by Anju Gattani
Rakesh paced.
“Perhaps you should meet him first, hear him out, and give it some thought,” Vipul Sahib suggested.
“Give him the money.”
“We don’t have to make a decision right now. It can wait.”
“I don’t think his sister can.”
“Are you sure?”
Rakesh nodded.
Was this the same brute in bed four days ago?
Vipul Sahib shifted in his chair. “Give to one and we’ll have a line of people asking for money for this, for that. We don’t want to start a trend of money lending.”
“Ask him for medical papers as proof and see if you can send someone over to verify.”
“Think it through, son.”
“Didn’t I do the same for Naina? And if something happened to Megha, I’d do it all over again.”
“There’s no guarantee he’ll pay back the sum.”
“He will,” Rakesh was firm. “We’ll earn his loyalty for life and make sure we charge him a nominal interest fee, lower than the banks, so he doesn’t turn to anyone else.”
“He’s an employee, not your family, Rakesh.”
“All the better.” Rakesh paused at the desk’s edge. “No strings attached.”
Vipul Sahib nodded. “You’re a good man at heart, son.”
Rakesh’s attention flicked to Sheetal and back to Vipul Sahib. “If only others could see that.”
Sheetal winced.
“I’m doing all this for him.” Rakesh gestured to Yash. “The last thing I want is to leave a debt for him to carry on.”
“Is there anything we wouldn’t do for our children? Lay down our lives, if we had to.”
“Then you agree with my plans for Tashukomo, and this stays between us.”
“It’s not right. Perhaps Ishwar”—he called upon God—“will somehow help us through. But Yash will have to live with the burden of your deeds forever. Think again.” He rose to his feet and started away. At the door, he paused and looked back. “What example are you setting for your son? Is this the legacy you want to leave behind? Because everything you do could become his undoing someday.” He left and closed the door.
An hour later, Rakesh introduced Yash to important members of his staff and explained their roles. He flipped open folders of all the foreign brands Dhanraj & Son sold, pointed out their warehouses and agencies and used Lego vehicles to explain the distribution processes. Then he showed them several meeting rooms and explained how the department heads came together and monitored the progress of each division.
No wonder Rakesh preferred not to live at home. Mummyji incessantly tooting her own horn and fawning all over Naina must make him feel so out of place. Rakesh’s efforts, no matter how small, gained recognition here. Every rupee earned went toward an employee’s paycheck, the bank, or returned to the company as capital. Zeroes held a value and emphasized Rakesh’s significance on the country’s balance sheet. People looked up to him for guidance and direction, whereas, at the mansion, he lived like a misfit. Perhaps that explained his bouts of intense anger.
Rakesh asked Yash to sit in the head chair in every boardroom and watched Yash from a distance.
In one room, Yash pretended to conduct a meeting. He called for a glass of water with the excuse that his throat was dry from too much talking. In another boardroom, Yash drew a stick figure of a man holding a cricket bat upside down and explained to invisible board members why Dhanraj & Son had just lost a deal. He used four- and five-syllable words like “photosynthesis,” “respiration,” “monopoly,” “opportunity,” and waited for Rakesh’s reaction. He was trying so hard to live up to Rakesh’s expectations. Every time Rakesh nodded, Yash’s face lit up.
Then Rakesh called for a member of staff, ordered Pepsi, pizzas, and French fries from a coffee shop across the street, and spread out the food on a conference table. He pulled out a chair, sat across from Sheetal, and patted a swivel chair next to him. “Come here, Beta.”
Yash sat down, grabbed the table’s edge, and swiveled from side to side.
Rakesh propped an elbow on the table, cupped a cheek in his palm, and leaned against the edge. “Enjoy your day so far?”
“So much, Dad!”
“I want you to know how proud I am of you. Your Mummy told me—”
“Not Mummy. Mum.”
“Yes, Mum. She told me about your excellent marks and that you were chosen as compère for this year’s spring concert.”
“Out of so many boys, they picked me, Dad!”
“You must be really good.” Rakesh cupped Yash’s face and ran a thumb over the swell of his cheek.
