The Taliban Cricket Club

by Timeri N. Murari

  With his next ball Namdar hit Azlam’s wicket, and both he and Parwaaze jumped high in joy. Namdar took another two wickets, and I was so proud of him. In three weeks, he was now an accurate bowler, bouncing the ball in the right place. Veer came on to bowl at a medium pace. I thought that in all the years in Delhi I had never seen him play and here he was in Ghazi Stadium. His first was wide and he windmilled his right arm to loosen up. His next was straighter and bounced high. With his third one, he hit the wicket.

  Qubad and I shouted, “Good, good,” waved, and followed every ball with “Stop the run,” “Catch the ball,” “Good, good.”

  When we heard the call for prayer, the game stopped and everyone on the field, and in the stadium, performed namaaz. Veer was taken by surprise and stayed standing until I gestured for him to kneel and he did so quickly. Markwick remained the lone upright figure, waiting patiently for prayers to finish. Everyone stood when namaaz was over and continued playing.

  However, after every over bowled, the team would gather in a tight circle to talk. It was normal in cricket to discuss strategy, but these conferences didn’t seem to be about the match, as they frequently looked at the dozing policemen or else surrounded Jahan. I wondered what they discussed. When they broke up, I signaled for Jahan to come over but he ignored me.

  I will insist we marry only after Jahan is safe and after the forty days of mourning for my mother.

  Hoshang, as wicketkeeper, caught two catches from nicked balls and danced with delight. Azlam’s team managed to score twenty-five runs, and my Omaid got three wickets, much to his joy.

  When our turn came to bat, Jahan and Parwaaze went to the pitch. At first, they played cautiously, but when they soon saw that Azlam’s team didn’t have any good bowlers, quickly began to hit the ball hard. Parwaaze was out first, with our score on fifteen, when Veer went to join Jahan. Veer had a stylish technique and hit the ball with ease. We scored twenty-seven runs and won.

  Jahan will leave then, and will never see my face again.

  Markwick congratulated the two winning teams, consoled the losers and told them not to give up playing this great game.

  Azlam stared furiously at a sweetly smiling Parwaaze. For a moment, I thought he would stick out his tongue.

  “Be careful,” Bilal whispered. “He hates you now.”

  “He always has.”

  Then Markwick gave another speech on bringing cricket to the country and said that he would see us tomorrow for the final. He was escorted out to a waiting car and we were left to celebrate our first victory with our fans, other cousins, and their friends, who crowded around us.

  “You’ll be in Pakistan tomorrow night . . . don’t forget us . . . well played,” they were saying as they patted everyone, including Qubad and me, on the back.

  We moved toward the exit, and the two policemen woke from their long afternoon siestas to trail us. They looked for Jahan among us and when they saw him, relaxed. Youseff fell in beside Veer, and spoke softly.

  “Youseff says it won’t be a problem tomorrow,” Veer told me. “They both need money, but he hasn’t made an offer. They’re on duty tomorrow too. And the smuggler will pick up the team from your house tomorrow morning in his minibus.”

  The team, in unison, slowed down, leaving a widening gap between our fans and the other spectators trickling out of the stadium.

  “We can’t leave Jahan behind,” Parwaaze said in a steady voice. “If he has to stay, we all stay. We discussed and agreed on that when we were fielding.” He looked at the others and had affirmative nods from them all.

  “Then you’ll all go to Pul—” I started.

  “Wait,” Veer broke in. “Parwaaze and the team are going to talk to the cousins and friends who were in the stands today. They’ll come tomorrow and they will dress in white shalwars, and sneakers, if they have them. But they’ll wear black pakols or lungees, with hijabs.”

  “Like today, they’ll come onto the field after the game,” Royan said, taking it up.

  “They’ll carry white pakols too to wear and put them on when we’re ready. Twelve of them will then take our place in the smuggler’s minibus,” Namdar said, eyes glistening with the risk.

  “The cops will follow the minibus back to Karte Seh,” Bilal continued.

  “We hide in the tunnel until they’ve gone,” Veer said. “When it’s clear, we take the Jeep to the airport when we win. If we lose we take it for the border and hope it won’t smash an axle with the load.”

