Meanwhile, Hharviinder Singh was blissfully slamming the ball right around the stadium. Khoda was giving him 'solid support' according to the commentators.
I finally allowed myself to relax and when Shanta went off to join her press buddies, I pulled out my own phone and scrolled down to the message Khoda had sent me this morning. Yes! There it was - I hadn't imagined it. Just looking at it made me feel a little dizzy. Relax, we'll cream them. Well, that part of it was coming true right in front of my eyes, but what about the really interesting nextbit? Meet me later? What did that mean? Did I have a date with him? A Friday night out with Captain Coldheart? And what about the best bit right at the end? Love N.
Not just plain N. Or, See ya N. Or, Cheers N.
Love N.
Okay, Mon's told me that in Bollywood everybody ends all their text messages with 'love' followed by their initials, even the GET messages they send to their phone company when they want to check their missed calls, but Nikhil wasn't from Bollywood! So Love N must have meant something, don't you think?
Mon and Armaan came back and sat down next to me so I put my phone away hastily. I felt weird around Mon, since she'd got it into her head that she was my 'chaperone'. Strangely, she spooked me out more than Rinku Chachi did. I decided to venture out of the plush VIP box and see what life was like in the rest of the stadium.
I was halfway out when a hot little hand grasped mine and I looked down to see Armaan trotting beside me. 'I have to go to bathroom,' he said. 'Take me.'
So I took him to the girl's loo, hauled off his shorts and Spiderman chaddis and plonked him on the pot. He looked very confused and asked me, 'Should I make?'
'Sure,' I told him. 'Go ahead, make.'
And that's how I ended up getting thoroughly splashed with susu at the Gabba, in Brisbane, Australia.
Armaan was more mortified than me. 'You only told me to make, Zoya,' he said tearfully as I rinsed my ganji and dried it under the hand-dryer.
'I know, baba,' I told him resignedly. 'I'm sorry, I forgot boys don't sit down and make. Don't worry, and don't look at me till I put on my shirt!'
The score had moved considerably by the time we emerged. I bought Armaan a drink with 'Woolloongabba' inscribed around it and we took a little walk.
'Hey, Zoya!' someone yelled. It was Vishaal, sitting amongst his contingent of biscuit-munchers. 'Come sit with us!' he yelled, putting out one arm for us to grasp.
So we jumped up and sat with them. A happy-looking pot-bellied sanitation engineer from Gajraula, UP, smeared tiranga face paint on Armaan's cheeks and offered me some genuine Bikaner bhujia and Old Monk Rum and Zing! premix. I handed Armaan the bhujia and took a large swig of the rum. The alcohol burnt my innards and made my eyes water. As I brought the bottle down, spluttering slightly, the stadium exploded. Nikhil had hit a six close to where we were seated and Armaan leapt to catch it and missed and we all rose up in a huge Mexican wave and chanted, 'Nikhil Khoda dat gaya, Zimbabwe ka phat gaya!'
It was awesome.
Things got a bit tense when Hairy finally got out at 85, and Navneet Singh got out for duck right after. But it steadied after that.
Armaan crunched steadily through two packets of bhujia and two of Niceday Jimjams as Nikhil, Saif and some new dude I'd never heard of called M. Mussaffar piled up a total of 310 for India with one last over still to play.
'It's unbelievable!' Vishaal yelled, and all of us leapt up and down cheering: 'India! India!' as some poor hapless Zimbabwe bowler ran up to feed a rampant Khoda another delivery. '310 for 4! Zoya, you've got to come eat with me before I do anything important in my life! Fuck. Where were you when AWB played Grey Worldwide for the Agency Cup, anyway?'
They finally finished off with 321 and then came off the pitch, looking sweaty but happy. Khoda spoke briefly to the anchors, but of course I couldn't hear what was being said, there being no TV in the Niceday enclosure. Then Armaan and I wandered back to our VIP box to find Chachi and Mon totally hysterical with joy at how well India was playing.
