Manju nodded.
‘For now, I want you to repeat something aloud. When anyone says, you must do this, you must make money, must play cricket, just say in response: “My life is not limited by your imagination.” It is our motto here. Repeat it, please. Excellent. Now the second thing I want you to do is a mental exercise. Please close your eyes, and imagine a future in which you play cricket for the next twenty or thirty years. Tell me if you like what you see.’
The moment he closed his eyes, for some reason Manju thought of something he had seen on India’s Got Talent the previous evening, a slim young woman with a ponytail and layers upon layers of abdominal muscles — and a silver ring piercing her belly-button.
The boy started: across the table, the career counsellor was striking his knuckles on the glass, and Manjunath Kumar had been returned from the distant planet where he suffered his erections, to this one, our earth.
‘Did you like what you saw, Manju? A life as a cricketer?’
Keeping his eyes on his shoe, Manju said, ‘Yes, yes.’
But then he gazed over Mr Seth’s head at the photograph of the white mice, and read the slogan again, and this time he felt the same strange exhilaration as he had when he’d seen Javed nearly naked in the dark tent, and so raised a finger to catch the counsellor’s attention and asked if he could please change his answer.
•
An hour later, Javed and Manju were back at the big mall in Vashi, playing air hockey on the top floor, until Manju asked:
‘Are you in a gang?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Your counsellor told me. He said it’s called Mad Max Gang. He told me not to join it.’
‘I knew he was a spy for my father,’ Javed said, concentrating on the game. ‘That son of a bitch.’
‘Can I join it?’
‘No. Mad Max Gang is for experienced boys only. Not for you.’
‘I am shaving every day now. I am experienced.’
U-ha, U-ha. Running across the table, Javed caught Manju by the forearm, but he freed himself, and kicked back.
The two raced from the mall to Vashi station, and when he realized he was going to lose, Javed stopped running, and began playing air-guitar, forcing Manju to turn around and come back — and beg to be allowed to join in the guitar concert.
•
Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa … Wah, Wah, Wah Waaaaaaaaaaaa …
He concentrated on the Sea Link bridge: the white mesh of wires over the central pier throbbing in the sunlight like plucked string, until he could almost hear it buzzing across the water. He felt Javed touch him on the forearm, recoiled, and moved away.
Slices of coconut flesh clustered by the shore at Dadar beach; marigold petals and plastic garbage floated further away. Immersed to his waist, a bull-necked brahmin turned round and round in the water, scattering the coconut and petals each time he dipped.
Right behind the praying brahmin, jumping on the wet stones for special effects, ‘J.A.’ was demonstrating a dance done by Freddie Mercury, who was a poet, and a Parsi, and a gay. He had just downloaded the video on his new cell phone. He kept going, Waaaaaaaa, Waaaaaaa, Waaaaaa, until he stopped and shouted, ‘Hey, Glottalstop, is this a boycott?’
But Manju had already left the beach.
‘Yesterday in Vashi train station you were like Tarzan, and today you’re boycotting me? Why?’
Four pale legs with claws stuck out from beneath a black taxi, as Manju left the beach and walked to Shivaji Park.
‘I’m not doing any boycott.’
The benches at the park’s entrance reeked of molasses; a man lay in a puddle.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he heard Javed say.
But the previous night, lying in bed, smelling the sweat and cricket practice from his elder brother’s tired body, hearing the breathing from his open mouth, Manju’s mind had been penetrated by doubt.
Why is he being so nice to me? Maybe, Manju thought, because this Muslim boy had always been greedy for that thing around which this dark enterprise of cricket sponsorship revolved, Manjunath Kumar’s forearms — these Bradmanesque, Tendulkaresque forearms — and maybe he wanted to snap them like a pair of kebabs and chew on them. And post a photo on Facebook.
As he walked he saw a condom on the ground, and stopped. He turned around to see Javed, waiting by one of the stone obelisks near the park’s entrance, tap meaningfully on the stone, and go into the park.
Manju turned and walked back to the sign taped to the obelisk:
Professor Joshi’s Tutorials
ICSE, IB, SSC (English Medium)
Limited number of students (max 10 per class)
Another notice was stuck to the bottom of this notice:
Swiddish Massage
Experienced Male Masseur
Home Service Only
Call 9811799289
And at the bottom of that notice, in Javed’s handwriting, was written:
YOU ARE SLAVE
In the shade of the trees at one end of the maidan, the cricketers sat on plastic chairs, their pads and gloves spilling out of their bags and getting mixed up. Manju stripped off his shirt, and put on his chest-guard, and then his forearm guard. Beside him, Javed, stripped to the waist, was doing the same.
Fully dressed, the two batsmen walked towards the green cricket pitch, when Manju stopped, held up his bat, as if he were talking to it, and shouted:
‘I am not slave, okay?’
‘U-ha, U-ha.’
Manju looked at Javed.
‘Did you take me to see Mr Seth and tell him to say all those things because you want me to give up cricket?’
Again: ‘U-ha. U-ha.’
‘So you can take my place on the team?’
Now Javed stopped laughing and looked at him — before he threw his bat on the ground.
‘Manju, this is the last season for me.’
‘Last season?’
‘I told my father. No more cricket.’
So Manju also dropped his bat.
The number of open middle-order batting slots in the Mumbai Ranji team had just increased by one. He had to tell Radha the news.
Bending to pick up his own bat, Manju also handed Javed his. A woman wearing an ochre sari walked between them.
‘Why?’
The umpire clapped.
‘Whatever it is, discuss in the tent, not on the pitch.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Manju said, loud enough for all to hear.
‘Time them out, Umpire — time them out!’
‘Look,’ Javed told Manju. ‘Do you think I’d lie to you? About anything?’
‘No,’ Manju said, and then tried to understand.
‘But if you don’t play cricket, what will you do?’
Javed gave Manju his answer, and then shouted at the fielders, silencing them.
At the non-striker’s end, Manju stood with an open mouth. Behind him, he heard the fast-bowler’s feet pound into the earth. Beyond the park, a saffron pennant fluttered from the top of the Veer Savarkar monument. Three urchins had enriched the slips cordon; as the wicket-keeper scared them away, their mother tried to sell oranges to the umpire. A young man with kajol around his eyes sang in falsetto as he loped around Shivaji Park. Manju had never seen these things before in a game of cricket.