Love Knows No LoC

by Arpit Vageria

  ‘I had to,’ Arko replied.

  Kabeer squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Arko was right. His behaviour on the field had been unacceptable.

  ‘That wasn’t your call to make. I was your captain and you should have consulted me.’

  ‘You had to have been there for that, Arko. I’m a player and what was I to do if not express

  myself?’

  ‘There’s a difference between “expressing yourself” and “losing your rag” when the opposing team needles you. You should have just ignored him.’

  ‘I don’t agree, Arko.’

  ‘You may think that you could make a place for yourself in my team with this attitude, but I don’t agree,’ Arko snapped.

  Kabeer didn’t like the way Arko was talking to him. He was deeply hurt to learn that Zoya had also taken the same stand as Arko on this issue. Broken-hearted, Kabeer moved out that night. A maelstrom of emotions roiled within him—anger and guilt, distress and confusion.

  A burst of cheering from the people in the pub broke into Kabeer’s ruminations and he realized that the first over had bagged fifteen runs with no loss of wickets.

  This wasn’t probably the greatest start to an innings, but it was a start nevertheless. Kabeer was glad to have the corner seat, probably the only place in the pub that was out of everyone else’s line of view. Kabeer observed the crowd. He knew that the Pakistanis were just as gung ho as the Indians were about cricket. Pakistan scored ninety-three runs for the loss of one wicket in the first ten overs and the crowd jumped up gleefully, clapping and shouting slogans decrying the challenging team.

  ‘Ek do teen char, India harega har baar,’ someone shouted and everyone joined him.

  ‘Koi na sehan kar paayega Pakistan ki maar ko, kisi ka balla nahi chalega, kya Shaurya kya Arko?’ another enthusiastic fan yelled out and people burst into laughter.

  The Pakistani batsmen were hitting the Indian bowlers ruthlessly. The Indian players were desperately fielding at the far edges of the ground and every experiment, every bowler and every strategy that India came up with failed, as Pakistan’s team ended up posting a huge score of 195 runs for the loss of four wickets at the end of twenty overs—their highest-ever score against India.

  During the ten-minute break when the people in the pub retreated into groups to discuss the match, Kabeer’s thoughts wandered to his last conversation with Zoya. They were sitting across from each other during dinner at an exclusive restaurant.

  ‘I know that this issue has been preying on your mind,’ Kabeer said.

  ‘Someone has to think about it,’ Zoya shrugged, unwilling to get dragged into another wrangle about the rights and wrongs of it.

  ‘What about my perspective?’

  ‘Your captain has already expelled you for the rest of the tour, so none of this matters any more,’ she sighed, and after a pause continued, ‘you’ve got to be mature about it, accept your mistake and make a formal apology.’

  ‘That’s easy to say for a person who has known me for only two months,’ Kabeer pushed his plate away.

  ‘I stood up for you and defended your honour,’ bitterness had crept into his voice, ‘and yet, you took the side of your fellow Pakistani.’

  ‘It’s not about him being a Pakistani,’ protested Zoya, ‘it’s about professionalism.’

  ‘And who are you to lecture me on professionalism?’ Kabeer frowned angrily.

  Zoya flared up. ‘Someone who had to perform live while her grandfather breathed his last on his deathbed. Tell me about professionalism.’ She pushed her chair back as she said this and flounced out, leaving Kabeer alone at the table.

  The Pakistani team entered the ground and a loud cheer in the pub broke Kabeer’s reverie yet again. Cheers for India, however, didn’t last for more than two overs as India lost three crucial wickets for just eleven runs in two overs, although Arko remained at the crease.

  Someone shouted, ‘Paanch, che, saat, aath, India ki lag gayi waat.’ Kabeer felt his patience rapidly slipping. As he rose to vent his spleen, a commentator exclaimed, ‘And here we go! Arko has hit Nadeem for what is the longest six of the tournament, 103 metres!’

  The mood in the pub instantly underwent a change, as everybody waited in pin-drop silence for what was to follow. Twenty minutes later, eyes were still glued to the screen in worry. India had completed seventy-five runs for the loss of three wickets in eight overs.

