The Return of Vaman - A Scientific Novel

As I stepped off the bus outside the Oval, I had a premonition that I was going to witness something unusual. Today, looking back after the events, I see no reason to account for that premonition, but then aren’t premonitions, by definition, unaccountable? So far as I can see, the only thing unusual was that I had found time to watch a test match live; and this was fully accountable. As I presented my complimentary pass at the gate I fingered the note which accompanied it:

Dear John
,

Regards
,

Sincerely yours
,

Pramod and I were Cambridge blues in the team which won the Varsity match in ’89. Later, Pramod became a professional, rising to great heights as his performances against the West Indies, Australia and the M.C.C. have testified. I, regrettably, gave up cricket altogether, such were the demands of my work as an Indologist and (now) as a museum curator. Indeed it came as a shock to me that I was visiting a cricket ground after 15 years!

Today was the second day’s play and I had chosen this day because India was going to field and I would be able to watch Pramod in action. Yesterday, on a perfect wicket in bright sunshine India was expected to amass a huge score. However, the Indian batsmen did not fulfill these expectations and England was left to face a relatively modest first innings score of 308.

The second day’s play began quietly with no hint of what was to come. In one hour the England openers Willis and Jones put up a score of 40 for no loss. After the drinks, the Indian captain Bhandari called in Rangnekar to bowl—and the unusual chain of events was set in motion.

Pramod was greeted with great applause which had an element of sympathy about it. For, as all followers of the game knew, this was his last test. Indeed, during this series his performance had been indifferent. The old fire and magic had gone from his bowling, which could now be easily ‘read’ by the England batsmen. There had been an increasing demand that Pramod be dropped from the team. Nevertheless, the selectors once again plumped for experience, rather than quality and gave him this last chance. Would he live up to their expectations?

The first hint of the unusual came when Pramod prepared to bowl, “Right arm, over the wicket?” asked umpire Coates, who was familiar with his style of bowling. “No,” said Pramod to the umpire’s surprise. “Left arm over the wicket.”

Pramod had never bowled with his left arm. Even Bhandari was puzzled and wanted to discourage Pramod. However, Pramod persisted. “OK, I will allow the old … one over of this nonsense,” muttered Bhandari to himself.

By now the commentators on radio and TV had learnt of Pramod’s intention and had started commenting on it. How could a right-handed bowler suddenly decide to bowl left-handed? And that too in a test match when his side badly needed a wicket? This was against all precedents.

But then everything that followed was going to be against any precedent.

With his first ball, which was remarkably accurate, Pramod knocked off opener Willis’s leg stump. As a confounded Willis made his way back to the pavilion he warned the new batsman, “Take care! The joker sent down a funny one to me.”

The warning was to be of no avail. Pramod’s left-handed bowling was completely unexpected and neither No. 3, nor any of his successors could make any sense of it. From 40 for no wicket, England was bundled out for a total of a mere 78 runs.

As I munched my sandwich during the lunch interval, I pondered over the remarkable transformation which had come over the game in such a short time—a transformation which perhaps distinguishes cricket from any other game. Would England recover in the second innings as they followed on 230 runs behind? The old gentleman sitting next to me wondered moodily whether Rangnekar would overtake Jim Laker’s record of 19 wickets in a test match. He went on describing that eventful match which he had seen in his youth half a century ago.

Yes, this is what happened in the second innings when England collapsed once again for 45 runs, their lowest ever score against India. And Pramod had a tally of 20 wickets.

Then this remarkable match was followed by another remarkable event. As the last wicket fell Pramod ran towards the pavilion and even before the jubilant Indian spectators, excited newsmen and TV crew could get anywhere near, he was whisked away in a waiting car.

Where did Pramod go? Nobody knew. The manager of the Indian team, the police and the newspapermen began a frantic search. The next day, an unknown person with an Indian accent telephoned a Fleet Street newspaper office and conveyed a message from the missing player:

“I am safe; don’t worry, I will return within 24 hours.”

