But what would happen if the Goddess started feeling mutinous? What would happen if she decided to step out of her 'God-given' role a little and started to do things that were, uh, just not cricket?
Zoya Singh Solanki is a creation of Jogpal Lohia, Nikhil Khoda and Weston Hardin. They are the Godly Triad that found a simple little girl with an appealing birth date and an intriguing record and fashioned her into a Goddess capable of vanquishing superior foes, whom they had never before succeeded in vanquishing alone.
Today, Zoya has indeed achieved Goddess-like status. A thousand babies have been named after her, temples have sprung up in her honour, her name is chanted fervently as Indian batsmen take guard on the screens of fourteen-inch television sets across the nation.
And as she blazes a trail through the tenth ICC World Cup, as the event gets christened the Goddess of all Conflicts, and as the Australian captain officially issues a statement of protest of unfair advantage to the ICC, the trio who created her have their groin guards in a twist. Because Zoya Devi does not believe in keeping a low profile.
She has, since she got to Australia, broken arms, caused fist fights, bestowed kisses, hexed performances and, with a lotus-pink tongue, greedily lapped up the credit for every Indian victory and, rumour says, the cream of all cricketing endorsements on the subcontinent.
In Australia, a visibly uncomfortable-looking Nikhil Khoda fielded questions on the issue last night. 'Personally, I don't believe in luck,' he said. This disingenuous remark was greeted with derisive hoots from the Australians in the audience. 'Our team is good, they're playing well. Don't you guys have any questions on the game, for heaven's sake?' They didn't. And now, as Zoya Devi, the Raktdantini, the Goddess who likes the taste of blood on her teeth, opens her maw even wider and roars for an even larger share of the juicy cricket pie, the gods are crying foul.
But Zoya Devi is no longer Anybody's Creature.
She's tasted power and loves it. Zoya Devi is on a rampage. The Gods are running for extra cover. I sit here, laugh a deep, guttural belly-laugh and raise an admiring toast to the Goddess.
Zoya Mata ki Jai!
***
20
Dad came hurrying towards me as soon as I got off the plane, right there on the tarmac at IGI airport. I hugged him in surprise. 'What are you doing here, Dad?' I asked. 'How did airport security let you all the way in?'
'They didn't want you to cause a riot,' he said matter-of-factly. 'There's a car waiting for us, right here.' He pointed to a white Ambassador with flashing red sirens. 'They'll send the bags along later.'
The sun was just about breaking through Delhi's winter fog as our car wound its way out of the airport. We passed a huge crowd of reporters and the OB vans of at least six different news channels. Dad cackled, 'Outsmarted them,' with quiet triumph. 'They've been camping here for you all night!' he explained.
'For me?' I said in wonder.
'You're a Grade A celebrity, Zoya.'
Pretty cool, huh? I saw my face on at least a hundred posters on the way home! They'd been put up by the ZDDD - the Zoya Devi Devotee Dal. I saw Zing! banners that read 'Zing! Khol, Zoya Bol!' I saw a Zandu Balm poster that said: 'Z for Zandu, Z for Zoya. Lucky Charm ka Lucky Balm!' I saw a little chai boy rushing to deliver tea in a tee shirt that had my face on it. It was supercool.
There was a humongous crowd outside our front gate, so Dad got the driver to drive right past it and we sneaked in through the little back gate in G. Singh's part of the house.
G. Singh was waiting there looking teary-eyed. He smothered his wife in a mighty clinch and didn't come up for air for at least three minutes. Then he finally turned to me and said, his wise-turtle face beaming, 'Welcome home, beta.'
I hugged him and then we trooped through the house and down to our bit of it, where Eppa and Meeku waited, shrieking and barking respectively. 'Zoyaaaa!' Eppa exclaimed as Meeku licked my face. 'You are looking so fair! So smart! Like a foreigner!'
'Hi, sex bomb,' I said, hugging her bird-like frame fondly as Meeku bounded off to molest Rinku Chachi. 'How are you?'
