I should have seen it coming, really. After all, anybody with an IQ that high was sure to work out that once the scholarship came through, he had no further need for a loser like me.
And now Zoravar was implying that Nikhil Khoda was dumper number three - my third tryst with a destiny that just couldn't seem to get enough of rubbing my chubby face into the mud.
I brooded as I showered and brushed my teeth, thinking resentfully that Zoravar didn't know what he was talking about. He had no notion how much integrity Nikhil had, what a straight guy he was. Why, he'd tried so hard to keep me away from the team table before finally capitulating after the IPL benefit match! I was going to pay no attention to my big brother's stupid ravings, I decided, as I brushed my hair so viciously that it crackled. And headed towards the car in time for breakfast.
Breakfast this time was at the Sydney Cricket Ground itself. We drove into Moore Park by 7:15 and the place was still pretty quiet. Actually, I was starting to miss India, where the World Cup fever was way higher than here. In India, Durga pooja pandals had the goddess decked out in the Indian uniform - bats, balls and stumps in every arm - a good three months before the event started. By now, self-styled cricketing gurus would be explaining India's position, or rather 'poishun' at every street corner, and calculating if we would make the Super 8. Neelo and gang would be writing banner lines feverishly and firework stalls would be coming up everywhere. There would be the inevitable match-fixing allegations, cursing of sponsors and tsk tsking over the crass commercialization of the sport. All the cool people would be pretending to be unaffected by the fever, talking about how painfully slow ODIs were compared to Twenty20s and then running to the TV frantically when a big wicket fell. And, of course, Sony Entertainment Television would be charging obscene rates and raking in the moolah by the truckload.
The boys looked almost ready to leave when I showed up. They grinned at me and shifted to make room. The sofas had been moved out of the way and the tables pushed together to form a long one.
Rawal, of all people, called out from the other end of the table: 'Not fair, huh? Zoya won't really be at our table.'
Wow, he was being friendly. I gave him a rather-too-bright smile out of sheer surprise and he responded with a constipated one of his own. I wriggled in between Shivnath and Hairy, even though there was a little space next to Zahid. He didn't seem to notice though. He was looking really intense as he chewed furiously. Khoda, of course, was at the top of the table with Wes, Dieter Rund and Laakhi. He looked up, flashed a grin, and I smiled back, thinking what a suspicious piece of shit my brother was....
Shiv and Hairy, usually so animated, were very quiet. It was a very big match and they must have all been stressed. But this time, I didn't feel so resentful, or like an intruder. I grabbed some toast, reached for the butter, ignored the Vegemite, and poured myself some coffee.
I think they had been waiting for me to show up, because the moment I'd downed one cup, they were ready to go.
'Umm, best of luck, guys,' I said through a mouthful of toast as they all wriggled out from behind the sofas and started grabbing their stuff to leave.
Everybody smiled at me, some of them said thanks, some just slouched away, like they were embarrassed to say anything at all. But my trio of diehard fans - Hairy, Shivee and Zahid - grabbed me one at a time in a bear hug. I hugged all three back, fervently wishing them victory.
Khoda caught my eye as he left the hall. He had a strange expression on his face. He didn't look upset but definitely wasn't happy either. I smiled at him, but he didn't return the smile, just nodded and pushed his way through the swinging batwing doors.
Julius Caesar lost the toss. Khoda decided to bat, and I relaxed, thinking that the charm was working. Thank you, God. Mon and Armaan were bunking today's match but Rinku Chachi joined me at the stadium by nine. We'd had a little chat, she'd fessed up to avoiding my dad's calls and I'd told her not to feel too guilty. We settled down happily in the Members' stand, flanked by the dressing rooms on either side, so we could watch the players come and go and hoot rudely if we so wished.
The SCG is supposed to be a pretty old stadium, established in 1848, but it sure wasn't showing its age today. Its green roofs shone, its green grass gleamed and through my new binoculars, I surveyed the bright blue Zing! ground signage with satisfaction. The Brewongle Stand was right opposite us, where Vishaal and the huge Niceday contingent were already chanting Indiya! Indiya! The other stands were full of people who looked all set to start stripping the moment the temperature went up a notch.
When Harry and Shivee walked onto the field the Niceday guys started this huge Mexican wave and the commentators said, 'And here comes the first delivery from the Paddinton end...'
The first few overs were pretty slow so Jay and Beeru rabbited on about how this stadium, which once had pitches that favoured the batsmen and where Don Bradman had made his personal best of 452 for New South Wales against Queensland, had somehow mutated over the years into a spinners' paradise, and that even Allan Border, with his left-arm orthodox spin had managed to claim an unlikely eleven scalps here in '89. They wound this up by saying that Khoda's decision to bat first was a good one, which was a little scary because usually they said he took a bad decision and then we'd end up winning.
Rinku Chachi and I tuned out after a bit, because it was so slow, though half the people in the box were oohing and aahing about how stylish the boys were. The only type of cricket I can understand or enjoy is when people hit lots of boundaries or get lots of wickets. And anyway, today's match wasn't too vital, we'd creamed Zimbabwe, South Africa had creamed Bermuda and both winners expected to cream the teams that the other had already creamed. We were in a good poishun.
