The Zoya Factor

by Anuja Chauhan

  The crowd was heckling the fielders in the outfield shamelessly, hissing and hooting. Thind was foolish enough to do a couple of side bends and squats to stretch his muscles and had to endure a Mexican wave of dark-green figures copying him one after the other - bending, squatting, bending again, and then letting out a huge farty raspberry at the end of the second squat. The cheering began every time an Indian bowler began his run up, paused reverentially as the batsman thwacked the ball away and rose to a deafening roar as the ball raced across the pitch and anywhere close to the boundary.

  'They're cheering singles like they are sixes!' Rinku Chachi yelled to me over the din. 'What will they do when they really hit a six?'

  We knew soon enough. Their fancy-boy opener hit a mighty six and the crowd combusted. The drumming, the synchronized clapping and war-cry-like chanting felt like we were on a battlefield.

  'Amazing how they don't get intimidated,' Mon said, peering out at Nikhil on the field. He was chewing gum and squinting in the sun looking as if he were waiting for a bus.

  Must be seeing only thee eye of thee cupboard, I thought slightly hysterically and got up to get myself a drink, deciding that the only way to get through this match without becoming a gibbering wreck was to get systematically sloshed. So I piled on the Victoria Bitter and totally surrendered to the excitement on the field. I cheered and whooped and screamed like a crazed person. Luckily, I was wearing a body suit over my shorts or I'd have probably ripped off my shirt and whirled it over my head.

  At one point Mon had to pull me down and hush me because I'd stood up and started yelling: 'Allah-hoo-Akbar' at the top of my voice.

  'Zoya, what are you doing? They'll think you're making fun,' she hissed in my ear so I covered my mouth with my hands, slightly bewildered. I'd just been trying to show some sporting spirit. Then I took it upon myself to teach the names of the fielding positions to the starlet closest to me. I pulled out a ball point pen and started drawing a neatly labelled cricket pitch on the bare back of the gay designer dude sitting in front of me. He turned around and gave me a smacking kiss on the mouth and said that he was a huge fan of mine. Obviously, I was not the only drunk person in the stands.

  When the umpire rejected Balaji's appeal I leapt to my feet and showed him both my middle fingers and the camera crew caught me doing it and beamed my image on the giant stadium screens....

  The Bollywood starlets were looking at me in delicate horror, even as they whipped out their cellphones and started taking videos of Zoya Devi smashed out of her skull.

  And that's when a totally mortified Rinku Chachi dragged me out onto the steps and hissed, 'Stop it, Zoya! If you have no shame for yourself, have some shame for your papa's sake!'

  That rebuke should've sobered me up, I suppose, but I don't know if it did.

  Anyway, I allowed her to take me to the loo where I threw up huge quantities of undigested beer, washed my face and combed out my dishevelled hair. Then she made me drink a whole bottle of Aquafina and led me back to my seat through the row of starlets with a grim smile plastered on her face, muttering under her breath, 'Behave yourself now or I'll break both your legs.'

  During all this commotion, Pakistan had been hammering away steadily, their bearded, gargantuan captain leading from the front as usual. They finished at 330 for seven.

  Of course I had a raging headache by the time the Indians came out to bat. The cheers were totally deafening now, the so-called classy people in the members' enclosure were behaving no better than the rowdies in Bay 13 of the MCG, which is famous for its disorderly conduct. I pressed a chilled can of Zing! to my throbbing forehead and wished I'd stayed at the hotel after all.

  The boys seemed to be doing okay, sticking to the required run rate and appearing quite relaxed. The Pakistanis looked tense though; their poishun was not very good at the moment. They still had to win two more matches if they wanted to make the semis and they only had three left to play. Their wicketkeeper, a wiry little guy with loads of attitude, kept dancing from foot to foot and goading the bowlers, in a voice that was beginning to sound just a little bit hysterical. And that's when the first little incident happened.

  Shivee suddenly turned around and glared at the wicketkeeper murderously.

