The Zoya Factor (53 page)

Whatever else, it was great to be home!

I let Meeku drag me towards his favoured spot for relieving himself - a lantana hedge along the edge of the big, dusty Ramleela maidan. He was taking a long time, sniffing around with great purpose. So I bought a glass full of nimbu pani.
A glass full of jaundice
, Dad called it, and wondered what I should do. I'd told Zoravar and Dad that I didn't give a damn about Nikhil getting shafted, but of course I did. And if I believed what Zoravar said, which I did, especially after the way Jogpal had reacted to it, I would have to believe that Nikhil really didn't give a damn about my luckiness; which of course made me start to hope that he gave a damn about
me
.

What had Monita said?
His feelings for you will be tested later, but yours for him are being tested right now.
I knew Dad and Zoravar wouldn't push their views down my throat but I got the distinct feeling they'd both be happy if I decided not to go back to Oz for the final.

Eppa too, for that matter. She'd sidled up to me last night and told me in all seriousness that Zoravar had escaped death by a whisker, the very day of the Indo-Pak match. She'd reminded me of my mum's fears for me, that if I expended all my good luck on cricket I'd have only bad luck left for myself.

'You go thyure and makes them vin phynal match, Zoya, and pukka pukka von of us here will....' She drew a hand graphically across her throat and rolled up her eyes.

I sat down on a rusty park bench, and swilled my nimbu pani around in the cloudy glass.

'Excuse me, didi.'

I looked up to see a pair of sweaty ten-year-olds, dishevelled and panting, looking at me expectantly.

'Ball, pliss,' they said.

And then I realized that there was a grimy tennis ball lying at my feet. I picked it up and chucked it to them. The taller one caught it deftly, spat on it and rubbed it against his thigh. The shorter fellow, slightly chubby and missing a couple of teeth, flashed me a grin. 'Thenkyou,' he said. Then, tossing his sweaty brown curls out of his eyes with a movement I'd seen Zahid Pathan make a million times, he sprinted back to the maidan, hauling up his pajamas from the back with one pudgy hand. The taller dude, who was the captain I think, went, '
Ey chal chal
,' and tossed the ball at him.

The little fellow waved his fielders about the ground till he was satisfied with the placement and then did a determined run-up, his eyes all grim and focused, and hurled the ball down the pitch. It tappa khaaoed on the dirt and grit that was the Ajmal Khan park pitch and a young batsman with slickly parted thanda-thanda-cool-cool-Navratan-tel-enriched hair hit out at it with everything he had. The ball rose into the air, coming straight towards my bench again, well above the heads of the tiny fielders and I thought he had hit a six. But Chhota Zahid was running backward, running really fast, his bare feet stamping the ground, ploughing up dirt. He raised both his arms up into the air as he ran, in danger of running into me now, and nearly fell over an empty Frooti Tetra Pak, with which the Ajmal Khan Park is liberally sprinkled. I put a hand in the small of his back to steady him.

He regained balance - just in time to catch the ball smoothly with one hand as the other grabbed his sagging pajamas as they slipped right off, revealing his little brown behind. A cheer arose in the park as he adroitly retrieved both.

Everybody - the gaajar-mooli vendors, their customers, the youths on the bicycles, the power-walking old ladies, the lovers lurking in the bushes and, of course, me - catcalled and clapped for him as he came up, flushed and grinning, slightly cross-eyed and panting, ball in one hand, his pajamas hitched up with the other. 'Thenks didi,' he said, his eyes shining with the joy of victory.

And that's when I had a sudden splendid revelation. If I
was
a Goddess of the game, born at the very moment of India's greatest cricket victory, if my purpose in life was to help them win, if my hand was
supposed
to hover over them in constant benediction, wasn't it part of my job description to keep Indian cricket from harm? By going back to spoon cornflakes and slimy papaya slices into my face with the team before they played the final, all I'd end up doing was erode their faith in their own ability.

Even if they won, they would never be sure of the real reason behind their victory.

But I
wasn't
just a crummy lucky charm.

I was specially blest.

A Goddess no less.

Why was I letting mere mortals push me around and take my decisions for me?

I should be looking at the
larger
picture.

By not going back, I'd be foiling a foul plot to discredit the best captain the country'd seen in, like, twenty-seven years.

Sure, I'd be giving up some fame and fortune, I thought, feeling all lofty and noble but I'd go down in history as the person who brought about the downfall of the unholy trinity of Robin shoe-stealer Rawal, Jogpal lump-of-shit Lohia and Lingnath long-turd Baba. No more match fixing! No more shady shenanigans. No more politicking. A new, clean, triumphant era for Indian cricket.

Hah! I'd finally cracked it!
This
was my destiny.
This
is why I was born when I was born! I had been given Great Power and by God, I was going to show Great Responsibility.

Feeling totally at peace with myself for the first time in months, I dialled Nikhil's number.

'Hello,' his deep voice was a little wary.

'I'm not coming back,' I told him.

There was an uncomfortable silence. 'Why?'

I said, 'So you can win this match all on your own, for once.'

'Does your boyfriend know about this? He and his mates might totally collapse...'

Where had he got this notion that Zahid was my boyfriend? And what about the fact that he'd told all his boys about his tryst by the pool with me?

'No, you're the boss, you can give them the good news.'

There was a long pause, then he said, 'Okay, I can't pretend this is not good news.' His voice thawed just a little. 'Are you sure about this? The repercussions are going to be huge. There will be protests and picketing. There may be self-immolations. Vikram's place in Bulandshahar was vandalized after the last match. You guys will need solid security around that house - especially if we lose.'

