And Manju wished he could seal his ears. It was happening once again: Tommy Sir was talking about his father as he stood in hearing range.
‘You see that creature coming in, Srinivas? Comes and watches every match his boys play. Control freak. Keeps asking me, are they talking to women, are they boozing beer, are they watching blue films? Between us …’ Tommy Sir called the selector in closer, ‘… has a police record.’
Manju gritted his teeth.
Almost at once, there was a loud crack from the pitch: Radha Kumar, as if competing with the ghost of Yuvraj Singh, had lofted the ball in the direction of the Rajabai clock tower. The sound of his bat commanded the maidan into silence. Two boys almost ran into each other: then one of them stepped back, and the other, with cupped palms, caught the ball.
‘The moment I praise him, he gets out. You’re next, Manju. Yes, I’m changing the batting order. I want the selector to see Manjunath Kumar. Quick, quick.’
•
Helmeted, padded, centre-padded, chest-padded, thigh-padded, Manjunath Kumar came out to bat; his left thumb throbbed.
All batting — all good batting — starts with superstition. Manju already had a personal treasury of superstitions associated with his game — some held in common with all other batsmen (never to wipe the red ballmarks off the face of his bat, for instance) — and some which were peculiarly his own. This one was unique: when he got to the crease, Manju first walked in a circle all around the stumps, and only then stood where he was meant to, in front of them. Next he uttered a little Kannada poem his mother had taught him in his childhood:
Obbane Obbane
Kattale Kattale
Alone, Alone
Darkness, Darkness.
Not yet ready to bat. Next, Manju scratched around the dust with his bat, as if he were searching for something, though he had found it already, in his own thumb: a spark of hurt. Next, he took a leg-stump guard, because he felt like scoring on the off-side today, and began tapping his bat.
Now.
Mynahs and sparrows flew into stacks of cut grass each time Manju tapped his bat; the umpire’s face darkened by degrees; the fielders crouched. The bowler turned into a small, stupid animal. He pursed his lips and sucked on his teeth, and emitted squirrel-like noises with which he instructed his fielders exactly where to position themselves. Pointing at Manjunath, he yelled: ‘This boy is not a cricketer. This boy is just his brother’s shadow. This boy reads books! This boy is not going to last two balls.’
Manju turned to where the sun was shining over the buildings. It was something his father had taught him to do: when there is pain or distraction, when the sun is in your eyes, lift your palm till it blocks the light. You are now in control of the most powerful force in the universe.
Now look at the bowler, the one who taunted you. And look at the three fielders on the off-side who laughed in response. You will all share in my pain.
Manju’s nostrils are dilated; forearms tense. Around him, Mohan Kumar’s second son sees the city’s landmarks — the Eros cinema, the big blue UFO in Colaba owned by the Taj Hotel, Rajabai Tower, Churchgate station — joining up into a crown whose rim can touch his head if he wants it to. If he bats well enough today.
The first ball he hits right through the covers, humiliating the pair of fielders who had laughed the loudest.
Their punishment has begun.
On a coconut tree nearby, a woodpecker, in a frenzy, rams into wood with its beak; in the middle of the cricket pitch, a boy digs his bat into the pitch, again and again.
•
Over an hour later, having stripped his left glove to give his thumb a good shake — he had just overtaken his brother’s score — Manju glanced at the cricketers’ tent. Radha wasn’t there: but behind the Ali Weinberg pavilion, he saw a man urinating by a coconut tree. Mohan Kumar was leaning back as far as he could to ensure he didn’t miss a single second of his son’s batting, even as he relieved himself. What a buffoon my father is, Manjunath thought. How ashamed he makes me of him sometimes. The other spectators would see him peeing in public — whistle at him — perhaps throw things and chase him from the maidan — unless the next ball … was hit high in the air. A tremendous six.
Manju was now batting to protect his father.
•
What is cricket?
A face: Eknath Solkar’s face. Right before the 1968–69 Bombay — Bengal Ranji final, his father dies. ‘We know your father is dead, you don’t have to come to bat,’ his Bombay teammates tell him. But it’s a grim situation for Bombay, we’re losing wickets fast. Solkar performs the rites for his father in the morning, gets into a train, and arrives, stoically, at Brabourne stadium. ‘I am here to do my duty,’ he says. Pads up, goes in to bat. Bombay takes the lead in the first innings thanks to him: and wins the Ranji Trophy. On a day of supreme personal pain, on a day rich with excuses not to do his job, he does his job.
Or, to put it another way, as Tommy Sir had, in an essay published three years ago in the Mumbai Sun: cricket is the triumph of civilization over instinct. As he left the showers by the swimming pool, and dried his hair with his towel, Tommy Sir remembered that wonderful little essay of his. American sports, baseball or basketball, make crude measurements of athletic endowments: height, shoulder strength, bat speed, anaerobic capacity. Cricket, on the other hand, measures the extent to which you can harness these raw endowments. You have to curb your right hand, the bottom hand, the animal hand, giving sovereignity to your left, the elegant, restrained, top hand. When the short-pitched ball comes screaming, and every instinct of panic tells you, close your eyes and turn your face, you must do what does not come naturally to you or to any man: stay calm. Master your nature, play cricket. Because a man’s body, when all is said and done, is a loathsome thing — Tommy Sir slapped his underarms with Johnson and Johnson Baby Powder, his favourite deodorant — loathsome, loathsome, loathsome. More Baby Powder, much more. Mumbai is a hot city even at night.
Tommy Sir inspected himself in the mirror. He checked the smell of his underarms.
Civilized and fragrant, the old man emerged from the changing room, and looked for young Manjunath Kumar.
Tommy Sir was one of those who ‘lived’ in the Middle Income Group Cricket Club of Kalanagar, which is to say, he did his daily six laps in the pool, consumed international cricket and local whisky in the bar, and had tea every evening in the cafeteria towards which he was now walking.
Inside, the waiters stood by a television set watching England play South Africa, either right now or perhaps several years ago.
It was as if a ray of morning light had entered. Manjooo. Tommy Sir had not come alone. The waiters smiled at the boy; and then came to him bearing gifts — sit, Manjooo. Sit, sit. Little Manju they treated as de facto club mascot. Free snacks. Free Coca-Cola? Don’t worry, eat. Your father? He’ll never know. The trains would be packed till nine: the three Kumars were allowed to stay on within the MIG club premises till late, but only one was pampered so.
‘Look at me, Manju. I have something important to say.’
Though he had been expecting to discuss Radha Kumar with the selector, Tommy Sir had gone silent as Manjunath Kumar began to hit the ball. Standing beside him, the selector, Srinivasan Sir, had watched Manju’s batting with his mouth open, as if he too wanted to ask out loud — what is cricket? Because, like Tommy Sir, he could answer the question only in English. But the boy batting before them was answering it in the language of cricket.