Bowling Through India

by Justin Brown

  ‘You’ll have to pay for your own meals,’ said Brendon.

  ‘Okay,’ Reece conceded. ‘I will miss that.’

  If it is true that this most beautiful of monuments was a love letter from Shah Jahan to his wife, it makes a bunch of flowers when in the dog box look pathetically sad. Still, I had to wonder why no one had bombed his creation or at least vandalised it in three hundred and fifty years.

  ‘Can I answer that?’ asked Reece.

  ‘Make it funny,’ I replied.

  ‘During World War II,’ he said, ignoring my comment, ‘the Taj was covered in scaffolding and sacking cloth to hide it from bombing raids. The most recent threat is environmental pollution, such as acid rain, which discolours its white marble. The government stepped in fourteen years ago and banned new industrial developments in Agra. Now only non-polluting vehicles are allowed in the immediate vicinity of the Taj Mahal.’

  ‘Where do you store all this stuff?’ I asked admiringly.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Brendon. ‘How the hell do you remember it all?’

  Reece shrugged, folding his arms under his blanket. ‘Drank my own piss for six months?’

  Much like the banks of the Ganges, the Taj Mahal is without sound. The shock of silence, coupled with witnessing a manmade piece of magic is an ethereal experience. Once you reach the steps of the inner compound, your shoes must be covered with white cloths, a piece of elastic around each ankle stopping them from coming off. It was here, as we stood on the marble platform, eyes agape at the Taj’s slender white minarets, I had one of the most significant thoughts of my life.

  ‘Reece,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We have to have a game here.’

  He ignored me. He was busy going weak at the knees, admiring shots Brendon had taken of the Taj.

  ‘Blanket Boy, did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes. You want to have a game here. Fine. What sort of game?’

  ‘Cricket, you idiot.’

  ‘You’re having a laugh. There’s more security here than at Heathrow.’

  ‘We need to have a game in front of the Taj.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Hey, there’s a river over there,’ said Stew, pointing to a stretch of water which accompanied one of the most protected pieces of real estate on earth.

  ‘I suppose we could always play with a view of the Taj,’ Brendon said.

  ‘We need to get to that river,’ said Stew, adjusting his backpack.

  ‘All right,’ said Reece. ‘Our driver should know how to get to the river.’

  Our driver had no idea of how to get to the river.

  Re-entering the streets of Agra was like a kick in the balls, the tranquillity of the Taj fading faster than the auto-rickshaws we were risking our lives on. When we reached our hotel, we found our driver having a nap. Full of bravado, we asked him to take us to the river with a view of the Taj.

  ‘And then we go to carpet shop?’ he asked, wiping sleep from his eyes.

  ‘They’re persistent,’ said Brendon. ‘I’ll give them that.’

  The more our driver got lost, the more he pretended he wasn’t. I mistakenly told the group of a game I’d spotted through a beer fridge-sized gap in a corrugated-iron fence. Inside, four kids were playing cricket on a derelict piece of land flanked by, you guessed it, steep brick walls. The batsman had a handkerchief over his face, a necessity on a pitch which resembled Baghdad during a ceasefire. Interest quickly grew: four players became five, then became half of Agra. As usual, Reece bore the brunt, attempting to write names down while Stew and I queried the local rules.

  ‘Over mid-wicket fence is out!’ said a boy with the pose of a Bollywood star.

  ‘That’s the only rule?’ asked Stew.

  ‘Don’t let the dog get the ball.’

  As we were about to discover, playing cricket in an Agra amphitheatre had its downside. In a typical situation, the surrounding walls would be the perfect solution to errant boundaries. For us, however, it meant that the only way out was via the hole in the fence through which we’d entered. Not that we’d be allowed to do that in a hurry, for our opponents were as zealous as any we had encountered. Reece, in particular, who had suddenly come down with a severe case of Brendonitis, found the cauldron intensely claustrophobic. He soldiered on, and the game began as soon as he told the growing crowd to shut the hell up and start bowling. And to think he used to love India.

  Unsurprisingly, a brick was used instead of a shoe to indicate offside wides. The other difference between this and the earlier grounds we had played on was that if you failed to hit the ball on the full, the petanque court-like surface made it die on the spot. (Which was a blessing if you were prone to getting bowled.) We batted first — our opening batsmen both bowled, disproving my theory.