  When India’s score stood at 137 with the loss of three wickets in thirteen overs, another wicket fell and the room erupted with hoots again. Kabeer, unable to contain his frustration, pounded the table. Every head swivelled in his direction and then everybody went slack-jawed as they realized who he was.

  ‘Well, well, well. And who have we here?’ a stranger jeered.

  ‘That was some show you put on, didn’t you? And you have the nerve to show up in a public place,’ another taunted.

  People eyeballed Kabeer in the uncomfortable lull that ensued. A buzz slowly began, soft murmurs at first that gradually grew louder as everybody hurled abuses at him. Kabeer stood still, while the waiters and managers of the establishment did their best to placate everybody before the mood combusted into a riot and destroyed their shop.

  At that moment, Arko hit two consecutive sixes from Nadeem’s bowling to raise the Indian score to 149 for the loss of four wickets in 13.2 overs. The commentators’ hysterical verbosity distracted the palpable animosity. Kabeer silently congratulated and thanked Arko.

  Attention oscillated between Kabeer and the TV screen. The match arrived at a very interesting equation with India needing fourteen runs off the last over. Arko returned to the pavilion after making a remarkable ninety-seven runs in forty-two deliveries.

  After experimenting with various permutations and combinations of fielding and shots, it was the last ball and India needed three runs. Everyone in the coffee shop, including the waiters and managers, watched with bated breath, ignoring Kabeer. The bowler bowled quickly, the ball veered wide off the stumps and the wicketkeeper missed fielding it. Taking advantage of the hiatus, the Indian batsmen quickly stole two runs and completed the match with a tie.

  Kabeer punched the air triumphantly. Heads turned towards him again. High on victory, he smirked, ‘We still lead the series with 1:0.’

  That did it. All hell broke loose and someone thumped Kabeer from behind. He spun around and punched the man’s face. The employees desperately tried to restore peace and order. They formed a protective circle around Kabeer and yelled at everyone to stop. Meanwhile, Kabeer fell into a scuffle with the man who had hit him. Both rolled on the floor, jabbing at each other wildly. A police siren wailed in the distance and as expected, cops barged in within a few minutes. Kabeer and his attacker stood apart, panting. Quickly and efficiently the constabulary secured the attacker and several other miscreants who were busy beating each other up.

  Kabeer suddenly noticed Zoya. She was standing quietly by the door, observing the scene. Kabeer had assumed that she had returned to Lahore.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the long arm of the law demanded of Kabeer.

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ Zoya cut in coldly. ‘You know who he is and you also know who hit whom.’

  ‘But we need to interrogate him, ma’am,’ bleated the policeman.

  ‘You may have heard my father’s name. MLA Danish. Would you like to speak to him?’ Zoya asked disdainfully and swept out, towing Kabeer along.

  CHAPTER 26

  July ’16

  ‘What are you still doing here?’ Kabeer asked.

  Zoya merely gestured to him to get in the car. She drove in silence for a while.

  At long last, she sighed, ‘What happened in there?’

  ‘They did something they shouldn’t have,’ Kabeer replied mutinously.

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘They cursed the Indians and my teammates.’

  ‘And you decided to go all Sunny Deol and beat up the Pakistanis in Pakistan?’ Zoya
raised an eyebrow in incredulity.

  ‘Oh, main nikla, gaddi leke,’ Kabeer grinned unrepentantly.

  ‘Fuck you and fuck your gaddi!’ Zoya snapped and jammed the brakes. She turned in her seat to face him, ‘I fell in love with your sincerity, but I don’t see that any more.’

  ‘Says the person who abandoned me in a country that’s baying for my blood. How ironic is that?’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Kabeer. Nobody wants you dead.’

  ‘First, a terrorist attack and then some random people ganging up on me in a café. What would you term those? Yes, no one is after my life and I am so glad that you ran away from everything that happened.’

  ‘You could’ve called me to apologize.’

  ‘If you’re dead set on receiving an apology from me, you will have to wait, my love, until I do make a mistake.’

  ‘So, you still don’t accept you were in the wrong to attempt aggravated assault in full public glare, for the world to see.’

