by Justin Brown
After a perfect circle, the coin came to a halt by Sajeet’s well-worn sandal. ‘Heads it is,’ he said.
‘We’ll have a bat,’ I said to the opposing captain. He nodded, spinning Vicky from hand to hand, Shane Warne-style.
‘Come on, guys,’ I said. ‘We need this one. We’re three-two down, remember?’
‘Not that we’re taking it seriously,’ said Brendon, lying on the grass with his camera gear, the part of his job he loved most.
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Stew. ‘We’re here to win.’
‘Second is first loser,’ I reiterated. ‘Got the scorebook ready, Blanket Boy?’
But he was lost in a sea of cricketing hopefuls, clambering to get their name in a book he would quite happily never see again.
Cricket can be a cruel game, as one of our new mates was about to discover. Rahul, who had been gagging to play, having ridden halfway across Delhi in a feverish fervour to so, was clean bowled second ball. We all felt for him. It was only a social game, but everyone likes to impress.
Then Delhi provided us with our first pitch invader, in the form of a fat bully in a tight T-shirt who clearly terrorised his school mates on a daily basis. He was aggressive and ugly, snatching the bat from whoever was playing and proceeding to whack the next delivery halfway to Pakistan. His younger counterparts were particularly obliging, cowering whenever he approached.
‘Twat,’ we muttered.
Each time Bully Boy did this, the perfect-mannered Anshul ran to fetch the ball. He never complained and he always smiled. And I ended up batting with him. He must have had a positive effect, because for the first time I saw Vicky like a watermelon. It could have been that the pitch was even concrete, making Vicky’s consistency that of an oversized bouncy ball, but I’ll bank the sixteen not out. Anshul went on to make a masterful thirty-five, pounding Vicky to all parts of the ground. Couple that with retrieving the ball when Bully Boy came back for an encore, and you have a man in the making.
With sixty-seven on the board, it was Delhi’s turn. As I handed the bat to the barefooted wicket keeper, I realised the Indian tradition of placing one shoe a metre or so from the stumps, as a measurement for wides. Then their number three, Yogesh, very nearly stole the show, peppering the boundary with shots the rest of us could only dream of. Needing six off the last ball, however, he managed only four.
As I stood alone on the mid-wicket boundary, I realised, rather eerily, that I still hadn’t felt a gust of wind in India. Brendon’s feats aside, of course.
SCORECARD
Belar Road, Old Delhi
BLACK CRAPS
Rahul bowled Dipu - 1
Samid retired - 10
Justin not out - 16
Anshul not out - 34
Extras - 6
Total - 67
Bowling: Manish 0-15, Rahul 0-6, Dipu 1-4, Vishad 0-10, Yogesh 0-13, Deepak 0-15
INDIA
Manish caught Justin - 6
Rahul bowled Amul - 9
Dipu bowled Rahul - 2
Vishad not out - 0
Yogesh not out - 35
Extras - 10
Total - 62
Bowling: Rahul 1-11 (five no balls!), Samid 0-14, Stew 1-14, Justin 1-1, Amul 0-11, Anshul 0-6
Black Craps win and lead series 4-3.
Reece should be commended for completing such an accurate entry, particularly as a steady torrent of abuse was directed his way throughout. At the conclusion of the match, I asked what the cheeky jumbucks had yelled at me in Hindi as I bowled.
‘You don’t want to know,’ he replied.
‘What?’ I said, offended. ‘It can’t be that bad. Were they heckling me?’
‘They called you bahinchod about fifty times.’
‘Bahinchod?’ I scratched my head. ‘You’ve used that before, doesn’t it mean — ’
‘Sister fucker, yes. They repeatedly called you “sister fucker” and you repeatedly smiled and nodded in return. About fifty times.’
We envied Reece’s secret weapon. I was shocked, sure, but not nearly as much as our juvenile opposition, who had been swearing like troopers for the entire match. Reece dropped the bombshell when they went one step too far.
‘You speak Hindi?’ they squealed.
