Of Course, It's Butterfingers Again

by Khyrunnisa A

  The next morning, Eric met Amar at the bus stop. ‘Hey, Butter,’ he began, looking worried, ‘we forgot something very important. Where do we hide and watch? Behind a tree or in it? Can a tree hide me? Will there be trees at all there? And I’m not a very good climber.’

  ‘Not to worry, Eric. Let’s decide once we get there. We have to make do with what’s available,’ said Amar, ever pragmatic.

  What was available when they got there was a long mud wall. It ran around the whole area, which didn’t have a single tree in it. There was grass growing sparsely here and there, an odd bush or two, but otherwise, greenery was alien to the landscape. The boys could hear voices from the other side of the wall and they peered cautiously, like cats with a guilty secret. The girls were already there, rigged out in proper cricketing gear, playing cricket.

  ‘Dead serious, aren’t they, Eric, about their game? Quick, get your phone out!’ Amar whispered.

  ‘How about moving a bit?’ Eric, shorter and rounder than Amar, spoke from the corner of his lips, like a villain in a movie. ‘Let’s stand on that small hill; we might be able to see better.’

  They walked to a slightly elevated portion of the ground and, balancing himself rather precariously on it, Eric found the view more to his satisfaction. He set his phone on video mode and began to record the proceedings on the other side of the wall.

  ‘Aditi, your turn to bowl,’ an authoritative voice announced.

  ‘That must be Nayanika, the Wunder Woman,’ Amar whispered. They saw a tall, slim girl walk confidently to a short girl and hand her the ball. A bespectacled girl, who was practising fencing cuts and thrusts with the bat, settled down to face Aditi. Nayanika set the field and took her position at forward short leg. ‘Watch it, Purnima!’ said Aditi, who didn’t bother with a run-up and bowled a slow delivery that spun a little. Purnima went for a forward defensive stroke but got a faint touch on to the pads and Nayanika pouched the catch almost off the bat.

  ‘Wow, brilliant!’ Amar exclaimed. ‘They know their stuff. That Purnima must be the wicketkeeper. A Lilliputian. Nothing like that mammoth Shefali.’

  Nayanika padded up to bat next. Aditi’s second delivery went high over the extra cover boundary for an effortless six and the one that followed went all along the ground for a four. The next ball was also dispatched to the boundary while she neatly played the one after that for two runs. The last ball was lofted for another six. Aditi’s bowling figures were completely ruined.

  ‘Twenty-two runs in that over! She’s Wunder Woman all right!’ Eric gushed. ‘I got all her shots except the last one. Your head blocked my view, you blockhead!’

  ‘I’ll do the recording, midget!’ Amar grabbed the phone from Eric, who wasn’t pleased, but, balanced on one foot, wasn’t in the best of positions to show who was boss.

  Amar leaned forward, elbows on the wall for greater stability, and zoomed in on the action on the field. Another girl had come on to bowl to Nayanika. He had just pressed the record button when, without warning, Eric yelled, ‘Yeowch! Ants!’ The elevated portion they had been standing on was an expertly crafted anthill, and the ants, frightened by the unexpected employment of weapons of mass destruction on their dwelling, decided to retaliate in the only way they knew.

  Eric lurched towards Amar, and the phone flew from Amar’s hand and fell on the other side. Aghast, Amar draped himself over the wall, legs dangling in the air.

  The flimsy wall, failing this test of strength, gave way, taking the boys with it. They fell with a loud thud, fashioning themselves into an odd-shaped pyramid—the crumbled wall with the phone buried under it was the base, Amar lay spreadeagled on the ruins while Eric made a generous topping. As if that wasn’t enough, the ball whacked by Nayanika chose to land on the unfortunate Eric’s ample back, forming the apex.

  The girls followed the noise and the ball to rush to the heap and watched in fascination as, layer by layer, it came to life in slow motion. Eric was the first to slide off, ball in one hand and rubbing his back with the other. By some miracle, his glasses were still perched on his nose. Amar, seemingly flattened by Eric, lay immobile for a while. Eric forgot his pain to look at him in concern, while one girl tugged his hair and asked, ‘Hello! Are you dead?’

  Amar’s anguished response—‘Thuargh! Phthop ith!’—proved he wasn’t and, spitting mud from his mouth, he did a slow push-up to raise himself into a wobbly position. His shirt front was soil-stained and, acutely conscious that he was surrounded by girls, he began brushing the mud off his clothes and himself.