“The judges told me it was a hard decision, but I won because of my fluency and confidence.”
“That’s a big word,” Sheetal said. “Do you know what it means?”
Yash nodded. “Because I’m sure of myself and I know I’ll do my best no matter what happens.”
“Very close.” Rakesh leaned away from the table.
“So, you’ll come and watch me perform?” Yash asked.
Sheetal nodded, but Yash’s attention was fixed on Rakesh.
“Promise.” Rakesh ruffled Yash’s hair. “And I’m going to whistle and clap the loudest and tell everyone how proud I am of you.”
Yash hopped off the chair and hugged Rakesh, who folded Yash in his arms.
“When you’re old enough, I’m going to make sure all of this—this building, company—is yours. All yours. It’s what your grandfather and I built, and as long as you study hard and get good marks—”
Sheetal bit her lip. Wasn’t Yash too young to know all this information so quickly? Not only would the inheritance go to his head, he might become proud and conceited. “The future’s far away. Let’s not think about it right now.”
“I guess your Mom’s right.”
After they ate, Rakesh ordered digital equipment to be wheeled in on a trolley. An attendant pulled down an enormous white screen, aligned three cushioned chairs to face the screen, and darkened the room. The equipment beeped, the screen fuzzed with a thousand black and white dots. Colors filled the screen and sharpened into a Walt Disney cartoon movie.
Sheetal’s attention meandered to the luminous hands on a wall clock. They’d been here for two and a half hours. Didn’t Rakesh have more important things to do?
“So, what do you think of me now?” Rakesh cradled Yash, who snuggled in his lap.
“Like you, Dad.” Yash yawned, rubbing his eyes. “I want to be just like you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Game of Life
Rakesh stared at the clothes laid out on the bed—a white T-shirt, matching trousers, and a sleeveless white sweater with thin, navy bands running around the perimeter of the vee neckline. He touched the white fabric and gulped. He had last played cricket, his childhood game and national sport, twenty-seven years ago. Papa used to say that he was gifted and a natural at the sport, but like everything else he loved, the sport was jinxed. He had to find an excuse to avoid playing. He’d tell Yash that he was feeling sick, or that something came up at work. No. Not on a Saturday.
“Look, Dad!” Yash rushed through the open bedroom door dressed in matching attire. “I look like you!”
Rakesh sank to his knees, ran his hands down Yash’s back and tightened his grip around the boy’s shoulders as he looked into the brown pools of Yash’s eyes. He’d looked like Yash when he was a boy. He pulled Yash to his chest, hugged him tight, and held on, wishing Papa had hugged him like this. “How did you put this whole uniform together?”
“It was a secret. I told Mum not to tell you.”
“Well, she sure didn’t.”
“You will play, won’t you? You promised.”
Rakesh stiffened. No chance of running away from one of the hundred promises he had made and assumed Yash would forget. “How about tomorrow? We can go bowling and visit the video arcade instead.”
Yash frowned. “Today.”
“But Ya
sh, it’s been ages. I don’t remember the rules.”
“I’ll explain them. We play cricket at school all the time.”
“But I—”
“For me, Dad,” Yash pleaded. “Do it for me.”
***
Yash hammered three two-foot-tall wooden stumps into the front lawn, several inches apart, to serve as a baseline. A semi-circular driveway bordered with red, pink, and yellow carnations arched around him and ended at two pairs of wrought iron gates manned by security guards. Yash positioned three more stumps—wickets—twenty feet away, aligned with the baseline. but closer to the flower bed to serve as the batting and bowling posts. If the batsman missed and the white ball—about the size of a tennis ball—hit a stump, the batsman was out.
Rakesh walked across to Yash and checked the sturdiness of a wicket.
“Do you remember how to play now, Dad?” Yash asked.
“Somewhat. But I’m not sure—”
“Eleven players on each team, but we’ll make do with one for now since we’re practicing.” He rose and dusted his hands. “I’ll bat first to remind you how it’s done.”
“Sounds good.” Rakesh nodded.
“So, I’ll start batting before this wicket.” He pointed to the wicket near the flower bed. “After I bat, if you catch the ball before it hits the ground, I’m out. But that won’t happen because I’m a good batsman.”
