The Zoya Factor (48 page)

But of course it didn't.

Instead he mumbled, '
Jaise kal
skipper
ko kiya tha
.' Then he lifted two pudgy, clammy hands, placed them on either side of my ears, swooped down, and mashed his little-pink-orifice-amongst-a-thicket-of-pubes-mouth down on mine.

It was completely sick-making. Not just physically - though that was horrible enough, I mean, I could taste his entire lunch, and it had obviously been a six-course meal, onions, mutton, Pan-Parag being the top notes over a basic bouquet of sour, stale sweat - it was the way he just
assumed
he could do this. That I was some kind of team amenity, like a bottle of Gatorade or a pain-relief spray or an ice pack.
Luck levels dipping, boys? Just smooch some Zoya.
It made me so tothe-pit-of-my-stomach mad. I could have killed him.

I pushed him away as violently as I could and he flopped backward, his fleshy little mouth forming a little 'O' of surprise. 'I hope you get out for
duck,
asshole,' I snarled at him, and he backed away from me hurriedly, looking - I was pleased to see - rather
scared
of me. I shook back my dishevelled hair, lifted my hand, made a jabbing evil-eye gesture at him, and dashed away from there, rubbing my mouth furiously with the back of my hand.

I was still seething when I emerged onto the ground. My chest felt tight with anger, my cheeks were hot. I stomped my way out of the stands, made my way to the main gate, and phoned the driver. The phone rang several times; the driver was obviously engrossed in the match.

Around me, the cricket carnival raged on. The entire stadium seemed to be cheering for England - even the Aussies seemed to have their hearts set on an Australia-England final, and couldn't seem to wait to get us Indians out of there.

Frankly, neither could I.

The encounter with Vikram Goyal's eager plump tongue had put me off the light-blue uniform big time. How was Zahid any different from Vikram? Or Harry? Or Shivnath for that matter?
How was Nikhil Khoda any different?
I rubbed my hand across my mouth so hard it hurt.

My cheeks burned with humiliation as I realized that I'd been kidding myself all along. All the wooing, the cute text messages, the poolside meetings, they were probably all fake. Obviously, they all talked about me in their stupid locker room, like it was team strategy or something.
Woo that chubby-cheeked girl with the lucky streak, it's for your country after all, where's your patriotism, keep your eye on the cupboard.

And I'd fallen for it!

This movie was
so
going to end with a supermodel making a guest appearance in the last shot. Nikhil would kiss her, hand her the World Cup trophy and drive away with her in a fancy car.

I would probably end up with Vishaal, all my luckiness sucked out of me, and would have to listen to him carp about his wretched Nike ad for the rest of my life.

I blew my nose gloomily and looked around, hoping nobody would look my way. I needn't have worried. Everyone was intent on what was happening down there on the pitch - the match was neck-to-neck. A glance at the display screen informed me that our run rate was steady, hovering around the required 6.06, which was pretty good. If you wanted India to win, that is.

Oh God, I was so sick of cricket! I felt suddenly, violently, homesick. What was I doing here? I didn't even like this game, I used to have a life, a good one, one I was perfectly satisfied with. What did I really hope to achieve out of this whole idiotic circus?

Almost like an answer to that question, the stadium started chanting Nikhil's name. Fighting an urge to cover my ears, I blundered out of the stadium and got into the car, which had just pulled up in front of me, commentary blaring from its radio. I ignored the puzzled look the driver gave me and I told him to take me back to the hotel. As we swung out of the exit gate, a loud groan sounded behind us.

Vikram Goyal had just got out for duck.

***

Cape Times

Page 26

A file photo of Nikhil Khoda acknowledging his sixteenth

one-day ton in Johannesburg

MAYBE BABY?

Evalene Adams, the stunning, blonde South African model and actor from the hit TV series
Hospital
was blessed with a sturdy little bundle of joy, christened William Nicholas Adams, late last night. Both mum and bubba are doing well.

Nobody's seen the birth certificate yet, but the local press is making much of the fact that baby William was born almost nine months to the day since the Indian cricket team toured South Africa last year.

Ms Adams was sighted with the players quite often during the tour and that, coupled with the fact that the baby's middle name sounds a lot like that of the Indian skipper, Nikhil Khoda, has got most people nodding knowingly, even though Ms Adams has neither confirmed nor denied the rumours.

'Evalene's over the moon,' is all her publicist would tell the media. 'A boy after two girls has made her family complete. She's ecstatic but exhausted as the labour was six hours long.'

The doctors wanted to administer an epidural but reportedly Ms Adams, a yoga and wellness enthusiast, insisted on having a completely natural delivery.

Baby William weighs in a lusty nine pounds and, according to the nurses in the maternity ward, seems to be an alert and unusually muscular baby.

Ms Adam's two daughters have been fathered by Black Sunday frontman Davy Keiths and soccer star Mohammad Montana respectively. She is known for her 'exotic' men-friends.

Her publicist said Ms Adams and baby Will's father have no plans to marry.

***

I found the article slipped under my door when I got back into my room. Somehow, my brain, miraculously unaffected by the pummelling my emotions was receiving, sat back and did the math. And the answer was this.

Nikhil was just using me.

All the pieces fell into place as I stared down at that article. Hadn't that guy, Jagdish or whatever, in the nightclub in Melbourne, been telling Zahid something about how his skipper was a fool, going around having babies for free with random babes? I think he'd even mentioned a name, but I'd just assumed he'd been talking about some
other
captain, an earlier one....

