The Taliban Cricket Club

by Timeri N. Murari

  Abdul shook his head.

  I had been trying not to think about the letter, but now another day was passing without news. Jahan put his arm around my drooping shoulders as we went into the house.

  “What package are you expecting?” Jahan asked.

  “The money, of course. How else can he send it, except through a hawala dealer? He won’t use a bank, as the money can be traced. Besides, I don’t think our banks know how to handle international transactions.”

  “Is there one here?”

  “Of course there is, they’re everywhere. It’s an ancient Indian system, older than the silk route, to move money between countries without going through a bank. Shaheen will give the money to a dealer, an Afghan or a Pakistani, in San Francisco, pay him a commission, and the dealer will call his contact in Kabul, the hawaladar, to deliver the money to my door. It will take only three or four days once Shaheen gives the dealer the money.”

  “But how will they call Kabul to tell the hawaladar here to pay you the money? Our phones don’t work for days.”

  “They’ll have four or five phone numbers, as their business depends on that.”

  To keep my mind occupied, I went down to the basement and trawled through the trunk, uncovering more memories—a low-cut black dress that barely reached my knees, boldly worn at a party; Hyderabadi glass bangles bought near the Charminar bazaar; picture postcards sent by friends traveling to exotic places; papers, letters, cheap jewelry. I discovered that the memories no longer held their sting of regret now that I felt comforted, immersed again in cricket, and also knowing that soon I would be liberated. I would leave it all behind, carrying only a passport and a bundle of clothes.

  I did have a box, from sheer malice, thanks to Nargis. She and Veer had picked me up at home for one of our matches. Veer was driving, and Nargis and I sat in the backseat. They were arguing—and had been arguing all morning. Nargis was so furious with her brother, she reached into his bag at our feet, took out his box, opened my kit bag, and dropped it in. “That’ll teach him a lesson,” she had whispered. We both laughed at her prank, although I was worried for Veer. Maybe I had kept it as a strange reminder of my memory of him, not that I needed something so tangible. I never did see him play. It just remained in my kit after that.

  Finally, the box surfaced from under a layer of tracksuits and books. It resembled heavily reinforced underwear with straps to hold it in place around the lower waist and a molded pouch to protect the testicles below. I held it, as daintily as a dead mouse, by the edge of the strap and slipped it into a plastic bag. I grabbed the tape I wanted to show the boys and hid both under my shalwar.

  I cooked our simple meal of rice and fried chicken and peas. I sent Jahan to buy fresh naan. Dr. Hanifa came downstairs and offered to wash dishes. Mother had slept most of the day, and when she was awake, they had read to each other and played cards.

  After dinner, we went to Parwaaze’s house and met the team in the basement. The windows were covered with blankets, and a television set and VHS player stood in the corner cupboard, now open for the show. Stuck on the walls with tape, and curling at the edges, were posters of Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, and Rivaldo, the magicians of Brazil’s World Cup football team. The air stank of cigarette smoke and tea. It was a private theater for trusted friends to view banned films—the family’s secret income. Parwaaze’s father bought the tapes from smugglers, just as Noorzia bought her creams and perfumes.

  Parwaaze switched on the television and started the tape.

  “Who’s playing?” Namdar asked.

  “England and India.”

  I watched for a few minutes, forgetting the expectant company waiting for me to explain. The stage was the almost bare, dun-colored pitch in the center of the emerald oval; the wickets upright at either end; the bowling and batting marks in immaculately straight white lines, visible from the farthest seats of the stadium. The passage of the lawn mowers had left regimental stripes on the grass outfield. I loved the game’s quiet rhythms, its peaks of tension, and the sudden violence that subsided back into deceptive calmness. The fans watched the two main characters, the bowler and the batsman, confront each other on center stage. Everyone waited, breaths held, for the enactment of this ritual. The sounds of the game were not raucous but muted, the bat hitting the ball a sold thwack, a fielder sprinting to stop it or catch it.

  “Tell us what’s happening!” complained Qubad.