  ‘Who are you guys?’ asked Nayanika, setting the ball rolling for the inquisition. Questions flowed from all sides; it was a very democratic group.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Why did you ruin the wall?’

  ‘Were you spying on us?’

  ‘Where’s our ball?’

  ‘Why are you trespassing?’

  ‘Why don’t you slim down?’

  ‘Do you like eating mud?’

  ‘Shall we report you?’

  The last question attracted a quick reply: ‘No, no! Please don’t.’ Amar swallowed the rest of the mud and continued. ‘We’ll explain.’

  Nayanika looked at the boys, puzzled. ‘You look very familiar,’ she mused. ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before.’ She stared so long and hard that the boys began to feel very uncomfortable. Then her face cleared. ‘Got it!’ she exclaimed. ‘You, tall, thin boy, are Amar Kishen, the vice-captain of Green Park School’s cricket team . . . and you, short, plump boy, are . . .?’

  ‘Eric,’ the short, plump boy mumbled.

  ‘We’ve watched your matches on YouTube,’ Nayanika said.

  ‘Look!’ pointed Aditi, who had been digging into the ruins for the ball. ‘Here’s a phone. Or what started life as a phone.’ She picked up the pieces.

  Eric made a sound like a tortured animal. ‘Agh, no! Grrup! Give that . . . those to me. Here’s your ball.’

  ‘Ha! You know what? I suspect they were recording our practice session!’ said a ponytailed girl.

  The boys looked at her, annoyed.

  ‘I think you’re right, Malu.’ Nayanika set her lips in a thin line. ‘Why were you spying on us? That’s not cricket! You are cheats.’

  This charge stung and Amar responded with spirit. ‘Of course we aren’t. How dare you call us cheats! What about you, watching our matches on YouTube?’

  ‘That’s because you show-offs have uploaded them,’ Aditi retorted. ‘It’s for anyone to view.’

  ‘Well, not our fault if there’s no match of yours there,’ Amar replied. ‘We are open and frank. We have nothing to hide. You are sneaky, secretive. We had no option but to watch you play here.’

  ‘And record it for your friends,’ added Malavika.

  ‘Didn’t work,’ Eric muttered, looking ruefully at the remains of his phone.

  ‘Let’s leave,’ Amar whispered, and the two turned to take to their heels when a peal of laughter made them freeze in their tracks.

  ‘Hahaha, this is so funny!’ Nayanika laughed till tears flowed from her eyes and the other girls followed suit.

  Surrounded by the cackling girls, the boys exchanged uncertain glances. Amar, a firm believer in the saying ‘If you can’t beat them, join them’, smiled and very soon, he and Eric gave in to sheepish laughter.

  ‘Meet the team,’ said Nayanika and introduced the girls. ‘This is Kritika, the vice-captain and left-hand bat. Spinner but can bowl medium pace too. Meet Purnima, our wicketkeeper and a wizard behind the stumps. Malavika is our super batsman . . . by the way, we say batsman, I hope that’s okay with you?’ Without waiting for a response, she continued, ‘Gauri and Kaikasi are also batsmen. Vineetha and Nitisha are our deadly opening bowlers, Aditi and Nandika are our spinners. Zoya, Vidya and Aarathy are all-rounders. Nazia is a wicketkeeping batsman and Nandini bowls medium pace. And you?’

  ‘I’m Amar, batsman, and this is Eric, a spinner. I can bowl too and he can bat.’

/>   ‘Same with us; we can all bat, bowl and field. That’s what we need to do when we play Twenty20. And we play by the book,’ Nayanika continued matter-of-factly. ‘Length of the pitch: twenty-two yards. Number of balls per over: six. No short boundaries. Helmet, pads, gloves—we wear them all. Ball is the proper cricket ball and some of our bats are heavier than Tendulkar’s. No special favours because we are girls.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. No, no, of course not. Er . . . no . . . yes . . . um . . .’ Amar looked confused. He decided that discretion was the better part of valour, a quotation often used by Kishore to describe the countless escapades of his friends. ‘We’re leaving. Bye! Come, Eric.’ The boys took off.

  ‘Don’t you want to watch us play some more?’ Nayanika shouted after them.

