The Zoya Factor (23 page)

My dad shook his head. 'Pitaji says three out of those seven have some kind of cancer so they don't really count. He's convinced he's going to outlive the bunch of them. He keeps telling Amma she got a really good bargain. He also seems to be deriving a special pleasure from the fact that all the Generals from his batch have kicked the bucket...'

My grandfather retired from the army as a lieutenant colonel, the same rank my dad held when he took premature retirement a few years ago. According to Yogu Chacha that is as high as the people in my family rise in the forces, because, 'They just aren't socially savvy enough to rise any higher, kiddo.' Deciding to attempt some savviness myself, I put my cup down, and in a carefully casual voice asked, 'Dad, did Nikhil Khoda call you by any chance
?'

'Yes, actually, he did.'

'Oh?' I said, a little taken aback. 'And what did he say?'

My dad grunted,
'Wahi, ki
Zoya
ko
Australia
bhejo
. We will pay for everything and take good care of her.'

'What did you say to him?' I asked, feeling seriously weirded out. Things like this just didn't happen. An Indian skipper, no matter how many matches he'd lost, didn't just call up your dad and have long chats with him. I mean, he lived in a different world. The fact that Nikhil Khoda and my dad had a talk over the phone seemed way more bizarre to me, somehow, than the fact that Nikhil Khoda had said he wanted to kiss me.

'I told him
ki
listen, young man, Zoya will not sign any contract. It will have to be a no-conditions arrangement. And I also told him,' he went on, breathing a little heavily, 'that I was
surprised,
or rather amazed, yes
amazed
, that a new-generation fellow like him should believe in all this luck-shuck.'

I winced. Poor Nikhil. That must've hurt. 'What did he say to that?'

'He said he was really calling on behalf of the IBCC chief Jogpal Lohia. That taking you along was Lohia's idea and that he was just a go-between because you and he are' - Dad paused and looked up at me through beetling brows - 'friends.'

I went pink. Couldn't help it. 'Yes, that's true, actually,' I said, trying to appear cool. 'Not that we're friends,' I added hastily. 'That's an overstatement. He was just being polite. But it's true that Nikhil is not at all superstitious. It's Zahid and the younger boys really.'

Dad snorted. 'One trip to Dhaka and it's
Nikhil
and
Zahid
. And you want me to let you go to Australia?'

'I don't really need your
permission
to go,' I pointed out to him, flaring up instantly. 'I just...'

'Oh, I know, I know,' Dad said. 'You're twenty-seven years old, you'll do exactly what you please. But don't get too carried away. One match lost and these fellows will drop you faster than they drop catches.'

'I
know,
Dad,' I said. 'And I have no illusions on that score. But if there are no conditions, and if I can help India win, why not?'

He snorted again. 'It's all a bunch of rubbish. What is this country coming to? Anyway, it's your decision and let me tell you that your friend Nikhil also said that if there's no contract, the Board can't pay you anything.'

Hello! This was news! How come Nikhil hadn't mentioned that when we were talking tenderly under the madhumalati?

'What they
will
do though,' my Dad continued, 'is put you and two of your friends or family members up in style in five-star hotels everywhere. And pay for your tickets and all your expenses, of course.'

'But the IBCC's loaded!' I gasped. 'How cheap! Why can't they pay me? Especially because Sanks will never give me twenty-eight days' paid leave!'

'Just because somebody's rich doesn't mean they can't be cheap,' Dad pointed out. 'In fact, the two very often go together. But your
friend,
the captain, did imply that he would see that you were remunerated somehow. He said, this way you could still be a free agent, come and go as you please. He said that he got the feeling that it was important to you.'

'You seemed to have really bonded with him,' I said, feeling vaguely resentful.

Dad picked up Meeku and tickled him behind the ears. 'He seems to be a sensible enough fellow. Let's hope his team does well.' He looked at me worriedly. 'Now you be a sensible girl too, Zoya, and don't go giving yourself too much importance or start believing that it's all your fault if they lose.'