Was this a hoax or a genuine message? By way of authentication the caller told the police a location in Croydon where Rangnekar’s shirt would be found. Sure enough the police located and identified the shirt.

Meanwhile, the newspapers had a field day. ‘An Indian Rope-trick?’ ‘Superb bowling or Eastern hypnosis?’ ‘Rangnekar out-Lakers Jim Laker’, blared some of the tabloid headlines. Even the
Times
felt driven to writing an editorial eulogizing Rangnekar’s achievement but confessing to being puzzled at developments during and after the game. The Wisden promptly added another record to its annals of cricket history.

The next day Pramod was found at the Bow Street police station. But what an anticlimax! He did not remember a single thing about the test match or what happened afterwards. In all other respects his brain was sound and he ridiculed any suggestions that he had played such a major role in the test match.

“I could not get the wicket of a schoolboy if I bowled left-handed,” he said modestly—and there was a ring of truth in his voice.

13 December 2005 is a date I will never forget. I had finished my breakfast and was about to leave for an important appointment when the phone rang:

“John, it’s for you. The caller won’t identify himself but says it’s important,” Ann said. I cursed inwardly—I would certainly be late for my appointment now.

“Yes? John Armstrong speaking,” I tried to be as polite as possible.

“Good morning, John! You will be surprised to hear from me. This is Ajit calling—Ajit Singh.”

Ajit Singh! After so many years! Annoyance gave way to surprise as I continued to listen. “May I see you tonight? It is very important. About eight thirty?” He seemed to be dictating all the arrangements. I asserted myself, “Come for dinner. Ann is threatening to poison me with her curry. We will both be her victims.”

“Sure, thanks,” said Ajit. As he was about to hang up he seemed to remember something. He added, “And John—I hope you and Ann will not mind if I eat with my hands instead of with knife and fork.”

Why this reference to knife and fork? Before I could ask him if he was serious, Ajit rang off.

Ann was only too happy to try her hand at a curry. She also decided to experiment with some Indian sweets. I left her with her cookery cards and hastened for the train. But throughout the day my thoughts were on Ajit and on our forthcoming encounter. What was he going to tell me?

Pramod and Ajit were fellow undergraduates with me at Cambridge. We had rooms on the same staircase of the college. Pramod and I shared an enthusiasm for cricket and by the end of our first summer we were both picked for the University Eleven. With Ajit I had a different type of bond. We both used to hold long discussions, lasting sometimes into the early hours of the morning, on Indian philosophy. Indeed it was these discussions which really shaped my career as an Indologist. Ajit, however, was a physicist. After taking the third part of the Mathematical Tripos, where he won the Mayhew Prize, he elected to do physics. Here also he distinguished himself. I left Cambridge after three years but he continued a research career at the Cavendish. Off and on we had met and corresponded; I do recall writing to him when he won the Smith Prize. But later our contact was less frequent. I had been on several archaeological expeditions in the Indian subcontinent before settling down to my present museum curatorship in London.

Ajit had been a loner all along. I doubt if he ever had any friend apart from me. When we last met, which was five years ago, Ajit had given up his college Fellowship and joined a research establishment in England. I believe, though he never mentioned it, his work was of a highly classified nature.

Was he going to tell me something of it tonight?

Exactly at 8.30 pm the door bell rang. I had no trouble recognising Ajit. He had become leaner and had a few grey hairs. But there was another subtle change in him which I could sense—I can testify to that even today after all these events. To be honest, however, I must also record that at that moment of our meeting I was not able to pinpoint what exactly was different about him.

His manner of speaking soon put my mind at rest. So far as his attitude towards me was concerned, it hadn’t changed a bit.