Reece’s answer in the local lingo confirmed their fears.
‘Shit, I mean . . . man!’ said one. ‘What have we been saying?’
‘Oh, all sorts of things,’ said a satisfied Reece, holding all the cards. If we could have bottled the looks on their faces . . .
With a win under our belts, the boys walked us back to our bikes. The Man of the Match cap was awarded to Anshul, who was seventeen and wanted to be a dentist. Unsurprisingly, his favourite cricketers were Tendulkar and Adam Gilchrist.
‘Where’s your Man of the Match hat?’ Stew asked him as we climbed aboard.
Anshul bowed his head, ashamed to speak. ‘It has been stolen.’
‘Was it the bully that kept trying to ruin our game?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.
We looked around for the bully. He was nowhere in sight. There was little we could do.
Anshul could see we weren’t happy. ‘Please don’t worry,’ he said, shaking our hands. ‘Thank you for the game. It was lovely to meet you. Good luck with your travels.’
We waved goodbye, as Rahul and Sajeet manoeuvred a clean break into Delhi’s web. ‘Oh well,’ said Stew, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘He’ll do better in the long run than the fuckwit who stole his hat.’
In India the only difference between life and death is a taxi ride. With these thoughts in mind, we put our faith once more in Sajeet, who proved a magician when it came to exploiting gaps and lesser drivers’ failings. His bike bell was a welcome change from the unremitting sound of car horns. As we approached our first set of lights, a beggar approached us. He had two thumbs on one hand and was wearing only one jandal. Behind him on the pavement a man, I swear, was dead. He lay in the sun, half-naked, pants halfway down his legs, flies all over his torso and backside. Apparently early-morning Delhi has someone assigned to pick up dead bodies from the streets. More often than not, these people aren’t identified but are just taken directly to the crematorium.
Sajeet by now knew us well and offered to ride via Feroz Shah Kotla, where India had recently played Pakistan in an historic test. ‘India win,’ he said, pointing to the stadium. ‘By six wickets!’
The ground is best known for Anil Kumble’s ten wickets in an innings and Sunil Gavaskar’s twenty-ninth test century, equalling the great Sir Don’s long-standing record.
‘It’s a lot smaller than on TV,’ I said.
‘Pardon, sir?’ asked Sajeet.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Stew. ‘He’s just being a smartarse.’
Reece, who hadn’t so much as paid for a chapatti all trip, was now handing out bills willy-nilly, but our riders deserved it. They looked beat.
‘More work today?’ I asked as Rahul put the notes in his pocket. ‘Or rest?’
‘Rest, I think,’ said Sajeet.
‘Yes,’ puffed Rahul. ‘Rest.’
And back on their bikes they hopped, heading towards Delhi police station for an afternoon siesta.
‘YOUR BAT IS RUNNING!’
Question: what sort of idiot doesn’t know what a eunuch is?
Answer: this idiot.
On the five-hour ride to Agra we stopped to pay a toll, having passed through the unmemorable towns of Badapur, Hodal and Kosi. And that’s when four eunuchs rapped on our driver’s window. They giggled, flirted, and strutted suggestively.
‘Here we go,’ said Reece, laughing.
‘What?’ we asked.
‘Eunuchs.’
My confusion was obvious. All I knew was that the pests in question looked like extras from The Birdcage or Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
‘Never heard of eunuchs?’ Reece asked.
‘Never,’ I said. ‘Are they transvestites, prostitutes, what?�
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‘A eunuch is a castrated man,’ said Reece. ‘In India there’s a whole caste of eunuchs and transgendered individuals who sing bawdy songs about other people, including their families.’
‘I don’t get it,’ I said, watching one of the eunuchs put her lips up to the driver’s window, while the other, swathed in traditional sari and heavy make-up, pouted like Marilyn Monroe. ‘Why?’
‘The idea is that you pay to shut them up.’
