Thanks, Sanks, you don't exactly look like a branch of blooming bougainvillea yourself.
'What the hell have you been up to in Dhaka?'
'Huh? Nothing!' I told him. 'Just been working very hard. Getting you shots of every possible cricketer from every possible angle! Don't tell me there's something I missed?' I knew the images would have come in on Thursday. Neelo would have worked all weekend getting the prints and making poster layouts.
Sanks waved the shots aside like he hadn't been haranguing me about them for the last week. 'That's not what I mean. What have you done that Zing! wants you off the account?'
Oh no. This reeked of Nikhil Khoda. And to think I'd been defending him to Gajju last night. 'I haven't been up to anything, Sanks,' I said stiffly. 'But I have no problems working on some other account if there's any issue.'
'Shut up, Zoya,' he said crankily. 'I have a problem with you working on some other account! Fat lot of work I'd get done around here if I started listening to everything the clients say!'
'But what did they say?' I asked, a sick feeling in my stomach. I mean, I love my job. (In fact, according to my friends and family, I was my job.)
'That you're a loose cannon, you overstepped your boundaries, or something. What have you been up to, kiddo?'
So I told him the whole story.
Sanks's (slightly bulging) brown eyes got even bulgier as he listened. 'But you haven't done anything unethical,' he said finally. 'Nothing at all.'
'Yeah, but I'm in trouble,' I said miserably. 'And the client knows it. Khoda must've called them and complained. After all, I did call him a loser.'
'Now, that wasn't exactly a scintillatingly intelligent move, was it?' Sanks grumbled. He looked up at me, his eyes almost sympathetic, and said, 'I really don't know if I'll be able to save your sorry ass, kiddo.'
I nodded miserably.
'I'll work out something,' he said. 'Now, get out of here. There's tons of work to do!'
I crawled out and staggered into Mon's room.
'What happened?' she exclaimed. 'What'd he say to knock the stuffing out of you like that?'
I told her. It was a very long story that got longer with every retelling.
Mon was hugely concerned. She stopped me now and then to ask me some very Mon-like questions: What did the team eat for breakfast? Did you wear perfume in the elevator? Is it true that Laakhi's gay?
I told her everything and then wanted to kill someone when Shiven rushed in going: 'Hey! How was Dhaka?' He was followed by the other office kids asking the same question.
'It was good, okay?' I stood up. 'I've already told the story twice. Ask Mon for the details!'
Shiven (a creepo who'd filled in for me at the Shah Rukh shoot) puffed out his chest importantly. 'I know, it's crazy, everybody keeps asking for all the dope when you come back from a shoot. Yours was just cricketer stills in Dhaka, Zoya! Imagine my plight, after a theme film with SRK!'
Mon rolled her eyes. 'Please! You've told Totaram and your Bijnaur-waali mausi and the canteen guy. That's three people. Who else asked?'
I gave Mon a reproachful look as Shiven slunk away, crestfallen, but she just grinned. 'If I can't have GCBs for breakfast I have to sink my teeth into something,' she pointed out. 'So when will Sanks tell you if you have to shift to another account, Zo?'
'Soon, I guess,' I said. 'Mon, not a word about this part of it to anyone, okay?'
She nodded. 'Don't worry, Zoya,' she said gently, 'It'll all work out great.'
Fighting back a sudden rush of tears, I walked over to my cabin and switched on my comp.
It didn't. Work out great, I mean. Basically, my Standing in thee Society fully plummeted, because Sanks had to take me off Zing! and put me on Maximilk. But just for three months, Zoya, after that you're fully on again.
I got a lot of curious looks from the Maximilk gang, who are a committed and down-to-earth bunch. They do wholesome, non-celebrity ads and look down on cola advertising for being basically shallow and relying too heavily on celebrities to make it look good.
