like you, he was also gentle and kind. But one day, some mean-spirited people were very nasty with him.’

  ‘What did they do, Badi Ma?’ asked Jai, looking up earnestly at his grandmother.

  Badi Ma looked as calm as she usually did, but beneath the surface, Jai could almost hear her thoughts flailing like trapped birds. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, but then she turned to face Jai.

  ‘Just like those bullies did with you, they ganged up on him and attacked him for being different.’ Badi Ma stopped abruptly. Her mouth felt parched. Like the words had dried up.

  Jai nodded. ‘Then what did he do?’

  Badi Ma was quiet. Just when Jai thought she would say no more, she spoke again.

  ‘He fought them with all his might, Jai—he was the bravest little boy there ever was.’

  ‘Was?’ Jai mumbled. ‘Who was he? Where is he now, Badi Ma?’

  ‘He is . . . was my little brother, Jai. He’s no longer with us. But if he were here, I know that he would say, “Jai, don’t be a pushover. Ever.”’

  Jai was grappling with the fact that, in all his life, Badi Ma had never mentioned her brother before. She barely spoke of her parents either, for that matter. All she said was that they had died when she was barely ten years old and that she was brought up by her grandparents.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a brother, Badi Ma. What happened to him?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ sighed Badi Ma. Jai reached for her hand.

  ‘Please tell me the story, Badi Ma,’ he pleaded.

  Badi Ma looked at Jai’s young eager face and gently caressed his forehead. ‘It happened a long time ago. The year was 1947,’ she began.

  ‘The time of the Partition?’

  Badi Ma nodded. ‘Yes. It was August 17th—just a few days after India became a free country. We lived in Rawalpindi, which is now in Pakistan, as you know. Tarlok and I were playing pithoo in the little gully outside our house.’

  ‘Pi
thoo? As in seven stones?’ His mind boggled at the idea of his silver-haired grandmother as a little girl racing around, hitting seven stones with a ball.

  Badi Ma’s eyes glazed over. She could see the scene almost as if it had happened yesterday.

  ‘And then?’ prompted Jai.

  Badi Ma looked lost, like a little child. She was struggling to find the will to step into the past; to venture into the dark crevices of her mind that she had not dared re-enter for a lifetime.

  Jai was looking at her, in much the same way Tarlok would. Patiently waiting for her to finish whatever she was doing—whether it was piling the pithoo stones or fetching her doll to referee their game.

  A tear, suppressed for decades, rolled down her cheek. Badi Ma wiped it away discreetly, hoping Jai hadn’t noticed. But he had, of course. ‘We don’t have to speak about it, Badi Ma,’ said Jai, most uncomfortable at seeing his usually resilient grandmother cry.

  Badi Ma smiled weakly. ‘I think it’s time that we did, Jai,’ she said. ‘I think Tarlok would have wanted you to know about him.’

  Jai nodded gravely. Badi Ma’s eyes, greyed with cataract, took on a faraway look.

  ‘Tarlok was a fearless little fellow. Not scared of anyone or anything. Even though he was four years younger than me, he was the braver of the two of us. We were playing pithoo that evening and . . . and a mob of very nasty people from a neighbouring village . . . ’ Badi Ma’s voice broke, as she groped to find the words and strength to continue, ‘They, well, they attacked Tarlok. But he didn’t give in. He fought with all his might—bravely pushing them away, even though he was only six years old, and they were armed with knives and sticks and axes . . . ’

  She stopped, unable to speak any more. Jai put an arm around his grandmother, hugging her tight. Although Jai’s head was swimming with questions, he knew now was not the time to ask them.

  ‘I wish I could go back and change what I did that day. How I wish I hadn’t left him there alone . . . ’ she broke down in stifled sobs—as if even releasing her grief fully was a luxury she couldn’t allow herself.

  Badi Ma’s quiet tears wet her sari forming a dark patch where they fell, her shoulders heaved as she wept. Jai sat beside her in silence, wishing he knew what to say or do to make her feel better. ‘I’m sure you would have helped if you could have, Badi Ma,’ said Jai, finally. ‘I wish I had a sister who loved me like you love your brother. He was very lucky.’

  ‘No, Jai. Luck left his side a long time ago,’ said Badi Ma, almost inaudibly. ‘Every single day I wish that it was he who had lived, not I.’

  Selection Day

  Rawalpindi, Pakistan

  Inaya’s alarm clock was yet to go off, but she was wide awake. In fact, she had been awake for almost two hours because today was Selection Day. The excitement had staved off sleep, which was pretty annoying because she knew that to perform well, she needed to be well rested. There was no point trying, however, so Inaya jumped out of bed. As she brushed her teeth, she spoke to her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Today ish da day dat will dedermine de resht of your life, Inaya Haider,’ she declared, through the foam bubbles, before rinsing. ‘Okay, maybe that is overdoing the drama a bit, but still, today really matters. So, make it count.’

  Rousing pep talk done with, Inaya quickly got ready and skipped down the steps, three at a time, to get herself breakfast. The sun hadn’t risen. The world lay asleep—the deep silence punctuated only by the occasional birdcall. Inaya went to the kitchen, brought out the egg and milk cartons and expertly cracked two eggs into a cup of milk, making sure that only the yolks dropped in. She had read somewhere that Jhulan Goswami also had her eggs like this. She was busily stirring the yolks into her milk, when Humaira entered the kitchen to have her sehri. She looked most alarmed at Inaya’s breakfast preparations.

  ‘Should I make you an omelette, Inaya? Why are you having raw eggs like this?’

  ‘They’re full of strength, Daadi. I need it today.’