This is not something you hear in conversation and then blissfully move on. There were questions. I found out later from the Journeyman Pictures documentary A Eunuch’s Life that there are approximately seven hundred thousand hijras, as they’re known in Hindi, in Mumbai alone. The term ‘eunuch’, however, is misleading, because few hijras are actually castrated. Some are born with physically indeterminate sex; others are boys who, for whatever reason, want to be girls. Hijras beg for money and, if refused, loudly curse while exposing the area between their legs where their genitals used to be. They act as prostitutes, too, for men who can’t afford the price of a real woman. Of course, they’re also popular with men who like transsexuals. Due to the stigma that having a hijra child creates —other children in the family will be less attractive as a marriage partner — many Indian families figure it’s just better to get rid of them. They typically live in the margins of society, face discrimination and earn a living by turning up uninvited to weddings, births, and new shop openings. The ceremony is supposed to bring good luck and fertility, while the curse of an unappeased hijra is feared by many. Some Indian provincial officials have even used hijras to collect taxes in the same fashion: they knock on the doors of shopkeepers while dancing and singing, and embarrass them into paying. And their work motto? ‘Pay up or we’ll play up! Or even worse, sing some more!’
Our eunuchs got what they wanted: our drivers paid them to go away and we left unscathed.
Unbelievably, the remaining stretch of road to Agra was mostly free of traffic, but for the odd Tata which typically made its Herculean presence felt metres from the Goldfish Bowl’s backside. Hundreds more trucks were parked by the roadside, waiting till midnight when they were allowed to re-enter Delhi.
Brendon, now suffering the full effects of whatever I had had a few days before, was listening to Jack Johnson on his iPod, which was a pretty good option in view of what was playing in the van. I’m all for buying music from where I visit, but Bollywood tunes can irk after a time.
‘What are they singing about?’ I asked Reece.
He passed me a magazine he had stolen from the plane. It said, ‘Bollywood may continue to churn out conventional storylines, but the songs are marked with unbelievable creativity,’ and quoted ‘Batata vada’ from the film Hifazat:
Batata vada, aye batata vada
Dil nahi dena tha, dena pada
Batata vada, ho batata vada,
Pyar nahi karma tha, kama pada.
Potato fritter, aye potato fritter
I don’t want to give me heart, but had to give
Potato fritter, ho potato fritter
I didn’t want to fall in love, but had to.
As further evidence, it quoted ‘A-aa ee u-uu uu, mera dil na todo’ from the film Raja Babu:
A-aa ee u-uu uu, mera dil na todo
Rooth ka na jao meri jaan, paas mere aao meri jaan
Main angootha chhaap padhana aur likhana jaanoon na.
A-aa ee u-uu uu, don’t break my heart
Don’t be miffed and go my darling
I’m illiterate, I don’t know how to read and write.
Quite.
Agra arrived in a flash. Soon we heard the familiar, whiny putt-putt-putt of a thousand mopeds on their last legs. Horns, dust and smoke: ah, how we had missed them for the last five hours. Most of Agra is on the west bank of the River Yamuna, with the Agra Fort and Taj Mahal at its heart. Along with its tag as the third apex of the ‘golden triangle’ — Delhi and Jaipur being the other two — Agra is perhaps more aptly described as a sprawling industrial city. Brick walls, brick houses, and brick factories. Bricks everywhere. I have never seen so many bricks.
Our hotel boasted Agra’s only view of the Taj Mahal. From our window, four floors up, we looked down on the city with complacency and happiness, knowing the van trip was behind us and the afternoon ours. I taped the sound of the horns on my mobile, concerned that I would forget the noise we loved to hate. Brendon couldn’t wait to get clicking. Against a peach-pink sky, a flock of black crows darted in front of a distant Taj Mahal, providing a teaser of what Agra would provide come morning.
The hotel’s pool was next to useless: too cold in winter and, with temperatures reaching fifty degrees Centigrade in May, no respite in summer. But it was still refreshing to sit by.
‘Tell us again why you guys get the best room?’ I asked Stew and Reece as we sat down to further dent Brendon’s credit card. Both had gloated of their deluxe room with added amenities.