They didn't know me too well and now I seriously regretted being so snooty with all of them while I had been working on Zing! This earnest bespectacled guy, Animesh, took me through an orientation on Maximilk. 'There are basically five brands in one. Like in Zing! you have cola, orange, lime and clear-lime variants? Here in MSK we have Maximilk, Chocolate Maximilk, Woman's Maximilk, Junior Maximilk and Maximilk Lite which is for diabetics...'
I nodded intelligently, trying not to look too depressed.
'Our target audience is Moms twenty-eight to forty-five years. Bullseye thirty-five. Middle class, usually with two kids or more with some elderly people, in-laws usually, whom they have to look after too.'
Man, was this a far cry from Boys, fifteen to twenty-five years. Bullseye eighteen. The tribe Neelo had once grossed me out by describing as 'young, dumb and full of cum'. What was I doing here?
'We have to walk a fine line between appealing to the mom by being nutritious and caring, and appealing to the kid by being fun and cool. We need to have both on our side. I'll give you a CD of all our ads so far as well as the ones the competition has done. Bournvita and Complan, you know. And I think it would be a good idea for you to come along for this housewife research we're having soon. You'll get to see the consumer up close.'
'Great,' I said. 'Thanks, Animesh.' And under my breath added, 'And, thanks, Khoda, you bastard.'
I was painting my toenails a hot orange on Wednesday evening when Eppa rushed into my bedroom screaming, 'Zoya, Zoya, tumhara photu paper mein aayyaa hai!'
She rushed into the room brandishing Sonali's Gupshup column in her hand. With a sinking heart I saw an image of me dancing with Zahid at that club in Dhaka. Across our fronts the headline screamed, 'KHODA PAHAAD, NIKLI ZOYA'.
Damn.
I grabbed it and read:
Did you wonder why our cricket team's been acting so erratic lately, darlings? At least earlier they lost predictably to everyone! Then they managed two big wins and got us all excited only to break our nazuk little hearts by losing to Bermuda! Well, I've got a scoop for you, sweeties. A triple scoop with a cherry on top! Apparently, the two victories (and one defeat) have nothing to do with our almost brand-new Captain's leadership abilities. And have everything to do with one sweet lil' thing (pictured above) called Zoya. Zoya - jiske liye Zahid Pathan ne dil khoya! Zoya, it seems, is blessed by the Great Batsman in the Sky. She was born at the very moment India won the '83 World Cup twenty-seven years ago and if she nibbles her morning naashta with the Boys in Blue on the day of the match, they win! If she doesn't, they lose. It's as simple as that. But after she clinched two big matches for his team, Khoda ordered her home! Being the big strong man he is, he felt he could take on Bermuda without Zoya's help! Bet he's really sorry now, girls...
My first instinct was to roll the paper, shove it into my mouth and chew it down to destroy the evidence. But I couldn't do that with Eppa watching. She was looking at me, all bright-eyed and tremulous, waiting for me to read it out to her.
I cleared my throat and said, 'You're paagal or what? That's not me in the picture! You know I don't have a shirt like that.'
Eppa looked unconvinced so I tried to stare her down. It didn't do a bit of good. She peered down at the picture again, gave a disdainful sniff and went: 'Kucch ghapla kiya hai tumne, I know! You can't bluff me, Zoya Moya...' She flounced out, but she let me grab the paper from her as she left.
I read it again.
It was nasty all right. This Sonali babe obviously had it in for Khoda. She didn't really say anything mean about me, though. All she'd done was make that lucky charm theory public. Thankfully, it sounded pretty stupid in print. Oh, and she'd called me Zahid's lady-love, to which I could only say I wish!
Of course I was worried about what they'd say at work. But far more scary was what the reaction of the gang at Tera Numbar might be. What would Dad do when the ChachaChachis descended in a chattering horde?
When I was a kid, I would get really awful one-on-twenty scores in English dictation. The teacher always told me to get them signed by Dad. I'd spend the whole weekend making myself sick with apprehension about what his reaction would be and finally slide it shamefacedly next to his teacup on Monday morning. Till he explained to me that it was far more painless to get it over with on Friday afternoon itself.