But the best was still to come. I'd just entered the house when a dark, wiry figure in a blue striped nightsuit came hobbling out on crutches and said, in a ringing voice, 'Gaalu! How are you?'
***
It was a minor fracture, and a bit of a flesh wound, no big deal, Zoravar claimed. The fallout of a sporadic exchange of fire, right after the Indo-Pak match, which had escalated tensions across the LOC. They'd sent him home to convalesce. Nobody in the family had told me about this because they didn't want to worry me. 'In fact, my buddies said I'd deliberately shot myself in the foot because I wanted to see the World Cup final at home,' Zoravar said, his stubbly, kaaju-face stretched in a grin.
I couldn't believe nobody had told me!
Rinku Chachi had known all along. She and Zoravar had been having long international chats practically every day, gossiping about me, I bet. Well, I hoped Gajju's BP would go through the roof when he got the bills.
'How are you?' Zoravar asked abruptly as Eppa bustled into the kitchen and started to cook a big lunch. The whole clan was eating with us today.
'Fine,' I said grinning too brightly.
'No, you're not,' he said as he reached for a long red plastic device; my fly-swatter-cum-back-scratcher, I realized with a pang. As I watched in horrid fascination, he inserted it carefully into the gap between his hairy leg and the plaster and dug with gusto, closing his eyes and shuddering with pleasure. I caught a whiff of chloroform and what smelled like stale vase-water in which the roses had been allowed to putrefy.
'What are you doing? Zoravar, you pig!' I cried, totally grossed out.
'Shh...it itches as it heals, Gaalu, it feels great when I scratch it, oooh, my mouth has started watering...'
I got up and sat a little further away from him.
'How's the skipper?' he asked, still scratching his leg, his eyes closed.
'Fine,' I said. Then I added grudgingly, 'You were right about him.'
He opened his eyes then, frowning slightly, 'I was? Are you sure?'
I nodded. Then seeing a concerned look cross his face I added hastily, 'But I'm fine. No bones broken.'
'Bad joke,' he said wryly, looking at his own plastered foot. 'D'you wanna tell me the whole story, Gaalu? Get the male perspective?'
'No thanks,' I said, shrugging. 'It's not a big deal.'
'Okay,' he said, still looking concerned. 'But I'm here if you change your mind. Theek hai?'
'Theek hai,' I said and went in to unpack.
Rinku Chachi ruled at lunch even though Anita Chachi had shown up in a skimpier-than-usual choli, in a desperate attempt to outshine her. But it was a total no-contest. Rinku Chachi dazzled as she held forth on the beauty of Australia, the cuteness of the koala bears she'd cuddled, the sheep she'd sheared, the revolving restaurant in Sydney, the pub crawls in Melbourne and sunset at 'Iyer's' Rock, before smoothly changing gears and talking with great fondness and familiarity about hamara Nikhil, and sharaarti Zahid and cute-sa Harry. And when Anita Chachi, growing more sullen by the minute, dropped a whole spoon of yellow-dal-tadka on her dupatta, she said large-heartedly, 'No worries, mate,' and totally blew her away. It was awesome.
Anita the hag glowered and glittered and finally said, 'Toh phir you will definitely be invited to the naamkaran, Bhabhiji!'
'Definitely,' Rinku Chachi said airily. 'Which one of the boys is having a child, Zoya?'
All eyes swivelled on me.
'Nikhil,' I managed to say casually. 'Nikhil.'
***
Zoravar insisted we sit around a coal fire on the terrace like we used to when we were kids. So Dad and I had to lug up the angeethi, while he followed, hobbling behind us. We settled onto our cosy gaddis and took sneak peeks at the journos crowding the streets below, as they made loud, self-important phone calls. The press throng outside our main gate hadn't lessened all day. They didn't desert their posts at night either and went
crazy interviewing anybody they could find. Our dhobi, the electrician, the maali. They were that desperate.