  “Sorry—start the tape again. Okay, now watch the bowler’s and batsman’s actions. And look at this drawing I made.” I had sketched out the fielding positions before dinner. “See how the batsman guided the ball through the gap? And now he’s out, caught. There are five ways to get a batsman out and I’ll explain each one and why when it comes up.” We watched the game progress and suddenly a batsman was given out when the ball hit him on his shin. “Here the umpire believes if his leg hadn’t been in the way, the ball would have hit the wicket. It’s called leg before wicket.” I added softly, “LBW. The umpire’s decision is final. No argument. It’s not cricket.”

  “So who’ll u-umpire our match?” Qubad asked no one in particular.

  “The minister said there’s supposed to be that man from the ICC,” I said. “Maybe he’ll umpire.”

  “They won’t want that.” Royan sighed. “They’ll find some Talib goon to umpire.”

  “In which case it’s not cricket,” I insisted. “It’s only cricket if we can trust the umpire to be honest. Cricket imposes the behavior of fair play, and justice for those who want to be cricketers. I’ve seen test matches where the batsman knows he’s not out but he still has to accept the umpire’s decision. He can’t stand there and argue. He walks back to the pavilion.”

  “Cricket will never take off here then.” Namdar laughed. “We don’t trust anyone at all. And there is no justice.”

  “That’s the only way to play,” I snapped at him.

  “We’ll play the game the way Babur teaches us,” Parwaaze cut in. I had been watching him listening to the discussion, not wanting to choose sides, before finally coming down on mine. “I believe Babur: if we learn to play this game properly and have that discipline, then we will win. Now, let’s watch and listen.”

  I pressed play and Sachin walked out of the pavilion to the crease. As I described the action, my voice grew eager and loud. I imagined the thousands of people watching from the stands, and millions around the world on television. I knew from my playing days how lonely that walk to the crease was and the silence that accompanied it. “Now watch him. He’s the best batsman in the world.”

  “He’s small,” Qubad said dismissively. The English players towered over the Indian.

  “Height doesn’t make you any better.”

  “Why?” Parwaaze said, leaning forward to concentrate.

  “You see how he’s perfectly balanced at the crease. He has perfect footwork, great hands, and a great eye. See how he leans into the ball and at the last moment guides it exactly where he wants it to go. You must watch him again and again. He’s known as the Little Master.”

  When it was over, Parwaaze began the tape again, I made them repeat every fielding position, like children at school learning their lessons in a madrassa. I could see them imagining themselves on the field in that tape, bowling and hitting like the best in the world.

  WE GOT HOME AT ten o’clock and I went straight to bed. I dreamed I was playing cricket with my college team again and the familiar faces floated in and out of the scenes running through my head. When I woke, I wished I was still there. My calendar was waiting and I drew a line through another day, shrinking the space even more. Seventeen days.

  I followed Noorzia’s advice. I was not going to be indifferent about my appearance. Although I did not rouge and powder my cheeks, or trace my lips with a pale red gloss, I took care with Babur’s appearance. If I was to be a man, I at least wanted to be handsome. I fussed over my skin shade, eyebrows, and beard. I adjusted my spectacles and firmly rooted the
turban on my head. By this simple transformation, I felt as if I had stepped out of my body and entered another one. I wore the same clothes, and, taking Noorzia’s advice, strapped on my chest protector. It would grow uncomfortable over the course of the day, but even the most sensitive elbow would not know it hid my breasts.

  Before we stepped out of the house for practice, we went up to the roof and scanned the road. There were a few passing cyclists, a vegetable vendor pushing his cart, two women with their mahrams, and scavenging goats. It looked normal. No one even glanced at the house.

  “Why would Droon watch the house?” Jahan asked. “He has searched it and didn’t find you. He knows we’re all frightened of the Talib and that we wouldn’t defy him, not while Mother and I are here as his hostages. She’s not going anywhere. Don’t forget, he threatened her too.”

  “Just to be sure,” I said and kept watching.

  “The dangerous time will be a day or two before Wahidi returns, and you’re still not here. That’s when it will be urgent for Droon to find you for his brother.”