  ‘All the more because you’ve already judged and gaoled me and thrown away the key.’

  ‘Why are you so obstinate?’

  ‘Zoya, I can’t help it if you aren’t familiar with the term “logic”. And I can’t be talking whims and fancies all the time.’

  ‘You’re crossing the line, Kabeer.’

  ‘And the people who hit me didn’t, right?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘But you meant that.’

  ‘I think there’s a problem with the way your brain functions.’

  ‘So you accept that I have one despite the media’s label on me.’

  Zoya frowned as Kabeer continued his rant, ‘All your country has is a bunch of losers who do nothing but crib. I suppose your grandfather was no different.’

  Zoya was stunned at this low blow. They glared at each other for a while, till tears flooded down her cheeks.

  His words had pierced her heart; they were the ultimate betrayal. She was heartbroken. Her eyes glared at him but her tears recited the tale of a broken heart. She wanted to yell at him, but was rendered speechless.

  Kabeer got out of the car and slammed the door shut.

  Despite the hurt, Zoya could hear a little voice urging her to warn Kabeer that it wasn’t safe for him to be outside. But she was fuming at his crass insensitivity. She buried her head in her arms against the steering wheel and cried.

  Why was this happening to her? She knew she deserved better than this. Why was Kabeer suddenly acting so strange?

  She sat up sniffling and reached for the ignition when something tiny whizzed past the window and hit the wing mirror. Confused, Zoya rolled down her window. It was a small dart with a tiny suction cup at one end and a scroll of paper at the other. She plucked the dart from the mirror and undid the string that held the scrap of paper, scanning her surroundings to see where it had come from. Had someone deliberately aimed it for her car? But there was no one in sight. Unfolding the paper, she read, ‘Kabeer will be followed and anyone who dares to come in between will be ruthlessly eliminated.’

  She looked up from the paper, ashen. Somebody had been tailing them and probably knew exactly where they were. Kabeer was all alone in a strange city. She looked around, frantic with worry, but couldn’t see him anywhere.

  Kabeer kept walking along the dark streets of Multan in a dudgeon. He had fallen in love with Zoya almost instantly and in hindsight he suspected that the relationship and affection had been entirely one-sided. He had been just a convenient shoulder to cry on upon her bereavement and she had mistaken it for love.

  It was growing late, but Kabeer was still walking off his rage and frustration, his hands deep in his pockets. He neither knew nor cared where he was headed. He turned into a street where there were no streetlights. It was only when he accidentally stepped on a pile of garbage that squished underfoot that he realized he was quite a distance from the beaten track. He took a step back, unsure if he still wanted to be alone.

  From an alleyway at right angles to his street, a man clad in black emerged and began walking towards him. Kabeer decided to ask for directions and waited for the stranger to come closer. The man stopped in front of Kabeer. Although it was difficult to see his face in the dark, his intentions weren’t. By the time Kabeer sensed danger and could react, it was too late. The man pulled out a hockey stick from the folds of his robes and dealt a heavy blow to Kabeer’s head. Kabeer staggered sideways, but managed to stay upright. The man hit him again, this time on the back. Kabeer howled in agony. Out of nowhere, more people materialized from the shadows. Somebody covered his head with a black cloth. Kabeer struggled but was no match for the four burly men. A large hand covered his mouth and gagged him. Someone kicked him behind the knee and he buckled and fell to his knees. Another blow to the stomach and his head hit the ground. Kabeer couldn’t move. He heard footsteps running away as his attackers left. He just lay there helplessly, hoping and praying that help would arrive. His head was bleeding and he was soaked in blood and ached all over. He tried to stay awake, but was dizzy with the pain and his eyes drooped shut . . .

  Zoya was frantically driving through the lanes and bylanes, searching for Kabeer. She thought she heard a shriek over the roar of the car’s engine. Hoping she hadn’t imagined it, she turned into the street, her eyes peeled for any sign of Kabeer. A man in a black Pathani suit appeared out of nowhere and stood in front of the car, caught in her headlights. Her gut clenched in disgust as she recognized his face—her father.