At the meal, which was served in Indian fashion in
thalis
(another of Ann’s attempts at artistic verisimilitude!), Ajit was reticent, leaving aside the usual small talk. But this did not surprise me as Ajit was never a sparkling dinner-table conversationalist. What did surprise me was his manner of eating. Out of deference to his whimsical suggestion we had all dispensed with knife and fork in favour of fingers. But Ajit’s way of eating with fingers showed the same awkwardness that a Westerner exhibits when he attempts to eat Indian food with fingers. Ann and I commented on this. But Ajit had an explanation: “Living in the decadent West for so many years, I have lost the knack of eating with fingers.” The explanation seemed to satisfy Ann, but I had my doubts.

My doubts about Ajit’s unusual behaviour were reinforced towards the end of the meal when my seven-year-old son Ken came with a book.

“Uncle, you sent me this book on my last birthday but you forgot to sign it. Would you please do it now?”

This was a fact. Last year a book had arrived for Ken from Ajit’s lab. It carried the inscription ‘To Ken, on his seventh birthday’ in what I knew to be Ajit’s handwriting. Ajit in his peculiar way had remembered Ken’s birthday but had forgotten to sign his name!

Ajit took the book and glanced at it in a cursory fashion. Then he shook his head and returned it to Ken.

“I am sorry, Ken! My eyes are hurting me today so I can’t sign this right now.”

“Come on! You don’t need to exert your eyes to sign your own name,” I protested on Ken’s behalf.

“But my doctor has expressly forbidden me to read or write anything in my present condition. As a compromise, Ken, I will bring you another book soon when I am well and I will sign both of them.”

Ajit’s tone had an air of finality; so Ken and I did not press further. Ken appeared satisfied with the offer of another present—he had already developed a liking for books. But I found Ajit’s response highly uncharacteristic of him.

“Now Ajit, perhaps you can tell me why you came here tonight.” My suppressed curiosity finally burst out as I pointed him to an armchair in my study and offered him a glass of port. We were alone now and I expected something momentous from him.

“Take it easy!” Ajit had a relaxed smile on his face. He slowly took out a packet from his briefcase and opened it carefully.

It was a beautiful idol of the dancing
Ganesha
, the elephant god of the Hindus. (The elephant god has the head of an elephant and its idol is usually in a sitting posture with legs crossed as in the Buddha’s sitting statues. This particular idol showed the elephant god in a dancing pose, which is not so common.) I recognised it immediately, for a similar idol existed in my museum in the British India Section. It belonged to the Maratha rulers, the Peshwas who controlled most of India before the British became dominant.
Ganesha
was one of the important deities of the Peshwas and this particular idol in my museum had been recovered from their palace, the
Shaniwarvada
, when Elphinstone’s army marched into Pune in 1818. How it finally made its way to this museum is a long story. My immediate reaction was to ask how Ajit managed to get a replica of this valuable piece.

“Look carefully! Is it really a replica?” Ajit had a provocative smile on his face.

I subjected the piece to the many visual tests of authenticity that I knew. Yes, so far as I could tell this piece was made by the same craftsman who had made the idol I had in the museum. Then suddenly, I noticed one glaring difference: how could I miss it in the first place?

The trunk of the elephant head was turned to the right instead of to the left as with most idols of
Ganesha
.

This particular aspect not only distinguished the idol in my hand from that in the museum but it also made it far more valuable because of its rarity. I explained this to Ajit.

“Indeed? I would like to see them side by side for comparison.” Ajit seemed more amused than surprised. He continued, “May I present your museum with this piece since you find it so valuable?”

I thanked him for this generous gift and promised him a properly worded formal letter of gratitude from the trustees of the museum. But I could not contain my curiosity and asked, “What is the history behind this piece? How did you come by it?”

“All in good time: but I am happy to see you so surprised. Let me now ask you another question, John. You know me well. What do you think is a distinguishing mark of my body?” I was surprised by this sudden change of subject. But of course I knew the answer.

“Your left thumb is about half an inch smaller than your right thumb.”

“Can you swear to it?”

“Of course!”

Ajit opened out both his hands in front of me. Yes, one thumb was shorter than the other. But I realised with a shock that it was the right thumb that was short.