So that evening at the dining table, I slid Sonali's article under Dad's nose right after Zoravar and he had finished eating. 'I'm in the news,' I said lightly.
Eppa snorted in the background but I ignored her.
Dad and Zoravar pored over the paper together, Dad's lips moving slightly as his bifocals travelled slowly past the luridly coloured picture to the catty copy below.
I waited, heart in my mouth. God, they were slow readers!
Finally, Dad put the paper down on the table with a little tchai! sound and Zoravar fished out his red Swiss knife and started cutting some bright-orange Dussheri mangoes with it, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.
'What?' I demanded. 'Hello, you guys, say something!'
Dad just shook his head but Zoravar said simply, 'We know you're lucky, Gaalu.'
Huh? They knew? I was?
'I used to take you with me to all the mohalla and inter-school matches I ever played,' he continued. 'We never lost a single one.'
I gaped at him, open-mouthed. 'What? Why didn't you ever tell me?'
He looked at me as if I were nuts. 'Obviously, because you'd have got all pricey or asked me to give you money so you could save up to buy firecrackers.'
What? I couldn't believe this!
'Your Ma knitted you a V-necked white cricket sweater with cables down the front,' Dad said reminiscently. 'You won us a lot of inter-regiment matches too.'
'And why didn't you tell me, Dad?' I demanded.
He shrugged, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. 'By the time you were old enough to understand, my cricket playing days were over...and after your Ma died...I guess, I just forgot.'
There was a little silence, broken only by the sound of Zoravar sucking noisily on the Dussheri. I just sat there and stared at them. I couldn't process what they were telling me - that I really could make people win matches with my very presence. 'So, Dad, how many cricket matches have I attended in my life?' I ventured hesitantly.
He shrugged, 'Nothing pukka, but about...twenty?'
'More,' said Zoravar. 'Many more, if you count all the ones I took her to.'
'And the team I supported always won?' I asked disbelievingly.
Zoravar nodded blithely. 'Always. You didn't even have to stay for the match. I'd bring you in, make you have a Campa Cola or a snack with the boys, and then Eppa would take you home before the match began. That's because you were a real pain to have about the place, you always wanted to pee or puke or something.'
I ignored that last crack and said, 'So you never lost a cricket match in your life?'
He shook his head. 'I did. Lots of times, whenever Ma said I couldn't take you. In the cold weather in Kalimpong. And of course, at the IMA. But I never lost a match you came to, Gaalu,'
'Your mummy did not like it, Zoya!' Eppa said loudly all of a sudden. 'She allvayz saying ki if this girl uses up all her good-luck vinning matches then no good-luck vil be left-over for her ownself only! Only bad-luck.'
Oh my God, Ma said that? What a scary thought. And strangely logical somehow. Almost karmic. I started feeling slightly ill.
'What rubbish you're talking, Eppa,' Dad said dismissively. 'Anyway, I just hope this whole thing doesn't get out of hand. People mustn't take it too seriously. I don't remember you ever losing a match for us, Zoya, but of course there will be a first time, someday.' He had put on his glasses and was frowning down at Zahid's picture. 'And what about this Pathan fellow?' he finally asked. 'If he's so rich why doesn't he get a haircut? Don't tell me you like him?'
I shook my head, 'No, Dad, I don't,' I said firmly and quite truthfully.
'Of course not, Dad,' Zoravar said as he got to his feet and stretched luxuriously. 'He's not the one you have to worry about!' He sneaked a beady, knowing glance at me and then stuck out one sticky-with-mango hand, grabbed my dupatta from the back of my chair and started skipping with it. 'One, two, three, four...' he went, bouncing up and down, his stupid bathroom chappals slapping against the floor.