  The crowd was immediately caught up in the action. 'And there seems to be bit of sledging being alleged there if I'm not mistaken,' the commentator said. 'Shivnath's looking upset...'

  'I don't really think that could've happened, Beeru,' Jay said confidently. 'The mikes would've picked it up.'

  Whatever it was, it got smoothed over quickly and play resumed. The commentators remarked that this was probably one rare occasion when the ICC had appointed both non-Hindi/Urdu-speaking umpires in an India-Pakistan match.

  'Umpire Patil is of Indian origin, but he's born and brought up in England,' Beeru informed us. 'He claims to be Hindi-speaking but honestly, his Hindi is no better than yours, Jay.'

  I took this to mean that the wicketkeeper could keep spouting mother-sister ke abuses to the batsmen and the dudes in the Fly Emirates shirts would never know.

  The openers gave us a good start nonetheless and when Laakhi and Khoda finally came on we were 133 for two in seventeen overs, which wasn't bad at all. I finally allowed myself to relax; even my headache eased a bit.

  It helped that the starlet next to me was a sighing sticky little bundle, seriously in lust with Khoda. She grabbed my arm the moment he strolled out, swinging his bat and squinting in the sunshine, acknowledging the roar of the crowd with a quick grin.

  'He is so hot!' she sighed, squeezing my arm hard. 'He looks like a gladiator, like a king, like God.'

  Mon gave her an old-fashioned look. 'Only God looks like God,' she said mildly.

  'Oh, I know,' gushed the starlet. 'But he's totally the hottest guy on the team, don't you think?'

  'Oh, d'you think so?' I burped politely. 'Zahid's pretty hot.'

  The starlet dismissed Zahid with a wave of her hand. 'Zahid's just a boy,' she said, like she chewed and spat out boys like him for brunch. 'Nikhil's a man. See how strong his jaw is? And he looks so intense - like he'd let you flirt with other guys all evening and then' - she sighed - 'and then take you home and make violent, passionate love to you and show you who the boss is.'

  Mon and I stared at each other, absolutely gobsmacked. We were both reeling under this vision of Nikhil as a bodice-ripping, sari-utaaro demon lover. 'Uh,' Mon coughed. 'Yes... he does look like...a...er man. What do you think, Zoya?'

  The starlet turned to look at me eagerly. 'Don't you think he's a VPL type? You know, a Violent Passionate Lover?'

  'Oh, I don't know,' I said, rather viciously, I must admit. 'Doesn't VPL stand for Visible Panty Line? I think I can see his through those horrible blue track pants, actually.'

  The starlet let out a half-outraged scream of laughter at this. And right away Mon giggled as Nikhil ran down the pitch with his bat out, 'A VPL with a big bat.'

  This got everybody giggling and then the bare-backed designer dude cleared his throat authoritatively. 'Sorry to break your hearts, dearies,' he said cosily, 'but I happen to know for a fact that most cricketers don't have willies. All they've got is willows.'

  And so then all of us got into this discussion about whether all batsmen were compensating for something. And while we were all giggling over this, it happened again. Nikhil suddenly stopped play by walking up to the umpire and saying something to them.

  'What's happening out there, Beeru?' Jay said. 'It's not like Nick Khoda to disrupt the game like this.'

  'You're right, Jay,' Beeru said. 'You know, I have half a notion it's sledging again.'

  The mikes couldn't pick up the conversation at all, but the umpire seemed to be wagging his finger, while the Pakistani wicketkeeper made open-handed shrugging gestures, seemingly protesting his innocence. The crowd-monster hissed and booed. Play resumed and the mood lightened when Nikhil - his jaw set and that familiar Boost-ad-gleam in his eyes - flicked the very ne
xt delivery away for an arrogant four. The crowd went berserk. Cries of India! India! rent the air.

  The next delivery was no better and Khoda and Laakhi ended up making seventeen runs in that particular over. The crowd erupted, cheering ecstatically. The lesser Khans broke into a wild jig. One of them yelled, 'Death to Paki scum,' and had to be gagged and sat upon.

  'Well, that seems to have backfired on Pakistan somewhat, don't you think, Beeru?'