  “Then I better leave three or four days before. By then the team should be good enough. Just to be on the safe side, I’ll start sleeping in the secret room.”

  “It won’t be comfortable.”

  “I know that. Whatever happens, get on that field and play—it’s your best chance.”

  As we set out for the university, we heard the motorbike. Azlam passed us without a glance but I had the feeling he had seen and remembered us from the day before. He seemed to be hovering around our neighborhood.

  “I saw Azlam,” Jahan told Parwaaze at the grounds.

  “He wants to see how we’re learning.” He looked grim. “We must beat his team, we must.”

  I presented my gift to Qubad. He took it out and dangled it for everyone to see and examine, as if it were a work of art.

  Parwaaze took it and slipped it over his pants, adjusted it, and walked around proudly. “Okay, now I will learn how to bat the ball.”

  “We will need another one, maybe two more,” Jahan said. “There are two batsmen at the wicket, and a third one waiting to come in when one of them is out.”

  “Can you make two like this?” Parwaaze asked Bilal, pointing to his crotch.

  “Well . . . It will take a day or two. I’ll have to soak and then shape the leather to fit over the . . . parts.”

  “Make me a special one, I have more between my legs than any of you,” Namdar boasted, and clutched his crotch. “About twice the size.”

  “Yes, make a special one for Namdar,” Qubad added. “I don’t want to catch any of his diseases.”

  “Okay, okay,” Bilal said. “But you each pay me for this. I’m not making these for free. My father finds out I’m stealing his precious leather and he’ll fire me.”

  Qubad looked away, and turned to Parwaaze. “Oh god, look who’s c-coming.”

  The Permit

  WE ALL TURNED, EXPECTING TO SEE AZLAM. Instead, a young man with a full beard stormed across the field. Parwaaze’s brother. As he got closer, we could see his face was flushed with anger. The team shuffled away from Parwaaze as his brother approached.

  Parwaaze groaned aloud. “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to know what you’re doing,” Hoshang burst out. “You should have told me.”

  “We’re just playing a game. Now that you’ve seen, you can go away.”

  “What game?”

  “Cricket,” Qubad answered wearily and turned to me with a smile. “Hoshang has n-nothing better to do than follow us around.”

  “You shut up,” Hoshang snapped at Qubad.

  “Oh yes, c-caliph, I will. Now leave.”

  “Why cricket? Tell me, or I’ll report you all.”

  “We’re not breaking any law,” Parwaaze said, exasperated. “It’s a game—”

  “I know that, I read the papers—”

  “—and we just want to play in the matches. That’s all. Now that you know, you can leave us.”

  “And who is that?” Hoshang jutted his beard toward me. There was a resemblance to Parwaaze, but his mood was darker and he didn’t have Parwaaze’s sense of humor and mischief either.

  “Babur,” Parwaaze said. He looked at me, then at the others. He had not told Hoshang about me and hesitated for a long moment before bursting out, “Babur is Rukhsana. She’s teaching us.”

  Hoshang looked puzzled, believing at first that Parwaaze was playing a joke. Then he took a few steps closer to study me and a slow recognition emerged in his eyes. They blinked rapidly, in panic, I think. We weren’t close as children and we’d never known each other very well—but Parwaaze seemed to know what he was doing. Protectively, the others moved closer to me. We waited tensely.

  “You all know?” He looked around. Heads nodded. “Does Padar know?”

  “No,” Parwaaze said. “Unless you tell him.” Then, resigned, he said, “And everyone else. You’ll get her killed, and us too.”

  “Why would I do that?” Hoshang finally said. He laughed, and seemed to relax now that he had learned his brother’s secret.

  “We need another player,” I offered, “if you want to join.”

  “Of course! So are we going to win or not?”

  “Why else would we waste our time here? We have a full team now.”

