‘That son of a bitch,’ Radha said. ‘He must have spies in the MIG club. They told him everything.’
Manju, reading his father’s mind, shouted at the closed door: ‘I’ll never go to the police, Appa. And if they ask me why is my thumb broken I’ll say that you are the best father in the world.’
And only then did the bathroom door begin to open.
Ten minutes later, all the world saw Mohan and his boys, hand in hand, one happy family on their way to the temple.
•
Camphor, crushed marigold, wet stone and stale coconut combine to produce the body odour of a South Indian god, an odour not always pleasant, but always divine: and this is the smell which exuded from the closed wooden doors of the Subramanya temple at Chheda Nagar, Chembur. Finding the temple not yet open, the three Kumars bowed to the lord’s golden spear, the vel, embedded into the side-wall. Radha closed his eyes and prayed audibly: ‘Please keep us safe from the police and neighbours and most of all from our rivals in cricket.’
Mohan saw Manju looking at the parakeets on the roof of the temple. He reached over and slapped him on the head.
Sending Radha off to a cricket match — and Manju with his broken thumb to school — Mohan Kumar walked back into the Subramanya temple compound, which was now open, and fragrant with jasmine and good silk, and prayed for the moral improvement of his sons. He sat in the temple courtyard, removed his sandals and looked at the cracks on the balls of his feet.
The thing you do not realize when you are a young father is that they will never grow up to be as smart as you. Even if they love you (and Manju certainly did), they still provide your enemies with new opportunities. Expand the circumference of your vulnerability. Best if he kept away from Manju and Radha. At least for now.
This meant that for the first time in years, Mohan Kumar was free on a weekday morning.
Might go to Deepa Bar, he thought. Just to sit at one of those dark air-conditioned tables and talk to someone. Even Mr Shetty, the manager.
Having started his bike, Mohan Kumar looked up at the trees. He caught sight of a bulbul — a dash of red among the green — which reminded him of his village near the mountains. Fly home, he prayed to the bird, and tell them nothing has gone wrong. Mohan Kumar’s plan is just beginning. Because his sons will soon have sons, and they too will bat: a dynasty of cricketers is rising in Mumbai from two drops of Kumar semen.
•
Three Poems about Manju
1. Why I am watching M.
Up on the 4th floor of Ali Weinberg School
In the full classroom that is taking the exam
everyone else has failed already.
I see only one face that is not a slave.
2. The little flame
Has no one else seen
the dark line that cuts into his forehead
when he is thinking?
It leans to the left.
3. M. is a cheater at heart
He wants to cheat in the exam
But he is not bold.
He wants to be free
But he is scared of his father.
He knows the colour of my cap
And my initials.
But he won’t talk to me.
He knows
I am watching him right now.
4. Fourth poem (because Javed does what he
wants and breaks all rules)
A star fell to the earth
When no one was watching.
The name of the star is love.
Turn round; for it fell right behind you.
‘There are still twenty minutes left, Manjunath.’ Mr Lasrado, the physics teacher, returned from the window to his desk to collect the exam paper. ‘What is the hurry to leave?’
All the other boys in the classroom were watching. On the blackboard were written the formidable words:
Physics Practice Exam
Number 2: Periodic Table and Atomic Particles.
But Manju insisted: ‘Done, sir.’
Mr Lasrado sat at his desk and studied his paper.
‘You haven’t finished one question. Name five man-made elements. You have only bohrium and plutonium here. What is the hurry? Sit and finish.’
Manju held up his bandaged left thumb. Mr Lasrado lowered his nose and studied the bandage around the sporting finger.
‘Cricket?’
‘Cricket,’ Manju agreed.
Outside in the hall, the peon was pasting a hand-made poster in the hallway: Ten Easy Ways to Fight Tension during the Exam Period.
Manju went down the steps, to an empty bench with a view of the parked school buses; he groaned. Name five man-made elements. Bohrium, plutonium … There was a new edge to these surprise tests, monthly tests, half-annual and annual exams. For eight years, the students knew they could not fail. Now all that had changed. Now they could be thrown out of Ali Weinberg if their grades even threatened to lower the school’s average in the Board Exams. Five man-made elements. Manju knew they were going to ask this question in the surprise test: he should have been able to name at least five.
He had lied to Mr Lasrado; the broken thumb had nothing to do with his not preparing properly for the exam, and the CSI Las Vegas back-to-back special on AXN had a lot to do with it. But he had read Mr Lasrado’s mind, and knew that he wanted to hear about the famous cricket thumb, and not about CSI Las Vegas.
What was the point anyway of studying? He, like Radha, would have to drop out after the SSC exams to concentrate on cricket. Their father had already decided. Tommy Sir, for once, agreed with their father. He had seen so many young cricketers in Tamil Nadu say, I have to go to America, have to concentrate on my studies, sorry, Tommy Sir: no more cricket. There was no chance of either Manju or Radha failing at cricket. And if they did fail, Tommy Sir said, so what? Could always go back and finish college one or two years later.
Einsteinium. Is that man-made? Manju played with a lock of his hair.
Then someone whistled — the air filled with perfume — and a boy in a blue cap passed right by him. Farewell at once to both man-made and natural elements. Tucking his textbook under his arm, Manju followed Javed Ansari.
He walked over maroon-and-grey bricks, and through a makeshift cardboard arch painted with images of Mother Mary, to a place where he saw Javed leaning against a coconut tree to give himself a view, through a variety of mildewed structures, of the ocean. Manju saw a flame being struck.
Javed removed his blue cap and tossed it on the ground. Standing against the tree, looking at the waves, and running a hand through his hair, he smoked. Ten feet behind him, Manju struck the same pose with his hand and his hair. He too exhaled.
Describe your interests in life other than cricket, Manju.
Science. Chemistry. CSI Las Vegas.
How boring. What about driving a motorbike?
No. I can’t.
Manju, can you please use fine English words in your answers?
Suddenly Manju saw that the figure leaning against the coconut tree had disappeared; and he already knew, as if in a horror movie, where Javed now was. Manju turned around slowly and there he stood, grinning: Mr ‘J.A.’, cigarette still in hand.