  “But they’ll be looking for Jahan,” I said sharply.

  “Yes, they will be looking for me,” Jahan said. “I’ll get into the bus first so they can see me inside, and then when all the cousins start crowding in, I’ll slip out the back door of the bus. We’ll have our friends surrounding it to cheer the team, and I will then mix with them. The bus drives off and the cops follow it. And I’ll join you.”

  “What about the bribes?” I was determined to puncture their dreams.

  “They’ll be paid,” Veer said. “Then they’ll swear he was on the bus.”

  “Have you got another plan then?” Atash asked, querulous.

  They looked at me expectantly.

  “No,” I said. It had to work to save us all.

  “We’re going to talk to our cousins and our friends this evening,” Parwaaze said.

  “Will they agree?” I asked.

  “To save Jahan, why not?” Qubad said. “We’re family.”

  “They can always say they didn’t know Jahan wasn’t on the bus,” Omaid said quietly.

  We moved to join the crowd as it drifted to the main road. I lifted Veer’s hand to my mouth and kissed it quickly, caressing his hand against my bearded cheek.

  “Are you comfortable where you’re staying?” I asked in a normal voice, a polite inquiry, not wanting to think about tomorrow and possibly my last day with him.

  “A cheap guesthouse Youseff knows. I’ve stayed in worse.”

  “I wish you were staying with us, close to me.”

  “It won’t be long before we’ll be together always. No more good-byes.” He quickly kissed my hand. “Be ready to leave tomorrow, and we will take Jahan with us.”

  It was dusk by the time we reached home in another taxi and the police car slid into its usual position, across the road. The two men settled back in their seats to continue sleeping once they saw Jahan and me enter the compound and the gate close behind us.

  Dr. Hanifa, who had decided to stay and help with our final preparations for escape, had surpassed herself and we immediately sat down to eat. We regaled her with stories of the match, Markwick, and our winning the game. She didn’t understand a word about cricket but knew we now had a chance to escape the country if we won.

  “Will it work?” I asked Jahan after Dr. Hanifa had gone to bed in Grandfather’s room.

  “It has to. What else? I know I sounded brave saying I’d stay behind, but I want to be out too, and not face Droon alone.”

  “I don’t want you to either. I couldn’t live knowing you were in prison or—”

  Abdul interrupted us from the front step, calling, “Parwaaze and the other cousins are here.”

  The team shuffled in and we closed the door.

  “We’ve spoken to our cousins and their friends,” Parwaaze announced. “They will do what we ask to help Jahan.”

  Jahan clapped his hands, bringing smiles to all our faces. Now he would just have to slip off the bus and join us. But my cousins lingered in the hall, watching me, watching Babur. They turned to Parwaaze, nodding their heads like puppets.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Parwaaze looked both embarrassed and pleading at the same time. “Hoshang won’t be playing tomorrow. Father said if the team wins and we go to Pakistan, he cannot lose both his sons. One son must stay in Kabul to look after the business and care for the family should anything happen to him. As Hoshang is the older son, he has to stay.”

  “But he loved being behind the wicke
ts!”

  “He’s very disappointed. But Father is right. One of us must stay home. He can’t lose both of us.”

  “Then you’ll have to play with one of the others dressed like us.”

  “But we have to win,” Omaid said quietly.

  “We can’t risk losing the game by having someone who doesn’t know how to play,” Daud echoed.

  Omaid stepped forward. “We want you to play in place of Hoshang.”

  “I can’t,” I answered immediately. “They’ll see I’m a woman very quickly on the field and arrest me.”

  “No, they won’t,” Nazir said. “Hoshang was our wicketkeeper. You’ll be in the center of the field, behind the wickets the whole time when we’re fielding and not anywhere near the stands.”

  “And you don’t have to run for the ball,” Royan said.

  “You bat last,” Parwaaze added quickly. “If we win before you bat, then you won’t have to be on the field.”

  “You’re placing yourselves in great danger, and me, and Veer, by asking me to play,” I warned. But the chance to help them win and get Jahan to safety was percolating through my mind, eroding my reluctance.

