by Khyrunnisa A
At the end of the twelfth over, Green Park was comfortably placed at 96 for 3, and it looked like the match would end in another five overs. And then began the great Green Park collapse. For no good reason, Arjun, after bringing up the hundred for Green Park, decided to bat one-handed to Zoya’s gentle medium pace and the tennis-like lob was taken with ease by Purnima. He had made 45. He doffed his hat, bowed and strutted off, blowing kisses to everyone on the field.
‘Imbecile!’ Mr Jagmohan muttered, embarrassed, not daring to look at his guests. But the spectators loved it and cheered him all the way to the pavilion. One girl screamed, ‘I love your hair!’
Jayaram joined Abdul, and began cautiously, seeing off the next few balls. Nayanika now came on to bowl leg spin, sending in a beauty of a ball to Abdul that started on a leg stump line before dipping, turning and dislodging the off stump. ‘Great ball,’ he acknowledged with a nod and walked away. Nobody knew if the thunderous applause that followed was for his sweet knock of 38 or for the ball that knocked off the bail.
‘That, my dear friends, is the ball of the twenty-first century, similar to the Ball of the Century bowled by Shane Warne to get Gatting, who was batting, out decades ago. The best ball ever!’ Kishore rhapsodized, his love for cricket getting the better of his desire for his team’s victory.
Eric got two runs off the next ball but spooned an easy return catch to the bowler. Kiran fell to the next ball and suddenly it looked like Green Park was in trouble. Amar was padded up and chewing his nails in agony, but decided to send in Mitra. Mitra denied Nayanika a hat-trick but was plumb lbw to the next. Eight wickets down for 105 runs with six overs to go and 34 to win.
Amar came in, and he and Jayaram steadied the rocking ship with some sensible cricket, keeping the scoreboard ticking with singles. When the last over began, Green Park needed 9 runs for victory, with Jayaram, on a compact 18, facing Nitisha. The first ball was a no ball, and the next, a free hit, was dispatched to the boundary. Four runs to get off 5 balls.
‘Easy! We’ll romp home! Boy power! Man power!’ Kishore waggled his hands.
‘Shut up, horse power! Donkey power! Are you the school’s clown?’ snapped an anxious-looking girl. Piqued by the slight, Kishore shut up.
The next delivery, well outside the off stump, was left alone but Jayaram got a nick to the ball that followed, and Kaikasi, standing at first slip, dived to her right to take a brilliant catch. Three for victory, 2 balls left and the last man, Jithin, was at the crease. There was a strange silence all around, broken by Mr Jagmohan’s anxious bleating, ‘That Amar! How does he always manage to get into these heart-attack situations?’
Amar went over to Jithin and the two spoke for a bit before Amar returned to his crease. Nitisha glared and bowled a fast ball. Jithin managed to get a touch to it and ran a lightning-quick single. Two to win off the last delivery.
Nitisha took ages to get to her bowling mark. The whole team surrounded her with advice while Amar and Jithin had a midwicket conference. Finally, she was ready. Nayanika set the field and Amar took his guard and waited, watchful. He expected a yorker but Nitisha bowled a short ball, wishing to lure him to hit out and get out. He sent the ball whizzing towards the midwicket boundary with Aarathy racing towards it.
The grounds rang with excited advice from the spectators: ‘Run, Amar, run!’, ‘Run, Jithin, run!’, ‘Get the runs, boys!’
‘Run, Aarathy, run! Get him out!’ shrieked a girl.
Amar ran one and turned for the second, both boys flying like the wind between the wickets. ‘Butter, don’t drop the bat!’ someone yelled and it quickly became a chorus.
The grounds reverberated with the alert. Amar heard this. He finished the second with his bat tightly gripped and he waved it over the crease. He turned and, sprinting to Jithin, hugged him; they had got the 2 runs required! The rest of the team rushed in to chair them. The grounds rang with cheers, catcalls and applause. Aarathy, meanwhile, had run in with the ball and whipped off the bails in frustration. Purnima appealed, ‘Out! And look, a run short!’
She pointed to Mr Sunderlal, who, standing at the bowler’s end, appeared to be performing gymnastics. He was tapping his shoulder with his fingers to signal a run short. He also lifted the other hand’s finger to signal ‘Out’. Now everyone stopped celebrating and all eyes were focused on the umpire. Raging arguments and counter-arguments began.
