The Taliban Cricket Club

by Timeri N. Murari

  When I was gradually comfortable in their center, I studied them to work out their possible potential, drawing on the memory of our childhood days when we played together.

  Parwaaze had good hand-eye coordination. He could start the batting.

  Qubad, who swung a cricket bat like a golfer his club, would bat last, when we needed to make quick runs.

  Namdar, handsome and stocky, looked as if he had the energy to be a fast bowler.

  Bilal was slimmer and more observant, and I sensed suppleness in his movements as he walked quickly. I thought he could be the wicketkeeper.

  Daud was smaller than the others and slower in his movements—I suspected he was lazy. Perhaps I could hide him far away from the batsman.

  Nazir had a springy step when he moved around; he looked like a sprinter and he could have the footwork to bat with Parwaaze.

  Atash was tall, slim, and had an easy grace. He had played football. I saw him as a fast bowler.

  Omaid, the youngest at fourteen, walked in silence next to his brother, Royan. There was a blankness to his stare. His father and sister had been killed in front of his eyes by a rocket during the Talib attack four years ago, and his mind seemed to have gone since then. Omaid was a sweet-looking boy and I wanted to comfort him. Where could I fit him in?

  Royan, like Omaid, had a very square face, one I could have drawn on graph paper with straight lines. He had the height and could be a good fast bowler.

  Jahan would also bat, probably before Qubad.

  They were a motley group, yes, but I could see promise in shaping them into a cricket team. But, in the way they shuffled along, I knew I would have to instill confidence in them too.

  As we came to a crossroads, near the campus, we saw the religious police sitting in the back of a Land Cruiser. They were enjoying the warm sun on their faces. Our team hesitated. The leader signaled for us to approach. I felt tremors pass through the boys; even such a simple gesture had an air of menace to it. A few other pedestrians hurried past, heads averted, grateful they were not the ones summoned. These police didn’t wear uniforms, their only badge of authority the guns and the electric cables they carried. They were young, not much older than Jahan, and they looked hungry and arrogant.

  “Just let me do the talking,” Parwaaze whispered nervously.

  It wasn’t us but our strange baggage that had betrayed us.

  “What are you carrying?” one demanded.

  Parwaaze obeyed his own advice and avoided eye contact. He lowered his head.

  “Here, sir, see, this is a cricket bat.” He removed it from the plastic scabbard. “We are going to play cricket.” He pointed to the pads Qubad carried and the gloves, with Atash. Casually, my cousins moved to shield me from the policemen’s view.

  Surprisingly, the bat brought smiles to the faces of the policemen, revealing the children behind the murderous masks.

  “Cricket! I saw it played in Pakistan when I was a boy.”

  The other, suddenly suspicious, asked Parwaaze, “But you’re not Pakistani, are you?”

  “No, sir,” said Parwaaze, “we just want to learn the game.”

  “What e-else is there to do?” Qubad said.

  “You will play the match?”

  “Yes, that’s why we’re learning the game.”

  “Go, and good luck!” They laughed mockingly and gestured with their guns.

  “Don’t hurry,” Parwaaze whispered. “Just walk at the usual pace. They’ll be watching, I can feel their eyes on my back.”

  “Are you okay?” Jahan asked me.

  “Just very afraid,” I whispered. “I thought they were calling me out.”

  “We’re all afraid,” he said, taking my hand briefly.

  “I’ll pray for Babur’s spirit to enter me and guide me,” I said, my heart finally returning to a normal pace.

  We passed Malalai Hospital, where Jahan and I were born. It looked so tired and worn out, the walls stained dark from years of rain. Just as the university gates came into view, a motorbike roared past us. The rider glanced at us, then made a U-turn to stop beside Parwaaze. He didn’t turn off the engine.

  “Azlam,” Qubad whispered.

  He was quite tall, with a patchy beard, and he wore a blue shalwar and a black waistcoat. The tail end of his black turban fell over his left shoulder and halfway down his chest. He had a perpetual sneer on his face. I understood right away why Parwaaze and Qubad disliked him.