'Kya kar rahe ho, Zoravar?,' Dad asked mildly. 'Don't exercise after eating, you'll feel ill...'
'Arrey nahi, Dad,' my worm of a brother sniggered, skipping madly. 'I'm doing it for Gaalu. She likes skippers, you know!'
***
The Asian Age
Sports page
CHARMING TALES FROM HERE AND THERE
More strange things have been done in the World of Sport to woo Lady Luck than have ever been done between the sheets in a Jackie Collins novel, or for that matter, between the sheets of a bed at a downtown Bangkok motel.
Because Luck, and its close companion, Superstition, definitely have had a hold on the mind of competing athletes since time immemorial.
Lucky underwear, lucky songs, lucky pets (worn to the field under helmets and damn the RSPCA), lucky bed-mates the night before (specially popular on the Formula One circuit), lucky wads of chewing gum carefully tucked away in cling-wrap match after match, they're all part of Great Sporting tradition.
The Mojo derived from powdered bull testes has powered many a 100-metre dash at the Olympics and is supposed to confer an amazing 'spurt' of speed to the performer. It may be harder to get hold of than the more usual performance-enhancing steroids but has the advantage of being virtually undetectable in your urine sample.
And while on the subject, here's what Argentine goal-keeper Sergio Goycochea used to do before facing a penalty shoot-out: he'd step aside and urinate on the pitch. He was convinced this was the lucky charm that helped him save goals ever since he survived a penalty shoot-out (post a quick pitch-urination) against Italy in the semi-final of the FIFA World Cup 1990.
Luckily, the increasing level of television coverage (more than twenty-six cameras and counting) means that Goycochea had to ultimately desist from his 'charming' habit of treating the pitch to his 'golden showers'.
Talking of body-waste disposal, ex-Australia cricket captain Steve Waugh has a lucky snot-rag that he always carries on to the field with him. The 'good medicine' in the hanky (a present from his grandmother) played a vital part in making Waugh the most successful test captain in history with forty-one victories from fifty-seven Tests.
(Of course, other teams have tried repeatedly to steal it, but their attempts have been foiled by the fact that Waugh never sends it to the laundry.) In fact, cricket, so tied with tradition and history has an amazing list of definitely odd superstitions. The entire Indian cricket team once sat frozen in their respective positions in the dressing room at Lords, for the duration of an entire match (the Final of the Natwest Trophy 2002.) And we all know what a long game cricket is. One wonders if they were tempted to test the efficacy of a quick dressing-room urination while they were at it. Incidentally, they won.
There are opening batsmen (Sunil Gavaskar) who always walk in to the right side of their partner or they can't contribute much to the scoreboard; batsmen who have to touch the bales before taking strike or they can't perform well (Alan Knott) and fielders who have to raise their collars or they drop the easiest of catches (Mohammad Azharuddin).
At any time during a cricket game, you may be treated to the peculiar sight of a portly cricket umpire (David Shepherd) hopping from foot to foot, if a team is stuck at the Nelson scores of 111, 222, 333 (and, of course, the dreaded but seldom achieved number of the beast, 666). If he stops hopping before the score changes, so the superstition goes, he may precipitate a collapse, an injury, freak weather or any other calamity that could possibly strike a cricket side.
Sadistic batsmen, or those with a grouse against the umpire must be sorely tempted to let the score stand
for a bit and watch the umpire hop.
Or maybe they're as anxious to get off the unlucky Nelson as he is. Because, no matter how good the preparation, no matter how talented the sportsmen, there is an unknown, unpredictable variable to all sport.
That variable kicks in for some and not for some others. That variable is the difference between winning and losing.
That ingredient X, which sportstars alternately swear by and scoff at, is Luck.
***
I just couldn't get over what Dad and Zoravar said to me that night. It was so weird, it was like I'd discovered I had a third eye or a second nose or something. You know, another whole organ I didn't know about.
The Zoya Factor Page 9