The Zoya Factor (45 page)

They kicked off the discussion with the usual intro, a mention of my name and my 'unblemished' track record, followed by some some chubby-cheeked pictures of me. Then they talked about the wretched Benito's Pizza incident, and ended by hinting that I had somehow caused the brawl between Naved Khan and Zahid Pathan.

Then they started taking calls. The first caller was Stuart from Yarrawonga. He wanted to know how the
Laws of Cricket
were regarding this issue.

The ICC guy cleared his throat and said that the laws of cricket had nothing to say on this issue. The situation was a complete first in the history of cricket.

Then this very passionate old Sri Lankan gentleman called in to say that the whole thing was a classic example of racial discrimination. He said that in all probability India was going to be the only non-white team to make it to the semis and that the other three teams - Australia, England and South Africa - were ganging up against India. He said, 'Again and again we are faced with incidents that clearly lay bare the Black-White rift that exists in the cricketing world. I am sure that a white lucky charm would have been greeted as a bit of a good joke by the very same gentlemen who are muttering about voodoo, hocus-pocus and unfair advantages in hushed tones right now.' He banged the phone down without waiting for a reply from the panel.

The anchor looked a little rattled. He turned towards Jogpal and said, 'Sir! As the IBCC chief, are your views the same as that of Mr Krishnawardhane who just called from Julong?'

Jogpal stroked his beard meditatively and said, 'I salute Mr Krishnawardhane for his passion and thank him for his support, but no, I don't necessarily agree with his point of view. I'm sure that the cricketing world is a united one, and all the teams have enough faith in their talent not to worry about a harmless little girl from New Delhi.'

The senior Aussie ex-cricketer leaned in and said, 'Mr Lohia, your harmless little girl almost caused an international incident! A
war
could have broken out on the Indo-Pak border yesterday!'

'No, no,' said Jogpal soothingly. 'The Indo-Pak match incident was because of high spirits only. Zoya is nothing, nothing at all, the real thing is that Wes - your own countryman - has done wonders with the team!'

The ICC official jumped in to say, 'Then surely you wouldn't mind if we request that Zoya not be there for the last two matches?'

Jogpal thrust his beard forward belligerently. 'Why
ji?
Of course I mind! Do I get into your kitchen and tell you how to slice your potatoes?' he demanded. 'Do I tell your good wife where to place the TV and the two-seater sofa? Then how can you tell Nikhil Khoda what to do in his own house, eh?'

Ragged cheering broke out from the Indians in the audience. '
Yaah, you tell him, Jogpal'
and '
Zoya Mata ki Jai!'
Jogpal sat back in his seat, looking gratified.

The anchor said hurriedly, 'We have a lady caller from Richmond. Please speak up.'

The caller said that she had read the papers today and learned that the Indian Goddess was for sale and was ready to endorse products for money if the price was right. She wanted to know what Lingnath Baba had to say to this.

Everybody turned to Lingnath who said meditatively, 'These are all gossip reports. We have looked into the eyes of Zoya Devi and seen that her heart is pure. Even if she is accepting money, we are sure it will be donated to a good cause.'

There was a murmur of appreciation from the audience at this but the Aussie ex-cricketer leaned forward and said, 'Even if she donates all the money to the lepers of Calcutta, she will still be doing more harm than good to the game!' He paused, organized his thoughts a little, then said: 'Look, either she's got some hocus-pocus going on, in which case she's no better than a performance-enhancing steroid and should be banned, or it's all coincidence in which case
you'
- he pointed at Jogpal - 'should have no objection to her missing the last two team breakfasts.'

Ragged cheering broke out again, this time from the Aussies in the crowd. Jogpal glared as he waited for them to shut up. 'Fine, so even if she does have some special...um... powers, there's nothing in the
Laws of Cricket
that disallows it. She's a national resource, that's all! The Saudis have oil, the Africans have rhythm, the English have ...um, interesting teeth, and we have Zoya! Legally, you people don't have a leg to stand on.'

The prissy-looking anchor said hurriedly, 'We have another caller.'

The next caller turned out to be some old Brit fossil who droned on about how fair play should prevail above all else. He said he'd heard what Jogpal had said and felt that while the
Laws of Cricket
had left a loophole for the likes of Zoya Devi - the spirit of the game was vehemently against her.

Jogpal snorted and pawed the ground militantly right through the caller's speech. 'Begging your pardon,
Uncle,
' he said so forcefully that tiny spit bubbles formed in the corners of his mouth, 'but I think it's about time we exorcized this wretched s
pirit of the game
. It's too bloody pompous and too bloody British a spirit for a game that's played at its best in the dusty streets of Jamaica, Ranchi and Lahore. I vote we call in a capable ghostbuster and finish it off for good!'

The ICC official cut in contemptuously, 'Well, I wouldn't go so far as
that,
Mr Lohia. The spirit of cricket is what makes the game unique. But yes, of course, as you said, these are modern times, and that is why your team's dependence on something as archaic as a lucky charm is so oddly repugnant.'

Jogpal's eyes bulged dangerously but before he could speak, the anchor coughed politely and started to wrap up the show.

'Well, that was a very passionate and interesting debate,' he said brightly. 'The votes are in, by the way, and 83 per cent of Australians have voted to disallow Zoya Solanki from the Indian team breakfasts. Not a surprising verdict at all when we consider the fact that most pundits are predicting that the World Cup final, in all probability, will be played between these two nations.'

Jogpal interjected rudely to say, 'Well, 100 per cent Indians vote that Zoya stays! And there are many many more Indians than Australians. So there you have it.'