Rakesh raised his eyebrows, impressed with Yash’s confidence. “And what am I supposed to do?”
“You run for the ball and then you’re supposed to stump a wicket or some part of my body with the ball before I reach baseline. That’s called LBW. Leg Before Wicket. Or”—he raised a finger—“if you bowl and knock down a wicket behind me, I’m automatically out. But that’s not going to happen because I’m a good batsman.”
“And what do you do while I’m running around trying to catch the ball?”
“I score innings. Only two bases, so I run from one to the other with the bat and every run I make is called an inning.”
Rakesh remembered he’d once scored fifteen innings when he played with Papa, but Papa said he needed to do better.
“You look confused, Dad.”
“Hmm....” Rakesh feigned confusion. “I think I am.”
“It’s not hard. After you bowl six times, you complete one set of overs and we switch places. You bat and I bowl.” Yash scratched his head and looked around. “Let’s make the four-run mark that first step.” He pointed to the mansion’s lower step.
Four runs meant Yash would have to hit the ball as far as the perimeter of the field. If the ball rolled or bounced on the ground before it touched the field’s boundary line, the hit counted as a four or four innings. If Yash whacked the ball and the ball sailed over the field’s perimeter without touching or rolling on the ground, Yash would secure a run of six, or a sixer, the maximum score on one hit. “How about we keep the perimeter as far as the flower bed?” Yash could easily nail the distance and not lose heart.
“I’m not a baby, Dad.”
“I didn’t say you were, but we can’t risk the ball hitting a window. I mean, if you’re a good batsman then you need to go easy on me.”
“I know what you’re trying to do and I’m not falling for it.”
Rakesh sighed. “Okay. How about the perimeter equals the outer curve of the lawn? That’ll give us another six to eight feet.”
Yash wrinkled his nose, slipped on his elbow and knee pads, then shook each stump and aligned two white pegs along their flat tops until they balanced. The pegs served as indicators the stumps had been hit. Then he chose a wooden stick and hacked away at the grass with the pointed end.
“Badhi Memsahib!” Roshni yelled from the main entrance. “Look what Yash Baba is doing.”
“I’m flattening the runway between both wickets like a real cricket pitch.” Yash looked up. “How do you expect me to run—”
“Ai-ee!” Pushpa rushed down the front steps. “My lawn! Hai Ishwar! You are ruining my front lawn. Mali! Chowkidar!” she called for the gardener and security guard. “Stop them.”
Jinxed. “How else is he supposed to set up the pitch?” A strip of barren earth usually formed the runway between wickets, but obviously, Pushpa would throw a fit if they harmed a blade of grass. They’d have to manage with the lawn.
Rakesh walked the front lawn and jiggled each stump. They were sturdy. Yash had done a good job.
“Don’t you hear me? Have you all gone deaf, I tell you?”
“We’re not ruining anything,” Rakesh shouted.
“You’ll knock my flowers down, you will.” Pushpa pumped her hands on her hips.
“If you insist.” Rakesh grabbed the cricket ball near his feet and pretended to aim at a blooming rose bush. Pushpa screamed. He rolled the ball and relayed hand signals to Yash. “Ready?” he asked.
Yash hurried to the wicket nearest the flower bed, picked up the two-foot-long cricket bat, and pointed the tapered end at the ground, holding the bat parallel to his body.
A security guard watching from the guard post’s cubicle rushed out as several gardeners, tending shrubs and plants along the mansion’s periphery, dropped their tools and hurried to watch.
“Ready.” Yash signaled.
Pushpa waved her arms, her bangles jingling in fury. “Play somewhere else, I tell you. In the back garden.”
“And knock the bonsais down?” Rakesh stretched for his about-to-bowl position. “Look, I’m going to play with my son whether you like it or not. If you don’t want to get hurt, I suggest you back off.”
“Go play in the back, I tell you.” Pushpa insisted. “Far back in the clearing where Mali burns wood.”
Rakesh shook his head. “No good for cricket. We need grass on our cricket field, not just barren land.”