There was a really fancy champagne lunch laid out for us VIP types but I was too far gone on the Old Monk to appreciate it. Rinku Chachi loaded her plate with food, and then, finding it all too boiled and bland, kept trying to force it on poor Armaan.
The second half started while we were still eating and we had to scurry back to our seats to watch the Indians fanning out across the stadium into their fielding positions.
They showed Nikhil in close-up on the TV screen, he had the ball in his hand and was chucking it from hand to hand, his eyes narrowed to slits. Then he tossed the ball to Zahid who caught it deftly.
And then Zahid Pathan began that lithe, powerful run-up the girls all loved so much, his copper curls bouncing, and hurled the ball like a bomb at the poor red and green bakra at the other end of the pitch.
It was a massacre.
They were all out for 233, thus losing the psychological edge even for the matches to come, according to the commentator.
The Indians strutted back happily as the sun came down on the Gabba and the crowd cheered lustily. The choice for Man of the Match was obviously going to be Hairy - he'd made 85 runs in the morning, and had taken a couple of vital wickets too, when Khoda had tried something unconventional and given him the ball in the slog overs.
'He's a good captain, this Khoda,' Rinku Chachi said approvingly as we saw him vanish into the doorway directly below us, deep in conversation with the Zimbabwe bowler who'd batted so gamely in the last two overs. 'India toh aaj dat gaya.'
Armaan chimed in happily: 'Zimbabwe ka phat gaya!'
Mon looked at him, totally appalled.
We got back to the hotel in just under half an hour. The organizers had warned us about traffic, but Rinku Chachi said, 'What traffic? This whole country and all its cars will fit in our UP state only.'
As soon as we got back, I had a bath, brushed my teeth, dried my hair and started rummaging in my bags for the jeans and saucy little firoza-blue top I'd decided to wear after a painstaking mental review of my entire wardrobe while pretending to be absorbed in the second innings of the match.
Mon bounced into our room all ready to party at eight o' clock. 'C'mon. Let's go,' she burbled excitedly. 'There's a casino aboard the Kookaburra Queen at eight-thirty. Let's not miss it.'
She was looking really hot in a Goddess-like way, in a black sleeveless dress, her helmet hair clinging to her exquisite cheekbones. She smacked her lips to settle her lipstick, looked me over and nodded approvingly. 'Nice top, Zoya,' she said. 'I've never seen you wear it before.'
I tugged at the plunging halter top, trying to pull it closer to the waistband of my embroidered jeans. 'It's not too nangapanga, na?' I asked uneasily.
'No way!' she said, 'it rocks. Besides, you can cover up with your hair if you feel conscious. But you may want to take a wrap along, it could get a bit chilly on the boat.'
'Uh, actually,' I told her, a little self-consciously, 'I'm not coming with you guys on the boat.'
Monita had been busy fishing out her phone and cigarettes from her capacious 'mommy' handbag and stuffing them into her skinny 'party' clutch but at this she looked up at me, an arrested gleam in her dark eyes. 'Really?' she enquired. 'So where are you headed? And with whom? Or' - her eyes narrowed - 'is somebody coming here?'
In answer, I smugly held up my phone and showed her the message on it.
She peered down at it short-sightedly and then slowly this huge grin broke across her face. But all she said was, 'Uh huh? And who might "N" be?'
'Naveen Nischol,' I told her sweetly. 'I'm his greatest fan. I'm in love with his pudgy face and flared pants and negligently knotted neckerchief.'
'Okay,' Mon grinned. 'Just make sure Naveen pads up before he bats, okay?'
So I sat down on the sofa, with my phone in my hand and waited for Nikhil to call. And waited. And waited.
Of course it would've been perfectly acceptable behaviour for me to call and congratulate him and gently remind
him about our date but there was no way I could bring myself to do it. Not on top of that overeager Where's Nikhil? I'd come up with this morning.
So I made a deal with myself. If he didn't call by ten I was going to change into my pajamas and order Room Service. Decision made (more or less), I flicked on the TV and started watching the highlights of the day's match.