  Our other main inconvenience was a scraggy mutt in a singlet who stole the ball at every available opportunity. Clearly, this was the bugger we’d been warned about.

  ‘Get him!’ everyone yelled. ‘Shut the gate!’

  When Vicky was retrieved, it was covered in thick, warm saliva, making our decision to bat a very good one.

  Obviously word had got out that the Black Craps were in town. Almost immediately, we were surrounded by old men, school kids in uniform and toddlers with candlesticks hanging from their noses. It was bloody wonderful to see people celebrate cricket to such a degree.

  Reece, of course, felt differently. Being choked by dust and surrounded by scrambling teenagers who squawked ‘Shut the gate!’ and ‘Get him!’ as the mutt in the singlet took Vicky for another run appeared to tip our beloved Jedi Knight over the edge. ‘I feel locked in,’ he groaned. ‘Please, can we just get out of here?’

  For once I believed him. He looked ill, a dead man with a scorebook. The gentlemanly thing to do in such a situation would have been to offer a supporting hand, or at least a box of stoppers. But as Brendon had sucked the cupboard dry, my only option was to do to Reece what he had done to me.

  ‘Harden up, Blanket Boy,’ I said, trying my best to defend a ball on middle brick. ‘Just pucker your butt cheeks for a while, then we’ll get some lunch.’

  ‘Oh God, lunch,’ he groaned, clutching his abdomen.

  ‘You can’t eat?’ Brendon asked.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘You might need some bike clips to keep the shit in!’ I finished.

  No response. Not good. Get game over with.

  I managed to connect with the last ball of our innings, remembering too late that my six ‘over the midwicket fence’ would actually be my wicket.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said the keeper. ‘You have six.’

  Defending a total of twenty-four, India started slowly, eventually needing three runs from the final ball to secure victory. Earlier in that concluding over, four Indian members of the Black Craps argued incessantly over who should deliver the crucial six remaining balls. They bickered and squabbled and fought. Punches were nearly thrown. Earlier in the trip, this behaviour made us laugh; now it was infuriating.

  ‘I really think I’m going to vomit,’ said Reece.

  At long last, Irfan bowled the last ball to Sarwal, who hit it high, wide and handsome over the long-on fence. It sailed out into a multitude of cows, stalls and auto-rickshaws. Cue massive jubilation. India had won!

  ‘Okay,’ said Reece, tucking the scorebook under his blanket. ‘Run for it!’

  Four Pied Pipers sprinted down one of Agra’s main roads, a hundred kids following close behind. Upon reaching the Goldfish Bowl — just as the hardened farmer passed round his sanitising gel — I realised, that in the mad bid to get away, I had left our bat behind. I started back toward the ground, but was quickly chaperoned in another direction by the Man of the Match, Sarwal, who was yelling at me, inches from my face. ‘Your bat! Your bat is running!’ He moved his arms about, like those of a jogger in case I didn’t comprehend.

  ‘It’s stolen?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it is r
unning!’

  The hundred kids hustled me back down the main street. They frantically pointed to nearby houses, but it was no use. It was five minutes since the conclusion of the game; the bat thief would be well gone.

  I made for the van, accepting my stupidity. Then, just as the Goldfish Bowl’s motor revved, twenty stoic young detectives appeared out of nowhere, sprinting down the middle of the road. They held our bat in the air, as if it were the Cricket World Cup. ‘Your bat!’ they screamed. ‘Your bat!’

  Sarwal, the happiest guy with no teeth I’ve ever met, did the honours, handing the piece of willow to Stew through the back window, tipping his Auckland Aces cap as he did. The kids chased us as we fled, whacking the van’s bumper and windows. From the inside, it felt as though we were being pelted by horizontal hailstones.

  Safely in our cocoon, Reece resumed near-death.

  ‘I’m really sorry about that, fellas,’ I puffed.

  ‘You will be,’ said Reece.

  ‘Honestly,’ I pleaded, ‘there were only four kids when I first spotted them. I thought it was going to be a quick, relaxing game.’

  ‘You’ll pay for this,’ he added, wiping his brow and throwing the scorebook onto the back seat.