The next two months went by in a total whirl. The Shah Rukh film had finally broken and was doing amazingly well. The jingle especially was a super-hit and you couldn't go out anywhere without hearing it playing on somebody's cellphone. Luckily, Coke didn't come up with an outstanding campaign in that period, so that helped too. The openers' promo with Harry and Shivnath did all right. The HotCrust promo was a real cracker and I spent a lot of time with Zahid, travelling with him in a car from place to place delivering pizzas to deliriously excited aunties. He told me, rather naively, that he hadn't realized how popular pizza was amongst housewives between the ages of thirty-five to forty-five. I had to tell him that it wasn't the pizza they were after, but the hunk who was delivering it. He'd looked a little embarrassed, of course, but he hadn't blushed like he used to earlier.

I didn't see Nikhil after that night back in October. He hadn't been to Delhi since, to my knowledge, and then they'd been in camp. Neelo shot with him December-end for our cautiously optimistic spirit-of-cricket music video and had even been invited to the same New Year party as him. I'd questioned him in a very Subtle Bihari Vajpayee way about it and gleaned that Khoda had been with a bunch of hot-looking people including a Yash Chopra camp heroine he was apparently dating, with whom he had vanished post-midnight.

This big rumour about his engagement came out in the papers in January but then both he and his date denied it and it died down quickly. I agonized over sending him a text message to congratulate him but then decided it would be too desperate.

He had messaged me a couple of times. Once, to ask me to send his pictures from the still shoot to his mom who wanted them for his grandmom, who wasn't keeping too well. And one Happy New Year message that I think he sent to the whole list of contacts on his phone. That was all. No more I've-been-wanting-to-kiss-you-all-evening kind of stuff.

It was depressing, of course, and sometimes I wondered if I had misheard him or something (
kick
you all evening?
kid
you all evening?). That one measly remark had fully put me off all the nice, normal, well-to-do boys my dad had made me meet on various weekends, which was, of course, completely pathetic. I kept dreaming these cheesy dreams where Nikhil Khoda, resplendent in his India Blues, showed up with a bouquet of pink tiger lilies at the Mother Dairy booth where I stood in the queue with a stainless-steel doodh ka dolu on my arm. Really corny stuff. If anyone ever were to find out, the shame would kill me....

The sixth of January dawned bright and clear. Eppa woke me up at four-thirty in the morning, with a cup of adrak ki chai. 'Get up, Zoya,' she said, 'Rinku Chachi reddy alreddy!'

I sat up, reached for the cup blindly and took a large gulp. The flight was at nine and we had to be there by six, so I had to hurry.

'Your daddy says yu haft leave five o' clock sharp,' Eppa warned. 'Too much trucks on thee hai-vay.'

She went out of the room and I pulled on the clothes I'd left by my bed the night before. Comfy jeans, a short-sleeved turquoise tee shirt and a purple corduroy jacket I'd splurged on the previous week. (Whenever I've gone to pick up people from the airport, I've noticed that all the cool, well-travelled-looking types always carry or wear jackets. So, of course, I'd gone and bought one even though it was peak summer in Australia.)

I fluffed out my hair as I looked in the mirror. It was one of my good-looking days - hair very black and springy, cheeks not too big. No zits coming up either. Yesss.

My dad was walking up and down in the garden with Rinku Chachi and Gajju. She was to accompany me on the trip, much to Zoravar's chagrin. He'd been down on casual leave and had campaigned for the job enthusiastically. But Dad had said no, and, besides, I think Zoravar knew that he'd never be able to swing that much leave or get a visa anyway. Still, that hadn't kept him from groaning and grumbling about how he was so shareef, such a respectable boy, and would make a perfect chaperone, unlike Rinku Chachi, who he claimed, was carrying on with the DVD guy and the hot college kid next door. But Rinku Chachi had just smacked him on the cheek and told him to go play with his guns, which he'd done yesterday. He would be reaching his unit in Poonch anytime now. 'I'll be watching every match, Gaalu!' he said. 'We've got it all rigged up. Wave if the camera's on you, okay?'