  ‘But they can’t record it, UNFORTUNATELY!’ Aditi’s loud voice, accompanied by giggles and hoots of laughter, followed them till they reached the lane leading to the bus stop.

  ‘Messed it up, dude?’ asked Reshmi when the two dirty, sweaty boys joined the others, looking downcast.

  ‘Er, well, you could say we didn’t do too well,’ mumbled Amar. ‘And the recording went for a six, almost literally.’

  Eric held out the ruins of the phone.

  ‘Aw, that’s tragic!’ Minu commiserated. ‘But whatever happened?’

  When Amar and Eric described the events, their friends collapsed in laughter, much to the chagrin of the two boys.

  ‘I really don’t see what’s so funny.’ Amar made a face at Reshmi, who was wiping away the tears from her eyes. ‘You’re laughing just like those idiotic girls. We learnt one thing—those girls mean business. It isn’t going to be easy; that Nayanika is one swaggy player. Come on, more practice!’ So the rest of the day and the next were totally devoted to cricket.

  Jayaram came rather late to school on Monday, just in time for the assembly, but it was certain he had some earth-shaking news up his sleeve. Clearly it was happy news, for a silly grin was plastered on his face, irritating his teachers no end and intriguing his friends. But the class had to wait until lunch to hear it. As soon as the bell rang, Amar’s voice rang out, ‘Now out with it, Jay!’

  ‘Yep, you’ve been looking as if you’ve broken Brian Lara’s batting record on the sly,’ said Ajay.

  ‘Prithee, what new news hath Nila, thine beloved sister, the spy that lovest thee, brought to thine ears?’ asked Kishore, striking a dramatic pose.

  Amar clamped Kishore’s mouth shut with his hands. ‘Prithee, stop showing off, you pseudo Shakespeare, and let Jay tell us why he’s been grinning like an idiot.’

  ‘Great good news!’ Jayaram announced. ‘Nila tells me that Nayanika, the dreaded one, won’t be playing on Friday.’

  ‘What!’ There was a general exclamation of disbelief followed by a chorus of ‘Why?’ Kishore, whose mouth was free again, asked, ‘Prithee, why? Pray, sirrah, enlightenest us, and in haste.’

  ‘I believe her father, who was abroad, has come down and was shocked to know his daughter was going to play a cricket match against a team of boys. He thinks it isn’t proper and has forbidden her from playing.’

  ‘Awesome news! I love her nineteenth-century father!’ Amar clapped his hands.

  ‘Yes, three cheers for Mr . . . what’s his name?’ asked Kiran.

  ‘She’s Nayanika Sharma, so he must be Mr Sharma,’ Jayaram deduced.

  ‘Long live Mr Sharma! And all the Sharmas of the world!’ said Eric, punching the air.

  ‘Why all the Sharmas of the world?’ Thomas looked bewildered.

  ‘Because, because, that’s why. It’s going to be easy now! We should win like that!’ Amar snapped his fingers.

  ‘Hey, hey, guys! This is exactly what your Colonel Uncle wanted you to guard against,’ cautioned Reshmi. ‘How do you know the others aren’t as good as Nayanika? Anyway, Amar and Eric hardly saw anyone else play.’

  ‘Aye, thou dost speakest good sense, fair maiden.’ Kishore gave Reshmi a mock bow.

  ‘I’m sure there’s some truth in the reports that she’s the cat’s visitors,’ said Amar. ‘But yes, let’s not get complacent. To the grounds, all!’

  That evening at dinner, Amar was racked with twinges of his heavy conscience. He felt that winning against a team without its key player would take the gloss off the victory. Besides, he felt sorry for Nayanika. It was clear she had been looking forward to the match and he imagined how he’d have felt if his father prevented him from playing. But he knew his father would never do that.

  ‘I really think you shouldn’t play that match, Amar!’ Mr Kishen interrupted his son’s reverie and had no idea why Amar shot out of his chair like a cannonball.

  ‘What! Why?’ Amar blinked in disbelief.

  ‘Nothing. You’re spending far too much time on sports. You’ve to think of your exams.’

  Amar sat down and jumped up again, looking indignant. ‘Dad, how could you say this?’ A piece of chapatti flew out of his mouth. ‘The honour of Green Park is at stake. I have to play. I’ll study for my exams, promise!’