  “Is that a cricket bat?” he asked loudly. “Let me see it.”

  “No,” Parwaaze said. “Find your own.” Their exchange rang from the schoolyard.

  “I have my team and we will win and go for training in Pakistan.” He picked at his beard’s patches as he spoke.

  “Who’s teaching you?”

  Azlam laughed. “No one. It’s an easy game. You hit the ball and run. We don’t need teaching for that.” He revved the engine. “I heard that in the preliminary matches each team will play ten overs and in the final it will be fifteen overs. I bet you don’t know what an over is.”

  “Six balls,” Parwaaze snapped. “Don’t take all day to work out how many there are in ten overs.”

  “Are you going to the university?”

  “No, to the mountain.”

  He revved his engine while we passed him and he seemed to be trying to remember our faces. I kept mine slightly averted, as if to talk to Jahan. Instead of continuing on his original way, Azlam rode back the way we had just come. When I looked in his direction, I saw him talking to the religious policemen. They seemed to be very friendly.

  “I didn’t know anyone wanted to know them,” I said to Qubad, who was also looking.

  “They’re the only ones who would want to know A-Azlam.”

  The entrance gate to the campus hung on its hinges. No spirits had protected the house of learning founded in 1932. Most of the buildings were damaged, some were totally razed. They still held classes in those that remained whole. The few students were boys only, completing their final year. The Taliban had even permitted girls in their final year of study but only to complete their degrees, and then they sent them all home to waste their learning.

  My cousins looked at the broken university with yearning, having had only a year of studies before the Talib won Kabul and dismissed them from classes. Now they dreamed of finishing their studies in another country.

  We made our way to the eastern corner of the campus, away from the buildings. A drowsy silence greeted us. The city had fallen away. Dry leaves, brown and brittle, carpeted the dead lawns. The ground was flat enough for a cricket field and there was a footpath of hard earth that would be our pitch.

  We dropped our gear—two cricket bats, one pair of pads, three cricket balls (one almost new), and a pair of batting gloves.

  “We need wicket-keeping gloves. They have to be well padded to protect the fingers and the palms of the keeper. And pads.”

  “Daud, can your father help us with these?” Parwaaze said to him. “Can you make big gloves?”

  “We can make any size gloves at the shop.” He examined the pads. “These too.”

  As I measured out the sixty-six feet for the wicket, Parwaaze confessed he had looked up the definition of cricket in an English dictionary.

  “You know how it was defined?” he said. “A jumping insect. Then, second, cricket is a game of eleven players a side. That’s all. Not very helpful.”

  “You’re just looking in the wrong book.” I took out a thin volume, The Rules of Cricket, published by the Marylebone Cricket Club. “There are forty-two rules with a long explanation for each one.”

  He opened it warily and read aloud to the team, “ ‘Cricket is a game that owes much of its unique appeal to the fact that it should be played not only within its Laws but also within the Spirit of the Game. Any action which is seen to abuse this spirit causes injury to the game itself.’ ”

  I took it, opened the book to the appendix, and read, “ ‘There is no place for any
act of violence on the field of play.’ ” I returned it to Parwaaze.

  “Cricket will never become popular here.” Bilal broke the astonished silence and managed a laugh. “How can we live without violence?”

  Standing on our “pitch,” I faced my team of cousins who had never before played cricket, and I temporarily despaired. Where would I begin? The soul? The bat? The field? The positions? I picked up a ball and tossed it back and forth in my hands. “Let’s start with a little fielding practice just to limber up. Parwaaze, you first.”

  I tossed the ball, not too high, and within his reach to see how he would catch it. “Catching itself is a skill,” I said. “People open their hands like the jaws of a dog or a cat, vertically. To catch the ball in cricket, the hands should be horizontal and cupped to pouch it lovingly. With the wrong technique, the ball will come down as hard as a stone on your fingers.”

  Of course, Parwaaze opened his hands vertically and the ball fell to the ground after bouncing out of his hands. He winced and glared at me as if I had done something wrong.

  “Throw it up to me,” I said.