'We won't lose,' I said.

He didn't reply to that. All he said was, 'I'll speak to the Ministry and organize security for Tera Numbar, okay?'

'Okay,' I said and hung up.

***

21

The next morning, when I woke up, I saw a hatchet-faced man dressed all in black with a gun slung over his shoulder, sitting on a branch of the guava tree in the compound, staring at me through my bedroom window. When I came out into the inner courtyard, I saw another four gun-toting guys sitting like crows on a wire along the courtyard wall, sipping tea in our second-best crockery.

Rinku Chachi called down to me from her balcony, 'Zoya,
dekha
? Men in Black instead of Men in Blue?'

It was a really chaotic morning. There were twenty-nine commandos prowling about Tera Numbar, getting in the way of all four families. Nikhil must have announced my decision to the media because the phones rang incessantly. I issued a one-line press release:
I want to prove our team can win on its own steam. I know they can do it.
But the journos didn't believe me. They kept calling and badgering me with questions, convinced there was more to the story.

And by noon, that day, there was.

Jogpal Lohia called a press conference before boarding a plane back to Melbourne. It was covered by only about 2953 television channels. He stated that Zoya Singh Solanki, the darling of cricket fans, the lucky charm, the desh-ki-jaan, had come back to India to shoot a tobacco commercial and was demanding a whopping sum of five crores to go back and sit in with the team at the final breakfast. They cut to a picture of me that must have been taken at the shoot. I was doing a pranaam to the camera in my Goddess outfit, with my 'mane' tossed back and my trident staked into the ground. The graphics department of the news channel had animated the picture so that a flurry of thousand-rupee notes showered down on me. Cut to Jogpal wagging his beard sorrowfully. 'Well, we all know cricket can corrupt,' he said. 'In my own experience, I have seen so many young boys being seduced by the lifestyle, the adulation, the hot spotlight. But I had thought a girl divinely blessed by God, born at such an auspicious hour, would be immune to the lure of filthy lucre. Obviously, I was mistaken.' He then appealed to all cricket lovers to persuade Zoya to get on the next flight and fly back to Melbourne to 'save the nation's pride'. He looked directly into the camera with eyes brimming with tears. 'Please persuade her,' he pleaded, his voice quavering. 'Tell her this is not the time for petty greed. Awaken her patriotic spirit!'

Then, having basically incited the entire country to come out on to the streets and terrorize me, he clambered aboard the plane and winged it back to Australia.

I zapped off the TV and sat down with a thump.

Bloody Jogpal. The sarangi-strumming, sadistic
snake.

I had just made the biggest sacrifice of my life and he'd managed to
totally
warp it. Everybody would believe that I had held out for more money. The whole team would believe it.

Even Nikhil.

Zoravar's voice rang out from a distance. 'You've got to admire his low cunning mind,' he said with grudging admiration. 'What a manoeuvre.'

'But what do we do now?' I said, looking at him, in total panic. 'Should we call a press conference? Deny this crap he's dishing out? Explain why I'm doing this?'

My dad shook his head. 'Just leave it, Zoya,' he said. 'These are very powerful people.'

Zoravar nodded. 'Dad's right,' he said. 'Nobody's going to believe that your intentions could be so noble. Just drop it for now, Gaalu.'

***

All hell broke loose outside the house a couple of hours later. A chanting mob, at least a few thousand strong, gathered outside the gates, chanting incessantly, tearing at their clothes, ringing their bells and gnashing their teeth. '
Zoya Devi Waapas Jao! Zoya Devi World Cup Lao! Zoya Devi Waapas Jao! Zoya Devi World Cup Lao!'

Our guards lounged outside the gate and walked along the top of the garden walls, trampling the madhumalati, polishing the butts of their guns, and scowling darkly at the mob.

'How do you get into these situations, Gaalu?' Zoravar wondered. I bit back the urge to tell him that it was all his fault. If he hadn't had his bloody epiphany in front of Jogpal and Lingnath none of this would've happened. Instead I sighed and said, 'I have no idea.'

We were watching the tamasha on the surveillance monitor the guards had installed inside the house. We'd gone up to the roof first, but the guards had very rudely hissed us away, saying it was an unsafe area. They'd also told my dad that in case India looked as if it were likely to lose tomorrow, we would have to 'evacuate' this 'dwelling structure' by the fortieth over, because then the crowd would get very nasty indeed.

'Having second thoughts, by any chance?' Zoravar asked me as we both sat looking at the maddened masses outside. 'Wanna get a ticket back to Oz? Before they rush in here and lynch us?'

'No way,' I shook my head and stroked a rather traumatized Meeku. 'We just have to put our faith in Nikhil now.'

Zoravar looked at me curiously. 'What did he say?' he asked. 'I mean, when you said you weren't coming back?'

I told him that as far as I could tell he had sounded pretty relieved.

Zoravar said, 'That's good,
na
? It means he likes you, not your luckiness. Strange. But then these sports-quota types aren't very intelligent.'

I shrugged. 'I guess so,' I said absently, too drained to rise to his bait.

We watched the action down below in gloomy silence. The mob was so massive that it had blocked the entire road. The journos and their vans had attracted a lot of aloo-tikki and channa-kulcha wallahs who were rolling their thelas up and down the stretch, briskly peddling their wares. A whole convoy of trucks that should have been driving to Rohtak had parked along the road just to enjoy the moment. The road outside the house looked like a mela. And leading the outraged citizens in the hand-clapping and the breast-beating and the teeth-gnashing was a toli of transvestites, clad in tacky, tinsel-encrusted saris.