  ‘All right, Amar, calm down. And stop spray-painting the dining room with chapatti,’ said Mr Kishen.

  In class the next day, Amar realized he wasn’t the only one feeling guilty. Almost all the others felt the same. ‘Colonel Uncle wouldn’t have wanted us to win this way,’ observed Ajay, voicing everyone’s opinion.

  ‘Yes and, guys, I have an idea!’ Amar, who had been unusually quiet, broke his silence, the eureka-moment look on his face.

  ‘I’ve not yet recovered from the results of your last wonderful idea,’ Eric protested, feeling his back, still tender from the impact of Nayanika’s shot. ‘And my brother’s phone’s ruined forever.’

  ‘Stop whining, Eric. That was a useless phone anyway. Besides, we did learn something,’ Amar said. ‘And don’t forget that my body aches too, the way you landed on me like a giant meteorite from outer space. My idea is this: Why don’t we write a letter to Nayanika’s father, telling him how important this match is and how she is the key player on her team, that her school could lose the match and lose face without her? If we manage to convince him, he might allow her to play.’

  ‘And how do you plan to do that?’ asked Minu.

  ‘Who writes letters in these emailing and WhatsApping days?’ Abdul looked doubtful.

  ‘Do you really think he’ll listen?’ Reshmi sounded sceptical.

  Amar brushed all the objections aside and declared, ‘Anyway, there’s no harm in trying!’—the principle that guided most of his actions. ‘We can drop it in his letter box. First, let’s write the letter, and then we’ll plan the rest of it. Kishore, please help.’

  ‘Do you want it in Shakespearean English or . . . ouch!’ Kishore received a sharp kick from Amar.

  Just then, Sumay and Ishaan came rushing into the classroom. ‘Hey, guys, Sunderlal Sir’s getting mad. Come now for practice.’

  ‘We’ll join you soon,’ said Amar, and he and Kishore retired to a corner to write the letter while the rest left. After several attempts and many arguments, they finally came up with this:

  Dear Mr Sharma,

  This letter is from Green Park School’s cricket team. We hope you don’t mind us taking the liberty of writing to you. We have a request to make.

  On 15 March, we are slated to play a historic match against a girls’ team from Target School; this is the first time this is happening post evolution. It was the last wish of our school’s beloved benefactor, the late Colonel Nadkarni, that this match should take place. We had lost a match once to a team that included girls, and he felt that was a result of our overconfidence. He wanted this match to make us understand that girls play cricket as efficiently as boys, well, almost, and must be taken seriously. He chose Target School as our opponents since their team has the talent to defeat a strong boys’ team (we are talking about us).

  Your daughter, Nayanika, is the captain of Target School’s cricket team and she is awesome. She is an outstand
ing batsman, bowler, fielder and captain. We were shocked to learn that you don’t want her to play in this match. Taking her away from the team will mean Target becomes practically toothless. That would actually help us, but we wish to play a full-strength team, and that’s what our Colonel Uncle would have desired too.

  Please, please, Mr Sharma, she HAS to play. Please allow her to play. You will never regret it. One day she will represent India, she is that good. And we think the prize is tickets to the Ides of March concert. We want to attend very badly and we are sure the girls are equally eager, and that is going to make both teams give their best.

  We hope you understand the seriousness of this situation and give Nayanika permission to play. We will be eternally indebted to you.

  Thank you very much.

  Yours gratefully,

  Amar Kishen and Kishore Krishnan

  (For Green Park School’s cricket team)

  The two boys then sped to join the others at practice, ignoring the dirty looks that Mr Sunderlal gave them. When they went back to the classroom after the bell, Amar, spotting Miss Philo in the distance, read the letter aloud at supersonic speed. ‘So who is coming with me this evening to drop it in Mr Sharma’s letter box?’ he ended, as if offering them a seat on a rocket to the moon. Nobody responded and with Miss Philo entering the class at this juncture, he was forced to wait till the end of the period to cajole someone to accompany him. Finally Kiran agreed. Amar hunted for an envelope and retrieved a soiled specimen from the dustbin.

  Yet again Amar skipped practice to go on an errand of mercy. He and Kiran took a bus to the same place he had visited during his spying mission. They soon entered the lane where, according to Nila’s information, Nayanika lived. They read the nameplates on every pillar and gate till they finally came to the one that, in golden letters, read ‘S.S. Sharma’.