  “You must,” Qubad said in a no-argument tone. “I’ll be twelfth man.”

  They were waiting expectantly, their eyes pleading with me to agree. They were so hungry to win and escape and I couldn’t deny them. It was a risk I had to take. “I’ll play.”

  They clapped and smiles lit up their faces.

  “You have played wicketkeeper?” Royan asked as they moved to leave.

  “Many times,” I said cheerfully, although I’d done that only twice when Lakshmi, our college wicketkeeper, had fallen ill. It was a great position—the wicketkeeper was constantly a part of the action, and I could help the bowler decide which ball to send down.

  I felt a surge of adrenaline at the thought of playing the game again, and not just teaching it. I went down to my stuffy room, thinking about the game, strategizing it, knowing I would be playing a game I loved, with a man I loved.

  The Great Game

  AS WAS OUR HABIT NOW, WHEN WE WOKE, JAHAN and I went up to the roof to check the street.

  We expected to see the police car, but instead we saw a Land Cruiser with two Talib fighters, AK-47s cradled in their arms, smoking and waiting for us to leave. How would Jahan escape them? A battered pale blue minibus pulled up in front of it and they went to the driver to talk to him. We waited, holding our breaths. Would the driver back off and drive away? The chat was brief and the fighters returned to the Land Cruiser. The driver of the minibus slid back in his seat to nap.

  “What do we do?” I panicked and pulled back from the edge.

  “We’ll have to talk to the others. It might not work with the Talibs.”

  “They take bribes too,” I said, almost hopefully.

  “Youseff will have to see.”

  Jahan turned me around and held my shoulders, looking into my eyes.

  “Whatever happens now, you will go with Veer. Do you understand that?” He shook me as if I was asleep. “Promise me that.”

  “I will,” I said.

  “No, you must promise, otherwise I won’t speak to you. Ever.”

  “Promise,” I said. I was near tears. “But what about you?”

  “I can look after myself,” he said. “And look after you too. So don’t break your promise to me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “We must go and play the game,” he said after a long study of my face.

  We had a morning to take our minds off the dread haunting us, and we went to the basement to practice. Although the light was gloomy, we didn’t want to play in the garden, as the Talibs would hear bat against ball and want to find out what we were doing.

  I remembered that first time I’d thrown the ball to Jahan, so long ago it seemed, and now when I did, he played it expertly. I threw it slow, then faster, as we both thought more of facing Wasim in the match, and we varied the bounce. We took turns batting and throwing the ball, correcting each other. If I was to bat, I needed more practice, as all I had done for three weeks was coach, and not play the game. I focused on every ball, remembering my old days and also how Veer had played yesterday. Footwork, straight bat, defense, attack.

  We only stopped when Dr. Hanifa called down to us for lunch.

  After lunch, I dressed in my crisp white pants with the pride of a matador and slipped on the white shalwar. Then, with meticulous care, I thickened my brows with the pencil and then darkened my skin with the cream. I ran a comb through my short hair, thinking of Noorzia. Had she reached safety? Was she alive? Had Fatima reached Tehran? I had not heard, even from Fatima, to say they had found safety somewhere. Were they . . . ? I could drive myself mad with the unanswered questions.

  I focused on the present and lightly rubbed a drop of oil over my beard, giving it the glow of healthy life, and affixed the Velcro strips to my face. I gave the beard a slight tug; it held. I scrutinized the young man looking back at me, avoiding the troubled eyes and only studying the skin, the eyebrows, the mouth. I chewed on my lower lip; it looked pouty, feminine; I could be gay, and this was always acceptable to the Talib. They screwed boys, bacha bareashs, beardless boys, on Thursdays and prayed for forgiveness of their sins at Friday prayers. Now, crowning myself, I settled the white pakol on my head and pressed it down so that it slid to rest just above my eyebrows. I thought my glasses gave me a more scholarly look, more solemn, a madrassa student possibly filled with piety. I shrugged into my coat, and wrapped the shawl around my shoulders to mask half my face. This was the last time I would be Babur.