The two commentators, who'd been on all day, were still going strong, talking to a bunch of people in a live studio. I glowered at the two of them blankly, even as, at the back of my mind, I brooded over the Khoda no-show.
The programme was called 'Jay and Beeru ki Show le! ' - a name that made sense to everybody who hailed from the Indian subcontinent and to nobody else. Jay (Jason Plunkett) was a laconic English ex-captain, very dry and precise, and Beeru (Birendra Singh) was a motor-mouthed Indian ex-opening batsman, with a not very strong grasp of the English language.
Anyway, the Jay and Beeru show was on in full swing. Beeru was going on about how Nivi had not only got out for a duck but had also dropped two catches. 'Vul, all I can say is that Navdeep Singh is a bit of a slacker,' he said, shaking his head from side to side gravely. 'His captain should pull his socks.'
Jay nodded. 'I agree. I was surprised to see Nick Khoda giving the ball to Hharviinder Singh. Bit of a gamble, that was, wasn't it, Beeru?'
Beeru placed his fingers together, frowned broodingly and said, 'Vul, gumballs are like girlfriends, my friend.'
Jay looked at him blankly. 'Sexy?'
Beeru shook his head sombrely. 'Very, very expensive. But Nikhil's paid off today. Of course, Harry can bowl a little bit. He's done it in school and at A-level matches. It's a good strategy because it let them get an extra batsman in. And it did not affect his batting also! Hats off to him, that was a great knock he played today.'
'Well, one batsman who's on his way out of the eleven is Navneet Singh,' Jay said. 'He'll be lucky if Khoda plays him again in Sydney. That was an altogether pathetic performance today.'
Of course I couldn't help thinking at this point that Navneet Singh had missed having breakfast with me this morning. Maybe that had something to do with his abysmal show today. Okay, I know what Neelo would say. You're becoming a victim of your own hype, Zoya. But really, I was feeling so low and unwanted thanks to Khoda not showing up that I was ready to cling to any straw. If you thought about it, Hairy - my truest acolyte - had been Man of the Match today! So maybe I really was a kind of god-woman after all! I'd worn orange to breakfast today, had big curly hair and was doling out victory to my devotees and ignominious dismissal from the side to disbelievers!
Hah!
It was an intoxicating thought. But I couldn't hold onto it.
The fact that there were eleven matches to go for India in this tournament - that's if we made the Super 8 of course - dampened my spirits considerably. What were the odds of our loser team winning them all?
I sighed, ripped open a packet of minibar goodies and wondered if there was anything I could do to make my Luckiness last. I could pray, I suppose, but all of India was praying everyday, anyway. And what about the use-up-all-your-good-luck-on-cricket-and-be-doomed-to-bad-luck-in-your-own-life theory? Nothing was going good in my personal life, was it?
I mean, everybody else was at a floating casino having a blast, and I was overeating in a hotel room, after being urinated on by a five-year-old, waiting for a world-famous person to call me. God, I was such a loser. How much worse was it going to get, anyway? Maybe I was destined to help India win the World Cup and then die or something!
Oh my God! That was it!
I had a sudden, perfect flash into the future. Khoda was going to clinch the final with a huge six. The ball would fly into the stands, knock me on the head, cause a horrible spurting wound and decapitate me in front of a million viewers. An ugly bat-shaped monument would be erected in Shivaji Park in my honour. Khoda would stand brooding before it, blue cap in hand, crying in the rain, as the credits rolled down on the movie of my life.
I zapped off the TV, collapsed on to the bed and covered my head with my pillow.
***
13
The first thing I saw the next morning was Khoda's face in the Herald Sun. He was laughing, brown eyes warm as they gazed into the dulcet dark ones of some hot-looking babe showing too much cleavage. Underneath, it read: Indian skipper Nikhil Khoda with local restaurateur Reita Sing, at the latter's restaurant Sultry South at South Bank, late last night.
Tears sprang to my eyes. I chucked the paper onto the floor and headed for the loo.