  'Absolutely, these two are mature players, Jay. Such tactics would only goad them to lift their game...'

  The Pakistan captain seemed to think the same. He clapped his hands, gathered his boys around him, and gave them a tongue-lashing. Meanwhile, Laakhi yawned and spat. At the other end, Nikhil Khoda leaned on his bat, panting slightly with a fuck-you grin on his face. They did manage to get Laakhi out, finally, but not before he'd made 64 runs.

  Zahid came in to bat then and that's when things got ugly.

  The Paki wicketkeeper was definitely up to something. He was a tiny guy, but cocky. Apparently, he had a history of being obnoxious.

  'That guy's a class act,' I heard one of the lesser Khans say to his buddies. 'I've studied him over the years, dude. He makes an art out of figuring out people's insecurities and baiting them when they come out to play. Pitega ek din.'

  Well, he'd definitely said something that had enraged Zahid. He was looking positively murderous. I remembered what he'd told me about using the crowd's hostility to fuel his performance and I hoped that was what he'd do now.

  During the break the umpires called in both skippers and said that any more sledging would cause them to dock runs from the total of the side that was misbehaving. Everybody nodded in a most civilized way and the game resumed. India was at 263, just 68 runs away from an assured place in the semis. The match rolled on, Nikhil and Zahid piled up runs steadily with ease. The Pakis looked desperate. Their pretty-boy bowlers flicked their stylishly cut hair out of their eyes nervously, spat on the ball and rubbed it against their thighs compulsively, hurling it like a lit bomb upon the pitch again and again - it proved ineffectual.

  'Yes, the match definitely seems to be slipping away from Pakistan now. Jay, what d'you say?'

  'Well, I have to agree with you there, Beeru. A score of 331 seemed like a mountain of a total this morning, but India have made it look like a molehill.'

  'Vul, traditionally India-Pakistan matches are very high-scoring, and this has proved to be no exception. And there's the 300 coming up now, Jay, unless I'm very much mistaken.'

  He wasn't. Khoda had eased it away for a four through the slips and India were 302 for three. He got run out a little after that. He'd whacked the ball away and charged down the pitch even as Zahid yelled at him to stay put above the roar of the crowd. Khoda turned around, his bat out, but one of the pretty-boy bowlers got the stumps with a direct hit. There was a terrible crackingsound as the middle stump broke cleanly into two. The Pakis leapt up into the air and the blazing look went out of Nikhil's eyes. He stopped to talk to Zahid on the way back, and seemed to be telling him something intensely. Zahid nodded, looking somewhat sullen, and Khoda slapped him on the back encouragingly and walked back to the pavilion. He got a standing ovation, but I honestly didn't think he noticed. He'd faced 103 deliveries and made 124 runs.

  Navneet Singh was the next man in. He looked very unsure, but that was okay. All he had to do was rotate the batting and let Zahid do his thing. It must have been deja vu for Zahid because we were quickly approaching the same situation that he'd faced in Auckland.

  Beeru and Jay were quick to remind us of this. They both started speculating if Zahid could do it this time.

  'In cricket, it's not often that you get a chance to redeem yourself so wholly, and so soon, Beeru,' Jay said. 'Young Pathan has been given that chance today and I, for one, want to see him do it.'

  'Yes, vul, his captain has full faith in him,' Beeru said. 'The knee-jerk reaction after the Auckland showing would have been to place him lower down the order. Khoda's moved him up two places instead.'

  'Oh, Pathan's shaping up to be quite an all-rounder,' Jay said. 'That's the wonder of the World Cup, isn't it, Beeru? A whole new crop of talent is discovered through it every four yea - ' he broke off abruptly, then said, his manner completely altered - 'Now what in the world was that about?'

  Zahid had turned upon the weasely wicketkeeper, and was glaring at him.

  The wicketkeeper met his gaze calmly smirking slightly, then turned away and spat casually on the grass behind him. But Zahid kept glowering at him, and so he turned around and shrugged innocently. Then, just as the crowd-monster threatened to slip its leash and charge the pitch, Zahid abruptly turned his back on the wicketkeeper again.