In his excitement, Amar hadn’t grounded his bat at the popping crease to complete the second run; neither had he stepped into the crease. He was a run short and, oblivious to it, had been celebrating way out of the crease when the bails were removed. He was given a run-out and his team was awarded only the first run. Green Park was all out for 138 runs and the match was a tie. Mr Sunderlal gave Amar a reproachful glance. Amar dropped his bat in embarrassment.
‘Idiot Amar, why didn’t you drop the bat inside the crease?’ his supporters now changed their tune.
Mr Sunderlal and Ms Anuradha went to the pavilion to consult the others. The spectators waited anxiously for the decision. At last, Mr Jagmohan took the mike and there was a hush. Reading from the hastily scrawled notes he had made, he announced, ‘I am told that tired . . . er . . . tried . . . sorry, tied Twenty20 matches these days are decided by a bale-out or a super nova.’
Some titters greeted this, prompting him to check his notes. He continued. ‘Er, sorry, I meant a bowl-out or a super over. But for this match such a rule had not been made. Besides, everyone here, and we have some very special guests with us, feels that this is the best possible result for an excellent match. So the trophy, sponsored by, er, Firework Woodwork, will be handed to the two captains now and the company’s representative says arrangements will be made to donate another trophy soon. Please get ready for the prize distribution that will follow shortly.’ He sat down, wiping his face, pleased he hadn’t got anything wrong, while the representative of Woodwork Furniture looked around suspiciously for the rival sponsor.
The Green Park team got over their initial disappointment and began celebrating. Everyone, including the teachers, Manas, Jayaram’s sister, Nila—who had come to the grounds with her tuition friends after school—and some cricket-loving parents who, hearing about the match, had come out of curiosity, joined in the general mood of joy.
‘Who are the special guests Princi mentioned?’ Amar looked around. ‘I was so engrossed in the match that I didn’t notice the new faces in the pavilion.’
‘Man, I hope there are enough Ides of March tickets for all,’ Arjun mumbled, looking uncharacteristically worried.
‘Yep. I’m waiting to see the Heebee Jeebee Russel, the Cool Cat Arpitha and the others in action with the cricketer musicians,’ said Eric.
The ceremony began with Mr Jagmohan congratulating all the players on an excellent game of cricket, a ‘hummingbird of a game,’ as he called it.
‘He means “humdinger”.’ Kishore laughed.
‘The game of cricket is the winner,’ the principal declared. Indignant, Arun protested to his friends, ‘Both teams won, and Princi gives the credit to cricket!’
‘Now the principal of Target School will say a few words.’ Mr Jagmohan sat down, as always relieved to have something solid under him.
Mrs Priya said she’d be brief and everyone applauded in approval. ‘I’m so glad that the last wish of my dear relative the late Colonel Nadkarni has been honoured, and how! The exciting match between our girls and your boys proved that our girls are a match for the boys. Gender equality has been restored.’
‘Whatever that means,’ whispered Jayaram to Abdul.
‘We have two very special guests with us today and they will hand over the trophy to the captains.’ She paused. ‘Mr Sunil Gavaskar and Ms Mithali Raj!’
‘What!’
‘Really?’
‘Where?’
‘Lovely!’
Exclamations of astonishment, elation and excitement followed. Everyone craned their necks to get a view of the legendary ope
ner and the captain of the Indian women’s cricket team.
A thunderous ovation greeted Sunil Gavaskar when he took the mike with a happy smile. ‘I’ve never watched such a match in my life, and I’m delighted and privileged to have been here today. My hearty congratulations to each and every member of both the teams for an enthralling, high-voltage cricket match,’ he enthused.
Mithali Raj was welcomed with deafening applause. She smiled charmingly and her opening words, ‘I can’t help this, but three cheers for the brilliant girls!’ kept the applause going for a while. ‘They played fantastic and, without any special concessions, almost defeated the boys. Women’s cricket has a very bright future. And my heart goes out to Green Park’s captain, who made the error of not completing his run properly. Such things happen and we should thank . . . what’s his name? . . . Amar Kishen, for helping the match end in a tie, the perfect result for an absolutely wonderful match. Great bowling, awesome batting, superb fielding. And yes, fine wicketkeeping. Congratulations to all of you!’