  We spent the days following our routine—warm-up exercises, then batting and bowling. They still had the awkwardness of beginners and I hoped as they became more confident they would acquire the style and grace the game demanded. Jahan, Parwaaze, Qubad, Atash, and Royan showed promise as batsmen. They had the footwork and the quick eye to pick up the speed and bounce of the ball. Omaid, Daud, Namdar, and Bilal bowled well, though when Namdar and Daud tried to bowl too fast, they lost control and fell over. Control would come with more practice. I taught Hoshang how to stand behind the wicket and stop the ball or catch it if it hit the edge of the bat. As the oldest, it gave him a sense of importance that he would be such an integral part of the game.

  At the end of each day’s session, I gave them fielding and catching practice, which none of them liked. They lined up thirty meters away, silhouetted against the low, dun-colored Asamayi hill, and I hit the ball along the ground until, one by one, they ran to field it and throw it back to Hoshang. By the end of the week, they moved with the easy spirit of young men.

  “That was a four you let through your legs,” I shouted, as Sharma had shouted to us in practice in Delhi. “The batsmen are taking three runs because you’re so slow . . . you must outrun the batsmen . . . pick up and throw . . . run faster . . . expect the ball in your direction . . . faster . . . faster . . .” Then I hit high balls and, at first, they dropped every catch. “You could have gotten a man out if you’d jumped for that catch . . . Catches win matches . . .”

  Each evening, when Jahan and I returned home, we exchanged the same dialogue with Abdul. “Letters? Package?” and his reply was the same. One day, I prayed, he would hold out the package and I would dance into the house and out of the country. The phone too drew me like a magnet. But it remained uncooperative. Three, four, five days passed, and each time I crossed one off my calendar; I felt as if the lines were pushing me forward and I was helpless to stop them. How long would Shaheen’s letter and money take to reach me? A week, I thought, and tried to unravel the knot in my stomach.

  Just as I was preparing dinner, we heard a knock on the door. Jahan looked out through the window to see who it was before he opened it. Abdul stood beside a couple, waiting on the top step. I kept behind the door when Jahan opened it and exchanged greetings with the couple.

  “I’m a good friend of Rukhsana’s.” She had a young woman’s voice. “And as I was passing your house I thought I must see her.”

  “I told her that Rukhsana was in Mazar,” Abdul complained.

  “She’s not here,” Jahan said brusquely. “She’s in Mazar helping with her cousin’s big wedding.”

  “But I spoke to her just ye
sterday on the street.”

  “You couldn’t have. If you give me your name I’ll tell her you called when she returns.”

  “If she doesn’t want to see me, I won’t give my name,” she said, now in a very hurt tone. “I was in school with her.”

  “You can go to Mazar then.”

  We watched the couple leave, followed by Abdul, grumbling at them.

  “You recognize her voice?” Jahan asked as we hurried up the stairs to the top floor.

  “No.”

  We stood at the sides of the window and looked down to the street. The couple stood outside our gate, talking, and then looked at the house before hurrying toward Karte Seh Wat.

  “You were right,” Jahan said, remembering our conversation from that morning. “She must be working for Wahidi and Droon.”

  “Next time it won’t be the same couple.” How long had they been watching the house? How had we missed them? I was going to be doubly cautious now. Rukhsana would never be seen in this house, even glimpsed through a window, until Babur crossed the border to safety.

  It was the following afternoon when Parwaaze pointed and we saw Azlam sitting astride his motorbike, watching us. He had coasted to the side of a building and could have been there for an hour. When we noticed him, we heard his mocking laughter as he kick-started his motorbike and rode toward us. We retreated from the racket, bunching together, as he circled us, looking at our equipment. He stopped.

  “Who’s teaching you to play?” he shouted above the noise of his machine.

  “No one,” Parwaaze said and reached into his shalwar pocket and pulled out the Marylebone Cricket Club book of rules that I had given him. “This is teaching us how to play.” He flipped through the pages. “It tells you how to bat, how to bowl, and how to move your fielders around . . .”

  “Let me see.” Azlam reached for it, but Parwaaze held it out of his reach.

  “Find your own book.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From the bookshop on Park Street.” Then he added maliciously, “It was the only copy.”