  ‘Ah, it’s Selection Day, isn’t it? Best of luck, my kishmish. May the whole world always be yours,’ said Humaira, kissing Inaya on her forehead and then wrinkling her nose at the smell of the eggs in her glass.

  ‘Abba doesn’t know about this, Daadi . . . ’ began Inaya, as she collected her kit to leave.

  ‘I’ll manage your Abba, don’t you worry,’ assured her grandmother. ‘Go, play your best, Inaya.’

  Inaya smiled widely, hugged her Daadi, whispered a thank you and raced out of the door.

  Nabeel Said, an attractive woman in her forties, was dressed in an elegant shalwar kurta, with a jamavar stole wrapped around her head. She walked to the middle of the cricket pitch tossing the tape-ball high up into the air and catching it expertly, which seemed almost as incongruous a spectacle as having a llama wander into a local department store.

  Nabeel stopped in the centre of the field where the three dozen or so girls had gathered for the trials of the tape-ball league. Standing at the back of the group, Inaya watched her keenly. Nabeel looked at their anxious but excited faces and smiled.

  ‘I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to see you all here today. And even before the trials begin, I want to tell you that each and everyone one of you is a hero. Just for coming this far. Because I know the courage it takes to break through the walls we’re up against.’

  The girls gaped at her in unadulterated awe.

  ‘But,’ she continued, ‘together, we’ll tear those walls down. Bit by bit. Won’t we?’

  The girls looked at each other and mumbled a feeble ‘yes’. ‘My grandmother’s old nanny goat has more enthusiasm than that, girls. Come on, let’s have some junoon here. Won’t we?’

  The girls grinned and produced a resounding ‘yes!’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ smiled Nabeel. ‘Let’s quickly go over the rules for the league tournament. The league format will be eleven-a-side, eight-overs per innings with no fielding restrictions. No bowler can bowl more than two overs. As you all know, there is no leg before wicket rule in tape-ball.’

  Nabeel tossed the ball to one of the girls and cupped her hands, indicating that she should throw it back to her. As she tossed the ball to one girl after another, Nabeel kept speaking.

  ‘A few tips, for what they’re worth, from someone who has never had the chance to play but has loved the game. Can I bore you with them?’ The girls nodded eagerly, unused to anyone actually bothering to help them with their tape-ball cricket, in any way whatsoever.

  ‘Okay, so you can defend 12 an over, but 15 is better and you should aim for scoring 20,’ said Nabeel. ‘We all know that tape-ball cricket favours the batter given the shorter boundaries and the fact that one can’t really get the ball to spin, but a tape-ball can be made to swing both conventionally and in reverse, especially as it gets older. So, I’d like to see all you bowlers work on your pace to get your yorkers right—we want them to be blindingly fast and late-swinging. But, watch out for the pitfalls. Don’t let tape-ball tempt you into using a slinging action. Else, you’ll be disqualified from the league.’

  The girls looked at each other, nervous about the high expectations of them and overawed by the attention they were getting from this very accomplished lady, who was a celebrity in her own right.

  ‘Some last words of advice. Those of you who get selected today are going to be up against international players—and to compete with them, peak fitness and total dedication are essential. So, either take this seriously and give it everything you have or quit right now. We cannot afford to drop this ball of opportunity.’

  Just as she said that, Inaya who had been paying more attention to Nabeel’s words than to the ball, fumbled and dropped the ball that Nabeel had thrown her way. Inaya’s face flushed with embarrassment as she bent to pick it up. She felt like such a goof. Of all the days in the world, why did she have to drop the ball today, just when Nabeel Said had told them that it was the one thing they should not be doing?

  Mean
while, Nabeel was waiting for Inaya to throw the ball back to her. As was everyone else. Inaya flushed an even deeper shade of pink, sensing all eyes on her.

  ‘And if you do happen to drop the ball,’ continued Nabeel, with the hint of a smile, ‘just pick it up and throw it again. Never stop believing—that’s the most important thing.’

  As Inaya tossed the ball back to Nabeel, she stole a glance at the other girls. Some of them seemed to be having second thoughts about this venture.

  ‘Also, I forgot to mention,’ said Nabeel, ‘There will be a cash prize of one lakh rupees for the winning team, as the tournament is being co-sponsored by Haris Telecom. In fact, all the matches will be relayed on their cable television networks.’

  The girls could barely believe their ears. This sort of support for tape-ball or for that matter, any sport for girls, was unheard of.

  ‘So, if we get selected, will people in Pakistan be able to watch us on television?’ asked Fariha.

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ replied Nabeel.

  ‘I can’t take part, in that case. My family would disown me,’ Fariha said, crestfallen.

  Nabeel looked around at the group. ‘Do you know what my biggest regret is?’ The girls were all ears, hanging on to her every word. ‘That I didn’t even try—because I let fear get in the way.’

  Nabeel looked pointedly at Fariha, who still looked unconvinced. ‘There will always be obstacles. They can either stop us. Or challenge us to try harder,’ said Nabeel. ‘The choice is ours.’

  Nabeel smiled at the group. ‘I know that you all have it in you to succeed. Now go on, show the world what you’re made of.’

  Elated, the girls sprinted off to get kitted up for their game. Whether or not they were selected, they had gained something invaluable today.

  Hope. And a champion to spur them on.

  We’ve Got News

  New Delhi, India

  Like most days, Jai got off the bus, trudged home, unlocked the front door, dropped his satchel, kicked off his shoes and was about to head to his room when he heard voices in the living room. He walked in to find that his parents were already home, which was very odd, given what workaholics they were.