‘Why shouldn’t we?’ asked Reece, scouring the menu.
‘Because you guys aren’t paying for the trip,’ said Brendon.
‘The room is under my name,’ said Stew, shrugging. ‘There’s not a lot we can do about it.’
‘And I’m John’s second-cousin,’ said Reece, relieved he had found a half-adequate answer.
‘This isn’t a holiday for us,’ said Brendon.
‘You’ll make your money back,’ said Reece.
‘Not the way you’re eating.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Reece continued, fascinated by a menu the size of a newspaper, ‘do you think we should get an entrée as well as dessert?’
‘I think I’ll need another Kingfisher to make my mind up,’ said Stew.
The Taj Mahal and the Fort are the main reasons for visiting Agra. The former, one of the eight wonders of the world, forbids you from entering with food, tobacco, matches, mobile phones or camera tripods. Given the icy temperature at 6.30 am, we were thankful not to be strip-searched — though they did give Stew a good going-over.
‘Very fine man!’ a nimbly-fingered security said, as he felt up the farmer standing on a state-of-the-art wooden crate by the main entrance. The rest of the Black Caps deflated when no such comment came their way.
‘Very fine man!’ we mocked Stew, once through security. But he knew we were jealous.
The cost to visit one of the finest buildings on earth is seven hundred and fifty rupees for foreigners (about $NZ28) and twenty rupees for locals. I have no problem with this, some would say corrupt, system, urging tourist spots at home to do the same. After all, why should a local take his estranged aunt to such a spot for the umpteenth time and pay the same as someone seeing it for the first? The price for the visit, however, soon became irrelevant when we stood like ants at the base of the world’s most famous piece of marble.
To stand in front of the Taj Mahal is to feel utterly useless. Something so perfect makes you wonder why we bother. The words ‘It just isn’t possible’ repeat in your floored mind. There are no blemishes, no mistakes, no shortcuts; it’s a crime to take a picture and leave. It’s a giant, a lion, a cliché, the view and colour changing as each minute passes. It shuts you up. It blinds you. Yet, due to its overwhelming presence, it’s easy to ignore the spotless gardens and surrounding mosques, works of mastery in themselves.
‘Pretty cool, huh?’ said Reece, watching three jaws drop.
‘Whooah,’ said Brendon.
‘Oh my God,’ I added.
‘Fuck me,’ said Stew.
‘The Taj Mahal was built as a monument of love by Shah Jahan for his favourite wife, Mumtaz, who died giving birth to their fourteenth child,’ said Reece, kicking into tour guide- speak. ‘It took twenty thousand workers twenty years to build. This came at a cost, however, sending the Mughal empire broke. Shah Jehan’s son Aurangzeb then killed all his brothers, claimed the throne and imprisoned his father for the rest of his life.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I said, gaping and gawking.
‘Really?’ asked Brendon, more interested in getting a shot no one else had.
‘According to most commonly accepted theory,’ added Reece, ‘the Taj Mahal was constructed using materials from all over India and Asia. Over a thousand elephants were used to transport building materials during the construction. The white marble was brought from Rajasthan, the jasper from Punjab and the jade and crystal from China. In all, twenty-eight types of precious and semi-precious stones were inlaid into the white marble. And the total cost of construction was about forty million rupees, at a time when one gram of gold was sold for about 1.3 rupees.’
‘Blanket Boy?’ said Stew.
‘What?’
‘Can you just shut up while we look at the building?’
‘Charming,’ said Reece, miffed by his roommate’s directness. ‘Normally when I take tour groups, clients are appreciative and polite. They don’t abuse me, they don’t make me fill out bloody scorebooks, and they definitely don’t wear half-pants.’
‘You love us, deep down,’ I said.
‘Get fucked.’
‘You do,’ I said.
‘No!’ He tried not to laugh. ‘I don’t.’
‘You’ll miss us when this is all over.’
‘Like hell,’ he scoffed. ‘I’ll finally get a good night’s sleep.’