  He tossed it up, impatient, and I caught it with cupped hands. “I know it seems an easy exercise to begin with, but catching a ball is very important in winning a game. And this is the way you catch it.” I tossed it for Qubad and he fumbled, trying to imitate my actions, but did hold it. We practiced catching for half an hour. After that, even though they were impatient to learn bowling and batting, I made them run up and down our pitch, which was how they would score runs. They ran with the gait of old men, unused to such physical exertion, and were quick to bend over, panting.

  “You have to be fit not only to run once up the pitch but back down and then up again. This will be three runs. And you’ll have to chase balls that pass you. You are all totally unfit.”

  “Why should we be fit?” Royan asked. “Where can we run to without getting killed by a land mine?”

  “Then jog in your garden or up and down a safe street. If you want to win, you must start training yourselves. Now I’ll show you how to bowl.” I took the ball, walked my five paces, and slowed down my actions. “If you bowl slowly you need only a few steps. A fast bowler will need a much longer run to generate the speed of the ball. See, I’ve turned sideways before I let go of the ball. My left arm is straight above my head, my right one, holding the ball, is by my side at nearly a hundred and eighty degrees. Now as I bring the right up as straight as possible—and you must not bend the elbow—my left arm goes down to keep my balance and I release the ball at the very top of the arc.”

  I lined them up and made them imitate my actions. They were eager but as gawky as infants learning how to walk. I moved to each one—straightening an arm, turning them more to the side. I made them run and bowl too. A team has specialist batsmen and bowlers and I would need four good bowlers. As Jahan, Parwaaze, and Qubad already knew the actions, they mastered it more quickly than the others. But I saw promise in Nazir, Royan, and, surprisingly, Omaid too.

  Omaid seemed to emerge from his trance when he walked to bowl; the physical action seemed to awaken a hidden spirit in him. He surprised us all, possessing a natural talent, and he smiled with such childish pleasure that we applauded him—mutely, though, as clapping was against Talib law.

  I would have to focus on bowling again later in our practice and now needed to find my batsmen. I took up the bat and they looked expectant. This is what they were here for.

  I took up the position in front of them: “You see, my feet are apart to keep my balance. I’m half bent over, like a spring, so that when the ball bounces I straighten to step back, holding my bat vertically down to let the ball bounce and hit the bat. This is defensive. If you think the bounce is within your reach, you move your left foot as near the ball as possible, and bring the bat down in a straight arc to hit it.”

  I repeated my actions again slowly, imagining the speed and bounce of the ball. Then I handed over the bat to each one and bowled to them. As I had thought, Royan and Parwaaze were quick to copy my actions, and gradually so did Nazir. At first, he was awkward, but then as his confidence grew and he discovered how to keep his balance and hit the ball, he became more stylish and aggressive in hitting the ball. Bilal, in keeping with his nature, was slower and more stubborn—he wasn’t a risk taker and he could be in the middle of the order to steady the side. Qubad, still swinging wildly, would come in near the end to hit as many balls as he could.

  Royan suddenly held up his hand, turning his head one way, then another, listening. From a distance, we heard a motorbike. It seemed to be circling us, nearing and then moving away. It suddenly stopped. We knew it was Azlam, spying on us, and we looked through the trees and shrubs but couldn’t spot him. We sat, waiting. Then we heard the motorbike start up and fade away.

  “Even in high school and college he was always sneaking around,” Parwaaze muttered.

  We practiced bowling and batting all afternoon, but each time we heard the call to prayer we would stop immediately in case Azlam or even the religious police were hidden watchers. We knelt and prayed until it was time to resume the lessons once more.

  I gathered the men. “As a bowler, you have only one objective—to get the batsmen out. You’re alone, we cannot help you in your outthinking of the batsmen. And they are only thinking of mastering you and defeating you. You cannot lose your temper. You must think, remain calm, and bowl well.”

  Then I took the bat and showed them more attacking strokes—the hook shot, the square cut, the cover drive, the leg glance, the late cut—all the techniques I could remember. “As a batsman you have to think only of outwitting both the bowler and all the fielders who are just waiting to get you out. You have to focus, to concentrate, and never let anyone distract you. You too are alone on the field. You have to learn to be yourself, be bold and brave when you walk out to the middle.”