Now, of course, I realized it had to be Nikhil.

I heard those six damning words again.

'
Jaise kal
skipper
ko kiya tha
.'

Screwing the newspaper up into a ball, I made up my mind.

All this time the Men in Blue had been using
me;
now it was time for me to use
them.

Sheraan-wali Agarbatti wasn't going to be the only ad I would sign. Oh no, I would sign everything I could lay my hands on - Coke, soap, air conditioners, whatever. I was going to be as savvy and cynical as the man who'd told me with the love-light in his lying eyes:
If you don't come tonight, it may kill me, Zoya.

Just then my phone rang.

It was Lokey.

'Joyaji, congratulations!' he shouted, as if I'd personally hit the winning six that won the match. Hey, maybe I had. Then he started harassing me to shoot Tauji's ad right away. He said we had five days before the final and that the set was standing ready at Eagle Studios in Film City, Delhi, and that there was a round-trip, first-class ticket booked for me.

'We can sign the contract tonight, Joyaji,' he yelled above the din in the stadium. 'The money will be wire-transferred into your account by tomorrow morning. Tauji wants
his
ad to be the first one viewers see after Khoda lifts the World Cup.'

'Okay,' I said, suddenly weak with longing at the thought of being home again. 'Come over then, let's do it.'

I'd showered and managed to pack most of my stuff for Delhi when Chachi and gang trooped in about forty minutes later, full of the match and how awesome the last hour of play had been.

Mon's husband was in good humour. 'Superb,' he kept saying. 'Fan-tas-tic, amazing. One could hardly believe it was India out there!'

They all wanted to go out and celebrate.

'...Because, who knows if we'll win the final,' Monita said matter-of-factly and they insisted I come too.

But I played it very smart. 'I have a team meeting now,' I said solemnly, not mentioning a word of my plans to travel. And they bought it. They all nodded, like they knew I had important 'Goddess-business' to attend to and hurtled out again, a scant fifteen minutes later, leaving me in peace.

My phone started ringing then. It was Nikhil, of course, finally back in his suite after the team celebrations in the Indian dressing room. I ignored him. He started messaging me, but I deleted the messages unread and then, finally, the landline started.

I picked it up on the fifth ring, my heart slamming against my ribs and the concierge told me that a Mr Chugh was there to see me. Thankful for the distraction, I went down and met Lokey in the coffee shop. He was in this real big hurry; he said he had lots of other deals all on the boil at the same time. He waved some papers in front of my face and I signed wherever he told me to. Then he hurried off, talking on his phone, and I made my way back to my room and tumbled into bed, quite worn out.

***

'INDIA STORMS INTO WORLD CUP FINAL' screamed the sports headlines in
The Age
the next day. There was a picture of Nikhil running to embrace Balaji as the English skipper walked away in the background. There was pure elation on both their faces, Khoda's arms were outflung and there was a wild, exultant look in his eyes. Just looking at him made my heart throb with regret.
You could've been with him last night,
a voice in my head said.
He would've claimed you like a 'prize' as Ritu would say. It would've been heaven on earth.

Thank God I'd been spared
that
, I thought and turned the page.

I sighed when I saw a picture of Vishaal's Gabby, streaking across the pitch with her vital bits pixilated. 'Unlucky Streak?' read the headline. It all seemed so long ago.

There was another, smaller article on the same page. 'Zoya Hexed Me, Claims Goyal' - I frowned and zoomed in on it. It was very short, kind of like they'd got the news minutes before printing the paper:

When questioned on his dismal performance at the SCG yesterday, conceding eighty-seven runs in eight overs, no wickets and zero with the bat, India's youngest player, Vikram Goyal said, 'It wasn't nerves. I was fully confident. It was Zoya, she hexed me so I would not be able to perform.'

We then asked him why Zoya would do such a thing. Vikram said rather obscurely that Zoya disliked him for 'personal' reasons and invited us to question Zahid Pathan on the issue.

If Vikram's claim is true, then Zoya's displeasure is indeed a terrible thing to incur if you're serious about a career in cricket. Whatever the reason, judging from his performance alone, it seems Vikram may be rested for the final next week. Meanwhile, the Zoya Factor seems to be growing more and more controversial by the minute. (ATP Features)

What a jerk! He'd been playing lousily before he'd groped me in the passage. And what a snivelly, loser-like thing to do, to make excuses for his pathetic performance instead of just admitting he'd panicked or been outplayed or whatever. As expected, the media was playing it up.

My phone started ringing right then. I didn't recognize the number so I didn't pick it up.
Must be some journo types
, I thought, feeling harassed.
How soon can I get out of this country?

Mon and Anand came in and wanted to discuss the Vikram issue, but the concierge called just then and said Nikhil was here to see me.

I took a deep breath, fluffed out my hair and went down to meet him. He was in the lobby, looking a lot like the way he'd done in Dhaka when he'd blasted me under the big Bong tree - sleep-deprived and heavy-eyed - not at all like his picture in the paper this morning.

'Zoya,' he said, very curt.

'Still alive, I see,' I said snidely.

He got all tight-lipped and started walking towards the coffee shop without bothering to see if I'd follow. I had half an urge to turn around and scurry for the lift, but then I squared my shoulders and followed him.

So this was not going to be a romantic session by the poolside. Fine. Suited me. He walked up to a table for two and pulled out a chair for me in mock politeness. I sat, and he walked around the table and sat down too. I fidgeted with the fancy cutlery and met his eyes incuriously.