  ‘And we fucking lost,’ said Stew.

  SCORECARD

  Patel Nagar, Agra, Uttar Pradesh

  BLACK CRAPS

  Dhanu (18) bowled Nadim - 5

  Jhaked (16) bowled Irfan - 0

  Ronu (18) don’t know how out - 4

  Kadir (13) caught Sarwal - 1

  Justin not out - 7

  Chan not out - 1

  Extras - 6

  Total - 24

  Bowling: Ibrahim 0-3, Sarwal 0-6, Nadim 1-4, Irfan 1-9

  INDIA

  Ibrahim (20) caught Dhanu - 13

  Sarwal (28) not out (two towering sixes!) - 13

  Nadim (15) bowled - 0

  Extras - 3

  Total - 29

  Bowling: Dhanu 1-12, Ronu 0-5, Justin 0-2, Chan 0-7

  India wins and levels series at 4-all.

  A MATCH WITH RAJA FEDERER

  Our driver eventually found the river, but not before going grey. We thanked him as he parked the Goldfish Bowl by archaic carts selling chewing gum, stale chips and Thumbs Up cola, all of which were frying in the midday sun. The river itself was a five-hundred-metre walk along a sandy path surrounded by shacks and dense foliage. A young boy named Hasin joined us, along with his younger sister and brother. Polite and upbeat, together they directed us to a view of the Taj which had Brendon almost literally wetting his pants.

  ‘Oh yes!’ he said, unloading camera paraphernalia. ‘This is great!’

  ‘I think he likes it,’ said Reece.

  And so did the rest of us, the ridiculous drive through Agra’s tangled mess worth every minute. The Taj from this angle was a dreamy silhouette, the mist in the foreground only adding to its allure. The Yamuna River providing its reflection, however, didn’t hold quite the same draw. One of the most polluted rivers in the world, with fifty-seven million people depending on its waters, the Yamuna leaves Delhi as a sewer, burdened with the city’s biological and chemical wastes. Downstream, where we stood, was Agra’s main municipal drinking water source. The treatment facilities are no match for the poisons. As a result, those living in Delhi and Agra consume unknown amounts of toxic pesticide residues each time they drink water. A postcard view it might have been, but the liquid rubbish dump before us denied our favoured spot for a match a place on any tourist map.

  The twelve-year-old with the camel was Brijesh. His perfect English and Bollywood smile meant that our cheery helper, Hasin, was momentarily shoved to one side. He appeared to accept his fate as if it were a regular occurrence, handing the reins to the boy with the camel — and the confidence.

  ‘This is Raja, my camel,’ Brijesh boasted. ‘You want picture?’

  ‘Roger?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, Raja.’

  ‘As in Raja Moore?’ added Stew.

  ‘Or Raja Federer?’ I said.

  ‘How about Raja Rabbit?’ said Brendon.

  We thought we were hilarious, but Brijesh had work to do. His mannerisms — quick wit, shifty smile, carefully chosen language — resembled Paul Newman’s in The Hustler. Everything was a deal. Everything was for sale.

  ‘You want to play cricket?’ he asked upon seeing our bat.

  ‘Sure,’ Stew said, looking around. ‘But we need more players.’

  Quick as a wink, Brijesh grabbed the bat and leaned on it like Greg Chappell on a hundred and fifty. ‘We keep the bat here,’ he said. ‘You come back at 3 pm.’

  ‘Why 3 pm?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s when kids finish school.’

  ‘How come you’re not at school?’ Brendon asked.

  ‘I don’t need to go to school.’

  It was a bribe and it worked. But Brijesh wasn’t quite finished. ‘If India wins later,’ he said as we were leaving. ‘We keep your bat.’

  ‘And what if New Zealand wins?’ I asked.

  ‘If New Zealand wins,’ he answered slowly, thoughts whirring freely in his uncomplicated business head, ‘we serve you tea.’

  We fell for that one too, later appreciating what a master plan it really was. After all, if we didn’t turn up, Brijesh would get a free bat. If we did turn up, he’d get a game of cricket. The only issue for us was one of traffic, Agra’s choked arterials making Kolkata and Delhi look positively sedate, even orderly. But we had no choice. We had to get back by 3 pm to claim our bat and beat India in front of the Taj Mahal.