  'Bit of an altercation there, Beeru, don't you think? Pathan's shaking his head, telling Umpire Patil that nothing's been said after all.'

  And then, when India was at 327, there it was. The final ball.

  A scene immortalized in a million cheesy ads along the subcontinent. The hoarse, passionate chanting, the clutching of taveezes, the genuflections. The looks towards heaven with teary, supplicating eyes. The collective holding of a billion breaths. And you felt the thrill every single time.

  The pretty-boy bowler licked his lips, launched into his final run-up and hurled the ball. And as the crowd-monster bayed for blood screaming 'Zahid, Zahid, Zahid' - Zahid Pathan got onto the front foot, his eyes mere slits in his grim young face. He hoisted his bat and thwacked the tiny white ball away with absolutely everything he had. It soared above our heads, above the pavilion roof, and vanished for ever.

  The crowd-monster roared. It threw back its massive, million-eyed head and laughed manically. It did an ungainly, over-the-top jig. It lay back on its back, kicked its legs into the air and screamed in delight, INDIYA! INDIYA!

  The relief was indescribable.

  We were all hugging each other and looking at the TV, where Zahid was doing a wild dance, swinging his bat about and making strange thrusting movements with his hips.

  'Somebody should put that poor boy out of his misery,' one of the starlets whispered and they all started to giggle and make plans about which pub to hit tonight in order to meet Zahid and turn him from a bud into a flower.

  And then, suddenly, it happened.

  Zahid's swinging bat made impact with something. Something skinny and brown and surly-looking. Dressed in green. The Pakistani wicketkeeper to be exact. He'd been walking back to the pavilion too, taking off his helmet, and Zahid's exultantly swinging bat had somehow caught him smack in the face, making a grotesque crunching noise. It felled him instantly.

  The commentators suddenly became silent as everybody on the field dropped to the ground to see if the wicketkeeper was okay. The first person to grab his pulse, to urge that something be done, to shout for an ambulance, was an extremely concerned-looking Zahid himself.

  The Times of India

  'ZAHID'S OOOPS', 'INDIA'S HOUR OF SHAME'

  by Shanta Kalra in Melbourne

  Spectators around the world were treated to a sublime display of cricket today. There were so many high points in this humdinger of a match. The Pakistani captain's incredible knock, the one-handed running backward catch that got Lakhshan Singh Teja out when he looked set for a big total, Nikhil Khoda's sixteenth ton in one-day cricket and, of course, Zahids Pathan's heroic, match-winning six off the last ball. Unfortunately, today's match will be remembered for none of these. If this date does go down in cricketing history, it will be remembered as the day a demigod behaved like a dastardly dog.

  Right after taking India into the semi-finals of the ICC World Cup 2011 with a display of brilliant, aggressive, temperamentally sound cricket, Zahid Pathan (19) unwrote his own place in history by 'accidentally' injuring Naved Khan, the Pakistani wicketkeeper.

  While strutting back to the pavilion, a wildly whooping Zahid's willow somehow managed to find a sweet spot in the face of Pak wicketkeeper, Naved Khan, who was walking behind him, le
aving him bleeding and almost definitely out of the reckoning for Pakistan's next One-dayer, against the West Indies.

  Zahid was all concern and his contrition seemed sincere enough, but anybody who'd witnessed the sledging that had gone on the field today would agree that the whole incident smelled strongly of Mickey Mouse.

  Definitely the Pakistani skipper and management seemed to think so.

  'Arrey, who does he think he's fooling?' said a visibly upset team manager Shahmeya Dilbar. 'He did it on purpose.... He waited till our keeper took off his helmet so he could do the maximum damage. We are going to lodge an official complaint and get him a lifelong ban from cricket!'

  IBCC chief Jogpal Lohia vehemently denied the allegation that Zahid's 'attack' was premeditated. 'What happened with Naved was unfortunate, but it was an unfortunate accident. See the footage. He did not mean to do it!'