Amar and Nayanika came forward, shook hands with Gavaskar and Mithali and received the trophy jointly from both. ‘You can hold the trophy, I might drop it,’ Amar whispered to Nayanika.
Mr Neel Nadkarni, the cousin that Colonel Nadkarni had been visiting in London when he passed away, now spoke. ‘Like Priya here, I’m delighted my cousin’s wish has come true. He was very keen that his boys should respect the cricketing skills of girls. He was equally keen that the match should be on 15 March.’
Kishore winked at the others. The students flapped their ears, waiting to hear about the Ides of March. Instead, Mr Neel Nadkarni said, ‘The fifteenth of March is the birthday of my cousin’s mother, Dena Nadkarni, my aunt. She was an admirable woman, a strong, enlightened lady who believed in women’s education and women’s rights. She was a genuine feminist, much before feminism became so widespread. She is no more, but in her memory, her son, the late Colonel Nadkarni, wanted the girls vs boys match to be played on 15 March—so appropriate. We have planned to give a mug with her picture on it to each participant, and I’d be very pleased if Ms Mithali Raj and Mr Sunil Gavaskar hand over the gifts to the teams.’
The faces of the boys fell as the narration went on. ‘What!’ Amar sounded disbelieving. ‘Colonel Uncle’s mother’s birthday!’
‘Such a simple explanation!’ exclaimed Kiran. ‘That ass Kishore and his ides-of-March theory!’
‘To think the prize is a mug with Colonel Uncle’s mother’s mug on it!’ Eric laughed.
Mr Sunderlal called out the names of the girls first and Gavaskar handed them the gifts, the first of which was opened to reveal the picture of a serene lady on the ceramic mug, with ‘Dena Nadkarni, A Wonder Woman and a True Lady’ and the dates of her birth and death inscribed on it. Mithali gave the gifts to the boys, who pretended to look happy.
‘So the Ides of March tickets go out of the window,’ commented Amar, hiding his disappointment.
‘Now for the final surprise,’ said Mr Sunderlal, smiling. ‘I invite Mr Sharma, one of the organizers of the Music to Save the Girl Child campaign, to disclose it.’
‘Mr Sharma?’ Amar looked at Kiran and raised his eyebrows.
Mr Sharma, a genial middle-aged man, came to the mike. ‘Without wasting words, let me tell you how pleased I am to have watched such an entertaining match, the first of its kind since . . . er . . . evolution. You see, I found a letter in my letter box that I couldn’t make head or tail of until I realized it wasn’t meant for me. A case of mistaken identity. But I was intrigued by its contents. It mentioned a girls vs boys match to be played here and begged me to give my daughter permission to play. I must confess I am not married and have no daughter.’ There were guffaws from many quarters and a gulp from Amar. ‘But I’d never have prevented any girl, daughter or no daughter, from playing; I am committed to the cause of the girl child.
‘I understood that, for some strange reason, the writers believed the prizes for the winners were tickets for the Ides of March music concert today. Since I’m involved in it, I thought I should discover for myself what this historic match was all about. I asked Mithali Raj, our chief guest for today’s concert, and Sunil Gavaskar, who is singing a couple of songs at the event, if they’d like to come along. The other cricketers in the band for today’s programme, Dwayne Bravo, Brett Lee, Sanjay Manjrekar and Graeme Swann, will arrive only by six and I’m sure they will be very unhappy to learn what they have missed.
‘Today’s match was a shot in the arm for girls and I warmly congratulate Target School’s captain and her team for their spirited, no-holds-barred approach. Congratulations! I informed the press, and reporters were here to cover the match. Tomorrow you will be in the papers. I am now very pleased to request the principal of Target School to hand over complimentary passes for today’s music show to the Green Park cricketers, including the twelfth man and the reserves, and the principal of Green Park School to present them to the Target team.’
Resounding cheers accompanied the boys as they walked up to receive the passes. Amar collected Ajay’s for him. When they descended and stood with the other students to watch the Target team claim theirs, Amar remarked, ‘It’s all so baffling. I don’t understand this. Why did Nila tell Jayaram that Nayanika was not going to play? Who told her?’
‘This idiot girl will explain,’ an annoyed Jayaram stated, leading Nila by the ear.
‘Hey, Jay, let go of her ear!’ ordered Reshmi. ‘No torturing a girl child.’