  Now someone just had to tell our driver.

  Along with contracting Delhi Belly (version 3.11), Brendon was suffering from stiff joints and achy muscles from all that lugging of camera gear. When he told us he was shouting himself a massage for ‘professional reasons’, we had no choice but to believe him. While he did this and Reece and Stew watched TV in their room, I accidentally gatecrashed a yoga session. In a room containing three mats and an ego, a calm (too calm, if you ask me) former army sergeant spoke slowly and surely, with the conviction of a BBC children’s presenter. The only other victim, a middle-aged woman from Bristol, warmed up while I admired our instructor’s perfect feet, which matched his equally wrinkle-free white pyjamas.

  I like yoga, having tried it a few times when my first daughter was a baby. I couldn’t go for runs while she slept, so instead risked serious injury on a daily basis following instructions from the Get Your Body Back DVD. (Yes, it is designed for women trying to lose weight after giving birth, but I did have the curtains closed.) Imagine my horror, then, when having completed what I thought was a near-perfect Warrior, Camel and Dog pose, our Indian instructor dissected our techniques.

  ‘You very good!’ he said to the Brit.

  He then briefly focused on me. Memories from school came flooding back. ‘You,’ he scoffed, ‘not so good.’

  ‘All right, mate,’ I managed. ‘Don’t rub it in.’

  But I was speaking too fast, plus he had little interest in someone with the flexibility of a curtain rod. More worrying for me, however, was whether I’d be paying for this session or it was, as I hoped, a freebie with the room. This concern did not aid relaxation or well-being.

  ‘Every day, we run, run, run!’ our instructor continued, achieving a position I thought only possible for women half his age. ‘And why? Let us look no further than household pets. Dogs: they pant, pant, pant!’

  He emulated a dog puffing. I suppressed a laugh.

  ‘Dogs live for thirteen years at the most!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ha! Now, look at the tortoise: a s-l-o-w animal that takes d-e-e-p, lives to a hundred and fifty.’

  I wanted to say that genetic make-up probably contributes more to an animal’s longevity than how fast it gets around, but who was I to argue? Next, he had us performing an extremely awkward Butterfly pose, but not before embarrassing me again in front of my only classmate.

  ‘You,’ he said to her, ‘very go
od.’

  He hovered over my left shoulder. I knew what was coming. ‘You, not so good.’

  Never trust a man who doesn’t sweat or swear.

  Despite my being ridiculed, my fix was a damn sight cheaper than Brendon’s. ‘Didn’t you have to pay for yours?’ he asked, looking half-asleep after a rigorous rubdown.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, if I do, it’ll be on your credit card.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Stew, helping himself to more bhuja, ‘let’s get another beer before lunch.’

  ‘Be rude not to,’ I said.

  Brendon’s phone beeped.

  FROM JOHN BOUGEN:

  STILL STUCK IN VIENNA, PLANE DELAYED. HOW’S BRENDON’S ARSE?

  It was 2 pm. Knowing the river was at least an hour’s drive away, we hit the road with feigned enthusiasm. There was no question that we wanted to play; we just continued to struggle with Agra’s wayward herds of buffalo, auto-rickshaws driven like go-carts and smoke-spluttering motorised hairdryers doing their best to demolish every available wing-mirror by squeezing through outrageously narrow gaps. Agra traffic was a sitcom but really, what did we have to complain about? The city’s drivers, each battling for pole position, were actually doing something useful. We were just making sure we didn’t lose our cricket bat.

  By 3 pm we had reached the river and the boys were waiting with our bat, secretly hoping, I’m sure, that we weren’t going to turn up. Once more, word of our arrival had got out: an ever-increasing crowd, tourists included, stood on the Yamuna’s adjacent sand dunes.

  Brijesh walked over with Raja and looked us right in the eye. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You made it. Let us start.’

  His manner was admirable, if a little irritating. He seemed destined for stardom, not the street — the words ‘mafia’ and ‘millionaire’ were not far from one’s mind when watching him in action. He also seemed smart enough to know he had to make his own luck. ‘I’ve been in many books and TV shows on India,’ he said, striking a pose.