“Yash.” Pushpa frowned and folded her arms. “No playing here, I tell you. You know the rules.”
Rakesh ran toward Yash, swinging the ball in an anti-clockwise motion. The moment his toe landed on a long stick—the bowler’s boundary line—he let go. The ball bounced, missed Yash’s swinging bat by an inch, and knocked two stumps over before ramming into the bed of carnations and knocking out several flowers.
“Out!” Rakesh yelled. “You’re out! But since you’re the only one on your team, you can play. Didn’t you say you were the best batsman?”
Yash frowned and straightened. “On a real cricket pitch, Dad.”
“One ball down, five to go.”
“Out!” Pushpa wagged a finger in the air.
“Practice run,” Yash rebelled. “Anyway, that ball doesn’t count.” He pounded two stumps back into the ground and the game continued. Yash missed almost every ball and hacked away at the ground until the area surrounding him became a patchwork of uprooted grass and upturned soil.
Pushpa cupped her mouth.
“One inning over,” Rakesh yelled and changed positions with Yash.
“Kaka! Hey everyone!” Yash waved to the servants, who came running to his aid. “All of you help me field. I can’t handle Dad alone.” He appointed a staff member to stand behind the bowler’s wicket. “And you must go stand all the way there.” He appointed another to the mansion’s front entrance. In less than two minutes, Yash had assembled the first Dhanraj cricket team—nine fielders—and assigned Laal Bahadur, the chef, as umpire. Cheers and laughter lifted with the Raigun breeze as servants cheered for Yash. Rakesh whacked a four and a few high balls. Each time, the fielders darted, hands outstretched to catch the flying ball.
“What’s wrong with you all, I tell you?” Pushpa screamed. “Back to work. Enough nonsense.”
“Not until game over.” Rakesh prepared to bat again, looked up, and saw Sheetal peer around the edge of her studio window. He winked, but she slipped from view. He narrowed his attention on the fielders closing in.
Yash bowled.
Rakesh swung the bat, connected with the ball, and a “puck” carried on the breeze. The ball sailed ove
r Yash, over Pushpa, and over the four Venetian pillars that supported the portico. Glass shattered.
The servants froze. Yash froze.
Pushpa marched across the lawn and jabbed a finger toward the studio windows. “I hope you’re happy now, I tell you. Look what you’ve done!”
“A six!” Rakesh threw his bat on the ground and ran to scoop Yash in his arms. “It’s the first sixer I’ve scored in a long time.”
“Waah! Waah! Rakesh Babu!” Applause filled the air as gardeners and servants left their positions to join in the excitement.
Yash squealed, “Teach me, Dad. Can you? Will you? Huh?”
“Of course!” Rakesh spun Yash in circles. Sunlight pierced the clouds and, in that moment, a heaviness lifted and filled him with delight. The sky shimmered an ocean of blue. The leaves sparkled emerald green. The roses blazed ruby red. And the air! Rakesh took a deep breath. So light. So breezy. So cool. For the first time, he felt weightless, free, delirious!
Rakesh ran up to Sheetal’s studio and found her kneeling on the floor, picking up shards of glass. He lifted her by the arms and pulled her away from the mess. “Don’t. You’ll hurt yourself. I’ll call the servants to clean up.”
Sheetal handed him the cricket ball and turned away.
“Look, I know you’re still angry about that night on Diwali. I’m sorry.”
She picked up a brush and resumed painting, her back to him.
“I didn’t mean to break your window. The ball—”
Her jingling bangles cut him off.
“I shouldn’t have behaved like—done that to you. I’m sorry. I was angry. I don’t know what happened. What overcame me.”
“You don’t know what happened? Then who does?”
“It was a mistake, Sheetal. I admit it. I make mistakes. I’m human.”
“Oh? And I’m not?”
“Things are going to be different from now on. Promise. Dr. Kishore called yesterday.”
Her brush paused in mid-air.
“He told me I’m suffering from cirrhosis of the liver. You were right. But I’m only at the initial stages, so it’s not that bad. I can fix this.”
“This isn’t about right or wrong.” She turned to face him. “You’re sick and need professional help.”