  Qubad, no doubt wanting to show his prowess to his cousins, grabbed the bat from me and took a batting stance. He did a good imitation—legs slightly apart, crouched over the bat, but again he held it with both fists together, as if it was a club, and not hands apart, the left elbow facing the bowler and the left hand controlling the stroke.

  “Omaid,” he called. “B-bowl me a slow ball and I’ll hit it all the way to the Hindu Kush.”

  Omaid took the ball, walked slowly to the crease, and bowled. His action wasn’t perfect, but near enough. Qubad, forgetting to move his feet, took a huge swing at the ball and missed. The ball bounced, turned—an off-break—and hit him squarely in the crotch. He collapsed with a strangled scream.

  Oh god, I’d forgotten about that.

  I could barely watch. Qubad groaned and curled up, tight as an earthworm when touched with a twig. Had I killed him? Had I ruined his life forever?

  There was no such compassion from the cousins for poor Qubad; they were all laughing as he writhed on the ground, clutching his crotch. Namdar and Bilal hopped around, imitating Qubad, holding their balls, screaming with laughter. Only Omaid looked shocked and frightened, his face forming a small, tight fist. Royan, his brother, made his way out to where Omaid stood. Parwaaze and I hurried across to kneel by Qubad’s side as he lay there cursing in his still strangled voice.

  “You didn’t tell us that we need to protect . . . ourselves,” Parwaaze said accusingly.

  “A cup, it’s called a box in cricket,” I whispered.

  “What does it l-look like?” Qubad managed to say. “I need one made of i-iron.”

  “I’ll show you tomorrow.”

  Omaid kept staring at Qubad, tears streaking his cheeks. I joined him and Royan.

  “Qubad is okay,” I told him quietly. “You’re not to blame.”

  “See, he’s getting up,” Royan said and embraced his brother tightly, trying to squeeze the fear out of his frail body. “Qubad, tell Omaid it wasn’t his fault.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Omaid,” Qubad managed to wheeze. “It was m-mine. Don’t worry, I’ll
be okay.”

  Omaid sniffled once and then his face relaxed. He managed a tentative smile.

  Parwaaze and Daud helped Qubad to his feet. He could barely stand and remained bent over, like an old man with an arthritic back. His every pain-filled action drew even more laughter from his unsympathetic teammates. Even Jahan was laughing. Although it took the funereal looks off their faces, I couldn’t understand their bizarre sense of humor. If a ball hit one of us on our breast, or anywhere else, and she collapsed with the pain, we would rush onto the field to comfort her, not roll over laughing at her agony.

  “Will he be able to walk again?” I asked Parwaaze, who was himself stifling laughter.

  “Of course. In five minutes he’ll be back to his usual self.”

  “No, he w-won’t,” Qubad groaned. “And I’ll be a eunuch and never be able to lie with a w-woman.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll still be able to use your hands—” Namdar said before abruptly stopping, remembering that I was Rukhsana and not Babur.

  “I’ll bring the box tomorrow,” I said.

  We practiced bowling and batting, each one taking a turn. I corrected their bowling actions and their batting strokes. It wasn’t as easy as they thought it would be but they worked hard. The sun was sliding down, throwing long shadows, and I decided to finish for the day. They reluctantly stopped, but the day’s play had brought a healthy flush to their faces and they kept miming the actions I had taught them, smiling.

  “You and the team must keep practicing—bowling and catching especially. If we practice well, we’ll play well.”

  “Don’t forget that we want to see that cricket tape,” Parwaaze reminded me.

  “I’ll bring it after dinner. And I’m serious about practice—I want all of you to keep practicing, even in your sleep.”

  I WAS THIRSTY, TIRED, and hungry. I wasn’t as fit as I had been when I exercised daily in Delhi.

  “Any letter?” I asked Abdul eagerly as we entered our gate.

  “No.”

  “What about a package?”