'What a bunch of losers,' I said scornfully.
'They're just doing their jobs,' Dad said mildly.
I scowled and looked away.
Dad said, 'What's the problem with you, Zoya? You seem so hard suddenly.'
'Nothing,' I muttered. 'Just tired.' I sat back on the cushion and looked up sulkily at the starry sky.
Dad said, 'I know you're a celebrity at the moment, but these things don't last. Don't let it change the person you are.'
I rolled my eyes in the dark. 'I know, Dad. I won't. Good night.'
He stood looking down at Zoravar and me for a while, then sighed and said, 'Good night, kids,' and shuffled off slowly downstairs.
The moment he left, Zoravar said, 'Wanna talk?'
I shook my head.
'Anita Chachi is a cow,' he said.
'Yes.' I sighed. 'But she didn't make that up. It's all true. I read about it in Sydney.'
He said, very softly, 'I'm sorry, Gaalu.'
I said, 'So am I.'
***
I'd planned to go with Neelo for the shoot at Eagle Studio the next morning, but Zoravar insisted on tagging along too. He propped himself up on these rather cool steel crutches and hopped into the car, ignoring my protests. Then we sneaked out through the front gate (the journos had discovered the little back entrance early this morning and shifted camp there) in the car that Lokey had sent.
The studio was bustling. Cables and wires lay coiled everywhere, carpenters hammered madly at this big Benares-temple-type structure in the middle of the set, up on the tarafa, the wooden planked platform was suspended from thick jute ropes, lighting assistants rigged up the lights. My heart got a massive jolt when I saw Nikhil standing in the lights in his blue India tee shirt and it took me a full ten minutes to bring it back to normal when I realized it was just a body double with very similar hair and build.
There was a make-up van for me, just like the one Shah Rukh had in Bombay, with ZSS on the door. That perked me up a little as I entered it, nodding graciously at the spot boy who opened the door for me. The three of us had a cup of tea in the van and then Lokey brought the director in to explain what we'd be shooting.
It was PPK. Bearded, hatted, ponytailed - very directorial-looking as always.
'Hi, Zoya,' he grinned. 'Moved up in life, haven't you?'
I laughed, genuinely pleased to see him. '
Hi,' I said. 'Hey, dude,' Neelo said grudgingly. He was not very fond of PPK. They'd shot a bunch of films together and had had 'creative differences'.
'What've you done to your leg, young man?' PPK asked Zoravar.
Zoravar started to explain, but PPK wasn't really interested. He cut him short, saying, 'Because I need some maimed and crippled types in this film, trailing the Goddess, we can cast you if you like!' He smiled this big patronizing smile. 'You wanna be in an ad?'
I said quickly, before Zoravar could react, 'Shall we go through the script?'
PPK took off his hat and sat down. 'Sure,' he said. Then he made a bit of a production of gathering his thoughts - closing his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids and everything. Finally, he opened his eyes, took a deep breath and looked at me:
'The film opens on a long shot of a beautiful temple on the banks of the Ganga. It's early morning. We see a figure walk towards the temple. It's Nikhil Khoda, in his blue India uniform, you can tell who it is because his name is written on his shirt. He is then joined by another blue-uniformed figure. It is Laakhi, his vice captain. More and more people join the two batsmen, they are regular Indian cricket fans, from every walk of life. The army of people walks towards the temple gates, which open magically with a triumphant blowing of a traditional Hindu conch shell, a shankh. Inside the temple, Vedic chants sound in the background as Laakhi lights a match which flares up, and with a mystic gesture he holds it out to Nikhil who lights a Sheraan-wali Agarbatti from the flame. The agarbatti flame dies out and smoke rises and wafts over the people's faces as they all bow their heads in worship. We hear the roar of a cricket stadium, a billion voices chanting: Zoya Zoya Zoya Zoya.... The smoke clears; through it your face, framed in its trademark halo of curls, becomes visible. There is a gleaming trident in your hand, vaguely reminiscent of the three stumps of a cricket wicket. You smile and say, in a hushed, Goddess-like voice, "Pray to the Devi with the Sheraan-wali Agarbatti and your prayers will be answered." And that's pretty much it,' PPK concluded. 'It's a forty-seconder.'