When I emerged, a good forty minutes later, Monita and Rinku Chachi told me kindly but firmly that we were all going to the Gold Coast for a day of sun and fun. So I ended up trailing along behind them in the Movieworld theme park while Armaan skipped about ahead of us, sticking his tongue out at everybody who passed us by.
'Armaan, stop showing your tongue to all of Australia,' begged his overwrought mother.
'No, no, Mummy,' he replied earnestly, 'I am not showing my tongue to Australia, I am showing Australia to my tongue! Because it lives inside my small, dark mouth hole and doesn't get to see anything. See Tongue - see the pretty girl in the shorts, see Tongue, see the fat man in the shorts, see Tongue, see Zahid Pathan...'
I looked up, surprised, and sure enough, there was Zahid, all Mickey Mouse tee shirt and tousled curls. He was waving out to us, flushed and grinning and seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was being tailed by a gaggle of giggly Pakistani girls. 'Hi, Zoya!' he said as he bounded up. 'I just did all the wet water rides, it is superb, awesome, too good, matlab ki you will love it!'
He then started telling me that I simply had to do a bungee jump. I told him to go do it himself but he said Dieter-sir would kill him if he tried it. Then Monita chimed in too, whispering all kinds of corny agony aunt stuff like, C'mon, snap out of it, stop brooding, do the bungee. Don't let other people take control over your happiness....
The two of them hauled me over to a huge crane, fully covered in graffiti, where a bloodthirsty crowd had gathered to watch all the deranged loons who were paying large sums of money to risk killing themselves in the flower of their youth.
A guy with tattooed tits, dark glasses and big black jack boots yelled down to us, 'You folks wanna swing?'
'She does!' Zahid, yelled back, giving the guy a big thumbs up sign. The crowd cheered happily. 'Well. Get on up then!'
The guy made us shell out two hundred fifty Aussie dollars. (I started multiplying by thirty-seven, but then Zahid said it was his treat. He actually used that word - treat, hello, this was a treat?) Then this guy with a video camera started briefing me about where to look and wave while he shot the video of my jump. Which made me get all worked up about the fact that my little cropped top would flip over my head when I fell and my new, specially-bought-for-Australia-bra-encased boobs would be captured on camera for all to see.
I tried to explain this to Zahid. It took a while for him to get it, but then he nodded, whipped off his shirt, and told me to put it on. (A few of the Pakistani girls swooned and Monita instantly started humming dard-e-disco under her breath.) Somehow, managing to ignore the seriously lethal torso on display, I put it on, and then he tucked the bottom snugly all the way around into my shorts.
The next thing I knew, I was walking up the first series of stairs, a weird plummeting feeling in the pit of my stomach, which up till now I'd only associated with encounters with Nikhil Khoda.
Below me, the crowd cheered lustily. What a bloodthirsty bunch of people, I thought, surveying them from a lofty height. Really, it would serve them all right if I threw up large amounts of semi-digested candy floss and coke on them as I fell....
I took a deep calming breath.
Oh well, I reasoned, as I walked off the edge, I'm feeling so suicidal, maybe simulating it will actually be kind of cathartic....
***
I strutted happily into the lobby of my hotel that evening, feeling totally at home in Australia, t
he adrenalin rush from the bungee jump still very much with me. The guy at Reception got all excited when he saw me. 'Miss So Lanky?' he went (hah, I only wish I was!). 'There's a gentleman waiting to see you. He's been waiting for a long time, two hours or more. He's right over there, behind that screen.'
Khoda. It had to be Khoda, I thought instantly, my heartbeat zooming. So much for not letting other people take control of your happiness.
I spun around and hurtled towards the Aboriginal screen he'd pointed at, fluffing up my hair as I went past, to see a familiar face all right, butnot the lean dark one I'd been hoping for. Plump and fair and shinily bald-pated under the fancy hotel lights, Lokendar Chugh beamed up at me benignly. 'Hello, Joyaji,' he said, all avuncular charm. 'Why you are not picking up thee phone?'
The Zoya Factor Page 19