  His expression enigmatic as always, he turned into an alleyway and disappeared. Zoya parked and got out of the car. She saw a man lying unconscious on the ground, a few metres away. It was Kabeer.

  She checked his pulse and was glad that he was still alive. She looked around the deserted street. Something clicked in her head about her father’s inscrutable face.

  CHAPTER 27

  July ’16

  The doctors worked hard to restore Kabeer to some semblance of normalcy after the attack. Immediately upon receiving the news, Arko and the coach rushed to the hospital. Zoya was already there at Kabeer’s bedside and remained in the hospital almost until midnight.

  Arko was uncharacteristically quiet but his eyes reflected his worry. He thought it would be better if he spoke less and listened more, as Kabeer haltingly told them what had happened and reiterated that he didn’t know who had felled him.

  Zoya listened to the account, shocked and appalled. ‘You were always bad with in-swingers, weren’t you?’ Arko gave a flickering smile and said.

  ‘If I were as good as you, I would’ve left balls and players at the right time,’ Kabeer winced as he tried to winked.

  Thoughts jostled together in Zoya’s head and she gave a perfunctory smile as Arko and Kabeer ribbed each other as was their wont. She was relieved that Kabeer was all right, but she was seriously considering bringing her father up on charges.

  When the police arrived at the hospital, Kabeer and Arko brushed away the incident as an accident so it wouldn’t be blown out of proportion into an act of terrorism and culminate in a war between the countries.

  ‘We’re sorry about the inconvenience, sir, but we have to go through the formalities and document your statement,’ said the officer, his expression deadpan as he scribbled in his notebook.

  ‘Sure,’ Kabeer replied.

  ‘Can you narrate the incident?’

  Kabeer explained what had taken place—he had seen and heard nothing and didn’t know who had hit him or why.

  ‘So, you confirm that you were attacked with a hockey stick?’

  ‘Is the weapon really important?’ Arko asked acidly, ‘shouldn’t you be looking for the goons?’

  ‘Sir, you might be a great cricketer but you are always bad with defence. To help you, our country has always been good at defence. So, please, let us do our work,’ replied the policeman sternly.

  ‘Thanks for letting us know, we’ve seen the finest of your defence displays in our last two tours,’
replied Arko, who was in no mood to absorb insults.

  ‘Sir, with all due respect, you’re in Pakistan. So you have to abide by our systems. You’ve no other option.

  ‘We’ll make sure that the offender is found and punished, Mr Kabeer. We take great pride in our hospitality and this is definitely not our idea of hospitality. We look forward to seeing you back on the field soon,’ said the policeman, completing his questionnaire and shaking hands with Kabeer.

  As soon as they finished talking, Kabeer gestured to Arko that he needed to talk to Zoya in private. Arko, aware of the turn of events in the past few days, knew that they both needed time to sort things out.

  The coach also left with Arko.

  Zoya and Kabeer were alone now and the silence between them stretched taut.

  When none of them said anything for the next few seconds, Kabeer picked up a magazine from his bedside table and started flipping through it. He cleared his throat a couple of times to get her attention. Then he kept the magazine back on the table and said, ‘It’s so lovely out here.’

  ‘What?’ Zoya raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I was just starting a conversation,’ Kabeer smiled tiredly and reached for her hand. ‘Are you upset because of what happened or are you still mad at me?’

  Zoya’s smile was forced. Kabeer’s eyes bore into hers and she tried maintaining eye contact, but every time she met his eyes, she was reminded of the fact that it was her own father who was gunning for Kabeer. She looked everywhere else except at him. She was terrified and her own breath drummed loudly in her ears. Zoya waited for a second before saying something that would change their lives forever.

  ‘Leave Pakistan, Kabeer,’ Zoya said softly, her eyes bright with tears, ‘and as soon as possible.’

  Everything grew still all at once.

  ‘After the fiasco of this series, there’s no question of my remaining in Pakistan.’

  ‘I’m planning to book your flight to India tomorrow evening if the doctor discharges you,’ Zoya looked into his eyes as she spoke. ‘This country isn’t safe for you any more.’