The anchor thanked all those on the panel with the air of a man who'd earned his salary for the day. He looked right into the camera and said, 'Goodnight,' with huge relief.

The moment the debate on the TV ended, it restarted all over again in the hotel suite.

Sanks kicked it off in his best pontificating manner by observing: 'Basically, Zoya, you are caught between two Indias. The let's-put-a-man-on-Mars one and the don't-go-into-the-kitchen-if-you-have-your-period one.'

And they all took it from there. Mon, Armaan, Ritu and Sanks were in the 'don't go into the kitchen' camp, telling me I should stay. I was definitely lucky for India; it had been proved beyond doubt, repeatedly. They said I should make large sums of money from endorsements and give a little slice of it to charity.

Anand (Mon's hubby, who had also joined us in Australia), Vishaal and Rinku Chachi were in the 'Mars' camp. They wanted me to give a press conference, announce that I was throwing in the towel and let India win or lose according to her own fate. They said there were more things in life than just money.

Everybody had his own hidden agenda. Mon didn't want me to stop now that I'd come so far; Ritu wanted her Zahid to have every support in winning the World Cup; Sanks because the money was good; Anand because he was a fair-play Nikhil Khoda fan; Vishaal because he wanted his Nike ad to run and Rinku Chachi because I'd told her what Eppa had said about being lucky in cricket, unlucky in life.

I heard them all out and said, as sweetly as I could, 'Thank you. I am going to bed now.'

'But are you going for the breakfast tomorrow?' they asked eagerly.

'I don't know,' I said. 'I have some phone calls to make.'

I walked back into my room, feeling completely fed up, pulled out my phone, scrolled down to N. Khoda and sent him a message before I could lose my nerve.
Should I come for breakfast tomorrow or not
?

The answer took a long time coming. Rinku Chachi got into bed, I wandered around the room, showered, changed my clothes and turned off the lights, my heart beating madly. I had just clambered into bed after drying my hair when I finally heard the phone beep. I lunged for it.
Why are you asking me
?

He sounded so distant and cold. I put the phone on silent and glared furiously down at the screen, wondering what I should say.
Just tell me yes or no,
I punched finally, in a businesslike way, my fingers flying over the buttons in almost complete darkness.
I won't come if you don't want me to.

There was another long pause. I braced myself. I was pretty sure how he was going to respond. But the answer, when it finally came, was out of syllabus.
I miss you
, it said irrelevantly, glowing gently in the dark and lighting up my world.

I blinked back stupid tears and answered before I could stop myself,
I miss you too.

Another long pause and then my phone glowed again.
Do you still think I'm pretending to like you because you're lucky?
he asked.

Maybe,
I texted back, wiping snot inelegantly as I punched the buttons.
But frankly I don't care any more.

He took such a long time so answer that I thought I'd made him mad at me again. I'd started to tap out a panicky
Are you still there?
when the reply finally came.
You're at the Hilton right? See you by the pool in 15 minutes.

Ten minutes later, I sneaked past Rinku Chachi's gently snoring form and headed for the fancy landscaped pool in my baggy pajamas. There was a pretty green grotto with a burbling artificial waterfall next to it. A statue of a simpering mermaid sat on the rocks, looking down sadly into the water. I stood beside her, feeling a little stupid.

Footsteps sounded behind me and I tensed but for some incomprehensible reason I pretended I didn't know he was there. I waited for him to say hi so I could turn around casually and greet him in return. But he didn't say hi. He just slid his arms around my waist and pulled me to him. I didn't say anything either. Just leaned back into him. He held me even tighter, sinking his rough chin into my shoulder, nuzzling my ear. Then he slowly turned me around. 'Hello, you very rude person,' he said huskily.

'Hi,' I said. 'What did you want to talk to me about?'

He said, quite rudely really, 'Who said I wanted to
talk
to you?' He lifted me up and lowered me onto the grass in one smooth move. Then he tugged at my baggy pajama top and calmly started kissing my exposed shoulder.

I gasped, grabbed two thick handfuls of his hair and yanked up his face, so I could look into his playful Boost-brown eyes. 'Hello, that is an extremely sexist thing to say.'

'I know,' he said, pushing my hair away from my forehead with one roughly gentle hand, and looking down at me. 'But you'll just have to lump it, won't you?'

I opened my mouth in protest but he placed a finger on my lips and looked down at me, the smile quite gone from his face. His eyes glistened in the darkness. I could feel his hands trembling, just a little. And then, very deliberately, he lowered his head to kiss me.

Wham.
It was like all of me rose up and surged to my lips, as if my life source was where his mouth was, as if my soul was on my lips and he was kissing it.

It took me some time to realize that in spite of his cocky opening speech, and in spite of the total seclusion of the poolside, he didn't seem to be in any hurry. One large warm hand had slid under my shirt and settled tantalizingly right over my madly thumping heart but made no attempt at exploring the rest of me. Instead, I realized, feeling pretty insulted, it seemed to be
patting
me, the way you would pat a baby to sleep.

'Why,' I finally asked in a low outraged voice, 'are you trying to put me to sleep?'

His hand stilled. He hauled himself up on one elbow and said, not quite looking at me, 'Look, it's all a little more complicated than it looks, and in spite of all your big talk you're such a little girl...'

'If you would care to move your hand to either side, just a little, you would be provided with
substantial
proof that I am quite a
big
girl after all,' I said, feeling mortified.

He laughed softly and shook his head, sliding his hand way up, so that his dark brown fingers appeared through the neckline of my shirt and then way down so I could feel them disturbingly warm against my navel.