He sat back and looked at us for a reaction.
Zoravar made a strangled little noise in the back of his throat and lurched out of the van, shutting the door loudly behind him.
Neelo said, 'Fuckin' unreal, man.'
A long silence followed.
'You're serious?' I asked PPK finally. 'That's the script?'
'Sure,' he nodded. 'That's it. I'd like to add a beatific smiling shot of you, showcasing your divinity, at the end of your dialogue, and cut to an image of the World Cup trophy but yes, that's the lot.'
I looked at Lokey. 'You're Nikhil's agent,' I told him. 'Laakhi's too, I think? What will they say when they see this on TV?'
Lokey shrugged. 'We will have to misspell their names, little bit on thee shirts, PPKji,' he said, 'otherwise it is okay.'
'Is that all you have to say?' I gasped.
He nodded, 'Haan.'
'But they're praying to her, fucker!' Neelo said, revealing unsuspected religious depths. 'That's like...blasphemous.'
Lokey chucked a handful of pistas into his mouth and said patiently, 'Joyaji, it is all good for thee advertising business. Your ad will be seen, thee agarbattis will be sold, thee beedi will sell too. Then Nike and Zing! and Nero-Tasha and other sponsors will do more and more ads showcasing their point of view and trying to claim thee World Cup victory as theirs. Laakhi and Nikhil will profit from it, they will get much more money than you can even imagine...'
PPK said, 'I'm booked to shoot the Nero-Tasha victory ad one week after the boys get home. Don't worry, Zoya. It'll all work out well.'
I looked at the two of them doubtfully, sitting there like it was all in a day's work, thought about the fifty lakhs in my bank account, and felt a little reassured. Neelo too, I noticed, was already sitting back and endeavouring to wrap his fairly elastic sense of morality around the concept of an unworthy Pappu like me being worshipped as a Goddess. 'Well, you know what they say,' he offered, a little self-consciously. 'Every human being has a spark of the divine in him.'
And then this costume girl traipsed in with my costume and they all had to leave so I could get into it. Wow. I needed sunglasses just to look at it. It was kind of like a Bharatanatyam dancer's costume, with a light-blue divided sari and a low embroidered belt. A shiny, gold-coin-encrusted corset went on top, along with a vast number of gold and bead necklaces and a cardboardy kind of a gold crown for my head. The trident was a flashy blue and silver and a choreographer came in to show me how to hold it.
'Strike a pose like this,' he said, lifting one leg up from the hip and crossing it across the other so he looked like a Nataraj in acid-washed denims and an Eminem tee shirt. 'Toss your mane back. And arch your neck regally - like a queen.'He actually said it. Mane.
Of course I've read Cosmo magazine and I know that in some rarefied stratospheres the beautiful people call their hair 'mane', their butt 'booty' and their eyes 'peepers', but I'd never actually met anyone who used the word. The fact that he was asking me to wear an Indian mythological outfit while tossing my mane about kind of took the edge off the moment, though. I nodded and tried to emulate the pose. He poked his bony fingers between my shoulder blades till my chest completely jutted out and said, 'That's it. Be proud! Be powerful! Very good.'
And then he left me with the costume and make-up people to get dressed.
Forty minutes later, I walked out looking like someone from the world-famous-in-Karol-Bagh DCM
Mills' production of the Ramleela. They'd pumped my hair so full of goop that every curl stuck out of my head like a frozen bolt of lightning. They'd made my eyes huge and fish-like, my face a dead white mask and my mouth vermilion. Two torpedo missiles protruded from my chest.
The Zoya Factor Page 37