I promised him I would, but I wasn't really anticipating any big media moments myself. Even the dudes from Jogpal Lohia's office had advised me to keep a low profile when I went to get my tickets and visas for the trip. 'For your own sake, bete,' they'd said, 'people there may resent you if we play well, you know.'

My dad said all that was hogwash and that Jogpal didn't want people to know what a ruddy fool he was, believing in luck and all that. 'Still, it's not a bad idea to lie low, Zoya,' he said. 'Eat breakfast with them, but otherwise give them a wide berth. Do your own thing. Go sightseeing, learn about a new country; and stick close to your Chachi and Monita, okay?'

Mon was to be my other companion in Australia. My dad's always been very impressed with her. 'Such a capable, handsome girl,' he always says. 'See how she balances her family life and her work! And her husband is so senior in American Express!'

Of course, Mon never swears or smokes in front of my dad. No foul Hindi abuses or blowing smoke rings or grumbling about her monsters. In fact, she'd gone all goody goody and taken it into her head that she was
chaperoning
me!

'Don't worry, Uncle,' she told my dad like a million times, 'Zoya is just like Armaan and Aman to me.'

Hello, at least I'm not a sex maniac like Monita's little monster! He was tagging along too, by the way. Monita thought it was a good idea for him to travel. 'It'll broaden his horizons you know,' she said eagerly. 'And I've neglected him so much lately. We'll show him Ayers Rock and the Southern Lights. Get his mind out of the gutter...'

To which all I could say was good luck.

I walked out onto the veranda and was greeted chirpily by the family. Even Yogu looked down from his window on the first floor and waved benignly. The only part of the house that stayed quiet was Mohindar and Anita Chachi's. She was very upset about the fact that Dad didn't choose her to accompany me abroad.

A big hug from Eppa, a furry wet embrace from Meeku, and I was ready to go. But Gajju was clinging to Rinku Chachi in a surprisingly raunchy manner. My dad raised one eyebrow and I heard Eppa
tch, tch
disapprovingly. Anyway, Gajju finally released his wife and she emerged, slightly dishevelled and moist-eyed, and said, 'Look after yourself, G. Singh!' in a suspiciously husky voice. He nodded silently and then we both piled into my dad's car and zipped to the airport.

Monita and Armaan were waiting for us outside the international departure terminal. He was perched on her trolley, swathed in her quilted jacket and looking very sleepy. Mon looked all wired and waved enthusiastically. We piled our bags onto the wobbly IGI trolleys while Mon assured my dad earnestly, for the
thousandth
time, that she would take good care of me.

And then it was time to say goodbye.

Dad pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into my hand. It was a brand new cellphone - a much fancier model than the one I had, with Internet and a camera and everything. 'Here,' he said, closing my hand over it. 'I've got international roaming installed. You can call me any time you want to talk. And don't worry about the bill, okay?'

I nodded. 'Thanks, Dad.'

We'd reached the main gate and a surly 'sikorty' guy started grumbling about how we were holding up the traffic. '
Haan haan, bhaisaab,
' Dad snapped at him and stepped back, suspiciously red-nosed. 'Bye, beta, God bless.'

And, with one last wave to him, I wheeled my trolley through.

My spirits lifted quite quickly once we boarded the aircraft. The air in there was a heady blend of expensive aftershave, crisp air conditioning, Juicy-Fruit chewing gum and aromatic coffee - a bouquet Zoravar and I used to call 'abroad smell' when we were kids. (We used to crouch down and inhale it dreamily from the suitcases of visiting NRI aunties.) I took a deep intoxicating gulp and settled happily into my seat.