I had just settled down with a crime novel when a shriek sounded from behind me, piercing my eardrums and making my tooth cavities rattle: 'Zoyaaa!'
I turned. It was Vishaal, looking very grumpy, and the person who'd let out that bone-rattling shriek: Ritu Raina, my pal from Dhaka, looking drop-dead gorgeous as usual. Her hair was super straight, her clingy clothes were in yummy ice cream colours and, as she enveloped me in a massive hug, I discovered that she smelled divine.
I introduced her to Rinku Chachi who was thrilled to bits, of course, and the two of them settled down next to us. The guy whose seat it was did try to protest, but Ritu smiled at him and said 'please' so prettily that he muttered 'no worries' and wandered off, dazed.
'So?' demanded Ritu. 'How are you?'
'I'm fine,' I told her, 'And how have you been?'
She shrugged. 'Oh, I'm great,' she said airily. 'Life is fab! But what about you, Zoya? So much has happened since I saw you last, you're a real star! And I love what you're wearing!'
I found this extremely flattering of course, because, hello, in Dhaka, all she'd done was fuss with my clothes and my skin and tell me to get my hair straightened. 'Thanks,' I beamed, smoothening down my boring jeans and white cheesecloth shirt. 'Coming from you, that's a huge compliment!'
Vishaal rolled his eyes rudely and said, 'Zoya, c'mon let's grab a couple of beers.'
I opened my mouth to tell him that they'd serve us right here, but something about the look he gave me made me change my mind. 'Okay, come on.'
The moment I got up, Rinku Chachi and Ritu moved closer together and started chatting animatedly.
Vishaal and I grabbed a couple of beers and found a cosy place to sit, higher up in the stall.
'What was that?' asked Vishaal after he had taken a large swig.
'What?' I asked him blankly.
'That!' He rolled his eyes and gesticulated towards the back of Ritu's gloriously re-bonded head.
'Ritu?' I asked, surprised. 'But you looked so pally, aren't you guys friends?'
'No way, yaar,' Vishaal shook his head. 'She did one still shoot with me three years ago and ignored me completely in Dhaka. But today she renewed our acquaintance with gusto. I was flattered till I figured out all she wanted was to hook up with you
.'
'With me?' I said, quite pleased with the idea. 'Yeah, maybe, we had fun in Dhaka...'
'Or maybe with the Boys in Blue...through you,' Vishaal said.
'But she knows all of them,' I pointed out. 'She doesn't need me.'
Vishaal frowned, obviously irritated with my naivete. 'Use your head, kiddo,' he said, sipping his beer in a marked manner. 'She broke up with that Nivi guy recently, she's obviously here to attempt a reconciliation. Anyway, why do I care? I'm screwed anyway, Zoya.'
'What's wrong?' I asked, stealing a look at the closest screen, where Shivee and Hairy were plodding on, pausing now and then to make that disgusting little 'adjustment' to their crotches while Jay and Beeru rhapsodized over their sublime strokes and silken grace.
This match was way too slow, it was starting to scare me. I started muttering Please God, Please God under my breath, only half-listening to Vishaal.
His Nike film had no takers.
'I'd made it on spec, Zoya,' he said. 'Clubbed it with another shoot they were doing with Nikhil. He'd made time especially for it because he liked the script so much. Now, after all the expensive post-work I got done, the marketing guys have just washed their hands off it. They're saying the wind's blowing the other way now. Luck is in. And they've done some research, apparently you're more popular than Sania Mirza at the moment! I've spent all the advance they gave me and ten lakhs besides.'
Of course I was thrilled to be more popular than Sania. But I didn't let it show on my face as I made sympathetic noises, genuinely feeling bad for Vishaal who was a good bloke and passionate about his work. 'So what are you going to do with the ad?' I asked him.
'Put it in my showreel, I guess,' he said with a wry grimace. 'And keep shooting stills. What else to do?'
There was a commotion, and everybody leapt to their feet. Vishaal and I looked up to see that one of Shivnath's 'stylish' shots had ended in a run-out. Hairy was out and Laakhi was the new man in.
We won, in the end. By the skin of our teeth. The only reason we made it was because the South Africans had bowled too slowly and that had got us a couple of extra overs towards the end. Even then, it was a close thing. Julius Caesar's much-fancied side fought right till the end and finally lost by only 11 runs. He looked like he couldn't believe it and shook hands with Khoda like a zombie after the match. Khoda, on the other hand, looked relaxed throughout, scowling as he chewed gum and back-slapped his boys. I think I was the only person anxious about the result of this match. The team knew they could afford to lose it as long as they won against Bermuda, which was practically a walkover. I, on the other hand, would not have been able to show my face if they lost. My days of being considered the lucky charm would be so over.
Anyway, as I'd received no more Love N messages I was at a loose end that evening, we all had dinner down at the nice poolside restaurant at our hotel and got into bed early.
I was rummaging through my rucksack in search of a nail-cutter when I came upon my passport and flicked through it, feeling very well travelled now that I had an Australia stamp besides my Bangladesh and Bali ones. But something seemed to be missing. I flipped through the pages again, more frantically this time.