  I went to Mother’s room. Pale streaks of light filtered in to stripe the neatly made bed. I had not plumped the pillows, wanting the indentation of her beautiful head to remain there forever. She had just gone away on a short journey and would be back soon; this was how I still thought of her. I had cleared away all the medications, opened the windows, and now the air smelled of her favorite perfume. I knelt by the bed and performed my namaaz, and told her I was leaving and prayed for her guidance on this dangerous journey. I rose, locked the door, the click a final sound in the silence, and went down to the basement. I reformatted the hard drive on my laptop, instantly erasing my past, and tucked Veer’s letters deep into my shalwar pocket.

  My final pilgrimage was to Father’s study to remove what was left of my depleted inheritance—emerald and ruby earrings and a gold necklace—from the safe, and tucked them into another pocket. I found our passports in the top drawer and caressed his desk for the last time. I locked this door too and joined Jahan.

  Dr. Hanifa was waiting for us. “This is the day you will both leave. Don’t return until the Talib lose power. I know that day will come.”

  We both embraced her and I couldn’t help my tears. Without her, I could not have carried the terrible burden of my mother’s illness. Khoda haafez.

  The team waited for us in the front hall, as immaculate as they could manage in their white shalwars, sneakers, and white pakols. I was proud that they had grown in such confidence. They would walk out onto the field and play cricket the very best they could, and I prayed we would win. I had to help them win, whatever happened to me after the game, and I had to see their triumphant faces.

  It might be my final appearance in the open air before I was caged like a bird, a cover draped over my bars so that I could not see the light and could no longer sing. There would be Droon and Wahidi, of course, prowling the boundary, Markwick in his immaculate suit. Would the press be there to report on our team’s achievement and to protect us at the end when we won? I had, at least, left a small legacy behind me.

  Parwaaze had the Kabul Daily and I read the small boxed item.

  The Afghan State Cricket Team (75) beat the Karta-i-Aryana Cricket Club (15) in the first preliminary match of the tournament. The Taliban Cricket Club (27) beat the Azlam Cricket Club (25). All the teams played fine cricket. The final match between the two winning teams will be pla
yed today at 2 P.M. in Ghazi Stadium.

  It was the best Yasir could report on a game he didn’t know at all.

  “You saw the Talibs outside?” Jahan said.

  “Yes.” The team sighed in desperation.

  “We still have to stick to our plan of getting you out,” Parwaaze said, trying to reassure them.

  “We have said our good-byes to our families too,” Namdar said sadly.

  “We’ll miss them, but we’ll return when the Talib have gone,” Royan added.

  “We have our passports and money,” Qubad said

  I slipped in to walk in their center when we left, and at the gate, Jahan and I spoke softly to Abdul.

  “We might be away for some time. Look after the house.”

  “I will be here when you return one day,” he said wisely, not his usual inquisitive self. “Let the doctor know if you’re safe and she will tell me. I will pray for you.”

  Jahan gave him the keys to our front door. “Two of our cousins may come to stay the night, let them in.”

  The Talib fighters, young Pakistanis with hardened faces, watched us climb into the bus and followed it. I wasn’t sure whether they had looked specifically for Jahan.

  The bodywork rattled over every bump, but the engine sounded fine tuned. Jahan and Bilal checked the emergency exit at the back of the bus. It was stuck, but a heave opened it, and they closed it again. The driver, a young man in his midtwenties, wearing a blue shalwar and a black turban, watched in the mirror.

  “What did they ask you?” Parwaaze asked him.

  “Why I was here,” the driver said. “I told them I was hired to take some people to Ghazi Stadium.” He swung the wheel to avoid a crater and we clung to the plastic seats. “Nothing more. Why are they watching you all?”

  “To make sure we reach the stadium safely,” Royan said.

  “They counted you as you got in and they will count you on the way back.”

  “We know. They frighten you?” Parwaaze asked.

  “Only a fool isn’t frightened of them.” He watched us for a long moment before continuing with a friendly smile. “But like all men they have needs, and they’re no different from us. How else can we pass their checkposts without satisfying them?” He rubbed a forefinger against his thumb.