Nila, looking defiant, clarified, ‘Nobody told me that. I made it up to teach this meanie Jay a lesson. He said he’d give me his cycle and I tried to ride it. How it pinched me!’
‘I hope it taught you a painful lesson. I said I’d give you the cycle after the match was over. Who asked you to take a sneak ride? Telling us all those lies!’ Big brother Jayaram frowned.
Nila stuck her tongue out and giggled.
‘And now the final announcement,’ said Mr Sunderlal. ‘The man of the match award has been sponsored by Heroic Cycles. And since there were many brilliant performances from both teams, we decided, after much discussion, to give two man of the match awards: one to an outstanding player from Target, and the other to a player from Green Park. The prizes go to Nayanika, the captain of Target, for an exceptional performance and to Jayaram of Green Park for a fine all-round show. Er, unfortunately, the sponsor thought the match was between two girls’ teams, and the prizes are ladies’ cycles . . .’
He couldn’t continue, for a mighty roar of merriment drowned his words. Tears of mirth flowed down Reshmi’s eyes while Nayanika grinned. Manas hooted and Arjun wouldn’t stop hee-hawing. The teachers guffawed, the guests laughed and even Mr Jagmohan chuckled.
When the laughter had finally died down, Mr Sunderlal said, eyes twinkling, ‘I’m sorry, Jayaram, but maybe you can give it to your sister.’
Nila beamed from ear to ear.
‘And most undeserved too!’ Jayaram grumbled as Nayanika and he walked up to receive the keys from the manager of the company.
‘Poetic justice,’ commented Kishore, still in splits.
‘I think Nila earned it,’ Amar declared as they crowded around Gavaskar and Mithali Raj for pictures. ‘Thanks to her, we can attend the Ides of March programme. With some luck, we might even be able to pose with Brett Lee, Bravo, Manjrekar and Swann!’ In his excitement, he dropped the mug, but Nayanika caught it inches from the ground.
‘Here.’ She handed it to Amar. ‘Now tell me what that was all about.’
Mummy!
‘Mummy! Here I come!’ announced Amar one morning from the top of the stairs. He was true to his word, taking flying leaps to land on the doormat that slid under the impact and conveyed him at breakneck speed to the solid wooden dining table. The table rocked, spilling some potato curry on the tablecloth.
‘Arrived on my magic carpet!’ Amar informed Mrs Kishen, who had charged out of the kitchen on hearing the din. He was quick to place the dish ove
r the spilt curry but not quick enough.
‘Oh, Amar! My new tablecloth!’ she exclaimed, examining the mess. ‘And don’t call me “Mummy”. You know I hate it; I get that creepy feeling, as if I’m an ancient Egyptian mummy.’
‘An ancient Egyptian mummy is exactly the one I was addressing, Ma, not you!’ Amar grinned. ‘A genuine 4000-year-old relict that. . . or should I say whom? . . . I’ll be seeing today. We’re going to the museum from school to see this special mummy that has come all the way from Egypt. Fieldwork, according to Ramesh Sir, haha!’
Mr Kishen, entering the room, caught this. ‘Impossible!’ he remarked. ‘I can’t imagine that our modest town’s modest museum has actually managed a mummy from Egypt!’
‘You mean a modest mummy from modest Egypt!’ Amar laughed at his own jest. ‘Well, not directly from Egypt, Dad. It’s an Egyptian mummy all right, but from a museum in Italy. It seems a Kolkata museum wangled it on loan from Florence for a year. Our museum begged and pleaded with the Kolkata museum to loan it for a bit, and a few other cities and towns joined in the chorus. Kolkata finally agreed. So it will be here for a few days. Then it moves to the other places before going back to Kolkata and from there to Florence.’
‘A travelling mummy!’ His father laughed. ‘Don’t forget that all mummies come with a curse. Not your mummy,’ he added in a hurry when his wife glared at him.
‘Hehe. Yes, Dad. Curses! Awesome! Kishore was talking about the curse of the pharaohs. What’s it, exactly?’
‘It’s the curse that falls upon anyone who disturbs an ancient mummy, especially the mummy of a pharaoh. Pharaohs were extremely powerful. Anyway, it was mostly pharaohs who became mummies; only they could afford it. The others ended up as mere dead daddies.’
‘Hahaha!’ Amar guffawed, almost falling off his chair.