'Where's that match day after tomorrow, Chachi?'
She looked up startled. She was in bed, the sheet over her head. 'Hain? Beta, Auckland keh rahe the na?'
That's right, the India-Bermuda match was in Auckland, which was in New Zealand, which was the other country hosting this shindig Down Under. But where was my visa to travel there? I told Rinku Chachi that I seemed to have lost my New Zealand visa and she started beating her breast immediately. 'Hain? Ab kya karen? I've got my visa...Zoya, check properly!' She scrambled out of bed, her kaftan riding way up her chubby legs and fished out her own passport from her shiny purse. She opened it and showed me. 'Look!'
I looked. I remembered it well. A seal with a babe and a Maori dude on it. I flipped through my own passport frantically for the third time. I could've sworn I had seen it three days ago but now I didn't have it. 'Oh shit, oh shit, now what do I do?'
'Call Mr Lohia, no...' Rinku Chachi cried.
I grabbed the phone to call him, but then thought it was too late in the night to call. Besides, I didn't want him to think father and daughter were getting trigger-happy with his phone number. He was probably doing late night riyaaz or something.
'Kya Zoya?' Chachi looked at me. 'Phone karo na.'
Instead, I checked the passport three more times, extremely slowly, rubbing each page between forefinger and thumb to make sure they weren't stuck together.
No New Zealand visa.
So then I decided I could phone Nikhil, without being labelled either desperate or distracting.
I scrolled down to N and called him, my heart beating hard, partly with worry about the visa and partly with excitement about speaking to him.
The phone rang for a long time. If it hadn't been a bonafide emergency, I'd have hung up. But I waited, pacing the floor in my baggy pajamas and finally, he picked up.
'Uh...hello?' He sounded super sexy and super sleepy. My toes curled up in my bathroom slippers immediately.
'Hi,' I said awkwardly. 'Listen, I know it's late and you said you don't have time for me but I have a real problem. There's no New Zealand visa in my passport.'
He took a while to grasp that. There was a long pause and then he said, 'Are you sure?'
I nodded vigorously. 'Absolutely. I checked every single page. Rinku Chachi has one though.'
'Like that helps,' he groaned, sounding like he was throwing off the sheets and swinging himself out of bed. I found myself wondering what he was wearing...linen pajama bottoms with nothing on top, I decided. Creamy white. And the bed would have creamy white sheets too. My heart did a lazy belly flop at the thought. Then I realized he was saying something.
'Send it down to Reception.'
'What?' I asked blankly.
'The passport, Zoya! Are you sure you're awake and not dreaming up this whole thing?'
'I'm awake,' I said indignantly.
'Good, I'll get Jogpal's guys to pick it up right away. Maybe they can swing your visa by tomorrow afternoon, okay?'
So I trundled down to Reception, handed over my passport, then came back and reported to Nikhil again - happy to have an excuse to speak to him. 'I dropped it off,' I announced when he answered, sounding wide awake.
'Good girl,' he said.
An awkward pause followed. I desperately wanted to keep him on the phone but couldn't think of anything to say.
Finally, he said, and I could tell that he was smiling, 'So, how was your musical soiree the other night?'
Thrilled that he wanted to talk, I replied, giggling a little, 'You knew? You could've warned me. I would've said I hated music! The guy's a lunatic!'
'Not really,' Nikhil said. 'He's actually sharp as a whip. Do you know why he sports that huge bushy beard?'
'Why?' I asked, not at all interested in the answer, but hey, that was hardly the point. Nikhil Khoda wanted to talk to me, who cared what the conversation was about?
'Guess,' he said, his tone intimate.
'Because he's hideously disfigured?' I hazarded, rather huskily in a daring attempt to sound sexy.
'What?' said Nikhil, 'I didn't catch that.'
I sighed and repeated the question in my normal voice. 'Because he's hideously disfigured?'
'No,' Nikhil replied. 'He used to be clean-shaven till '84, but when all those riots happened after Mrs Gandhi died and Sikhs everywhere were shaving their beards to avoid being persecuted, he grew one, to show solidarity with their cause.'
'He sounds nuts,' I said a little resentfully, thinking about how he'd ganged up against me with my dad.
Nikhil carried on like he hadn't heard me, 'Then he shaved it off and was clean-shaven for a long time. But the day after 9/11, he was living in the States then, he started growing it again.'
'To show solidarity with the Taliban?' I asked.
&nbs
p; 'No,' Nikhil chuckled, 'not really. To show he's not intimidated by the Americans, I think. He's always getting stopped at international airports by Security. Sometimes he carries little books in Arabic script just to give them a scare. He's quite a character, Jogpal.'
I snorted. 'Jo Lo you mean,' I said, irritated because he sounded so fond of him. 'Because he's a singer and all. Kind of like J. Lo, only with a bigger butt.'
Nikhil laughed. 'He's a good guy. Just eccentric as hell.'
There was another long pause. I racked my brain for something intelligent to say, but all I could think was: Please don't say goodnight! Not yet!
The Zoya Factor Page 23