Aravind Adiga - Selection Day

On a coconut tree nearby, a woodpecker, in a frenzy, rams into wood with its beak; in the middle of the cricket pitch, a boy digs his bat into the pitch, again and again.

•

Over an hour later, having stripped his left glove to give his thumb a good shake — he had just overtaken his brother’s score — Manju glanced at the cricketers’ tent. Radha wasn’t there: but behind the Ali Weinberg pavilion, he saw a man urinating by a coconut tree. Mohan Kumar was leaning back as far as he could to ensure he didn’t miss a single second of his son’s batting, even as he relieved himself. What a buffoon my father is, Manjunath thought. How ashamed he makes me of him sometimes. The other spectators would see him peeing in public — whistle at him — perhaps throw things and chase him from the maidan — unless the next ball … was hit high in the air. A tremendous six.

Manju was now batting to protect his father.

•

What is cricket?

A face: Eknath Solkar’s face. Right before the 1968–69 Bombay — Bengal Ranji final, his father dies. ‘We know your father is dead, you don’t have to come to bat,’ his Bombay teammates tell him. But it’s a grim situation for Bombay, we’re losing wickets fast. Solkar performs the rites for his father in the morning, gets into a train, and arrives, stoically, at Brabourne stadium. ‘I am here to do my duty,’ he says. Pads up, goes in to bat. Bombay takes the lead in the first innings thanks to him: and wins the Ranji Trophy. On a day of supreme personal pain, on a day rich with excuses not to do his job, he does his job.

Or, to put it another way, as Tommy Sir had, in an essay published three years ago in the Mumbai Sun : cricket is the triumph of civilization over instinct. As he left the showers by the swimming pool, and dried his hair with his towel, Tommy Sir remembered that wonderful little essay of his. American sports, baseball or basketball, make crude measurements of athletic endowments: height, shoulder strength, bat speed, anaerobic capacity. Cricket, on the other hand, measures the extent to which you can harness these raw endowments. You have to curb your right hand, the bottom hand, the animal hand, giving sovereignity to your left, the elegant, restrained, top hand. When the short-pitched ball comes screaming, and every instinct of panic tells you, close your eyes and turn your face, you must do what does not come naturally to you or to any man: stay calm. Master your nature, play cricket. Because a man’s body, when all is said and done, is a loathsome thing — Tommy Sir slapped his underarms with Johnson and Johnson Baby Powder, his favourite deodorant — loathsome, loathsome, loathsome. More Baby Powder, much more. Mumbai is a hot city even at night.

Tommy Sir inspected himself in the mirror. He checked the smell of his underarms.

Civilized and fragrant, the old man emerged from the changing room, and looked for young Manjunath Kumar.

Tommy Sir was one of those who ‘lived’ in the Middle Income Group Cricket Club of Kalanagar, which is to say, he did his daily six laps in the pool, consumed international cricket and local whisky in the bar, and had tea every evening in the cafeteria towards which he was now walking.

Inside, the waiters stood by a television set watching England play South Africa, either right now or perhaps several years ago.

It was as if a ray of morning light had entered. Manjooo . Tommy Sir had not come alone. The waiters smiled at the boy; and then came to him bearing gifts — sit, Manjooo . Sit, sit. Little Manju they treated as de facto club mascot. Free snacks. Free Coca-Cola? Don’t worry, eat. Your father? He’ll never know. The trains would be packed till nine: the three Kumars were allowed to stay on within the MIG club premises till late, but only one was pampered so.

‘Look at me, Manju. I have something important to say.’

Though he had been expecting to discuss Radha Kumar with the selector, Tommy Sir had gone silent as Manjunath Kumar began to hit the ball. Standing beside him, the selector, Srinivasan Sir, had watched Manju’s batting with his mouth open, as if he too wanted to ask out loud — what is cricket? Because, like Tommy Sir, he could answer the question only in English. But the boy batting before them was answering it in the language of cricket.

‘Did I ever tell you my story about Eknath Solkar, Manju?’ Tommy Sir asked.

But Manju, biting into a free samosa from the canteen of the MIG club, was concentrating on the pages of his textbook.

‘What’s the moral of Eknath Solkar’s story? Tell me. Every story has a moral. Stop reading that book.’

Like many middle-class Indians of his age, Tommy Sir could be curious only by being hostile.

Seizing the book, he turned it towards him, and read out loud from its contents.‘… Lesson 1: Linear Equations; Lesson 2: Highest Common Factor and Least Common Multiple of Polynom … Polynomin …’

Tommy Sir angled the book back towards Manju.

‘Every cricketer in Tamil Nadu now has a degree in engineering. At nineteen, they say, let’s assess the risk and reward in cricket, too much risk, so let’s go to America for college. Manju, you mustn’t do that. Did Sachin go to America? Did he finish Year 12? Manju: tell me one thing. When you bat does your science and mathematics help you?’

Chewing samosa, his cheeks full, the boy looked up from the textbook and examined Tommy Sir.

‘Yes,’ he said. And then, ‘No.’

‘Yes or no?’ Tommy Sir demanded.

But the boy meant, Yes is the answer, and No is the answer you want from me.

‘Once during a match with Cathedral I tried to calculate the angle of an extra-cover drive — 35 degrees from the wicket, and a cover drive — 45 degrees.’

‘Did that help bisect the fielders?’

‘Next ball I was bowled.’ Tommy Sir exhaled.

‘So you don’t think as you bat?’

‘I just let my mind go dark before I bat. If I think I always get out next ball.’

Tommy Sir placed a palm on the boy’s textbook.

‘Manju, look at me. Tell me: which club did Vijay Merchant play for?’

‘Fort Vijay.’

‘How many sixes did C.K. Nayadu hit against the MCC at the Gymkhana?’

‘Too many.’

‘Good answer.’ Tommy Sir raised his palm from the book — and lowered it again. ‘Who is going to break that record?’

Manju chewed his samosa.

‘My brother.’

‘Is your left thumb hurting?’

Manju stopped chewing: he looked at Tommy Sir.

‘You know that is what Javed Ansari told me after the match? He could see you were holding the bat with the right hand only. He thought you might have hurt your left thumb.’

‘That Javed is a liar!’ Manju stood up. ‘I scored faster than him today, so he hates me.’

‘Then show me your left thumb,’ Tommy Sir said. ‘And why were you turning the page of your book with only one hand?’

The boy slid both his hands under the table.

Outside, Mohan Kumar, who stood clapping as his elder son jogged backwards to build up his hamstrings, turned — ‘Missster Moooohan!’ — to see Tommy Sir charging out of the club, and dragging Manju along with him.

Holding Manju’s left hand up as evidence, he explained everything to the father.

‘Boy has a hairline. Still went out there and batted today. Why? Because he’s so scared of someone in his family.’

Manju saw Tommy Sir push his father back.

‘Shall I go to the police and tell them what you do to him? Shall I tell the social workers?’

And when the scout threatened to show Manju’s broken thumb to his friends in the Mumbai Sun , which would certainly result in a negative article about the father, which would certainly be seen by all the neighbours in the Tattvamasi Housing Society, and probably even by the general public of Chheda Nagar, Mohan Kumar folded his palms and begged Tommy Sir, reminding him he was just a poor man, a villager in the big city, victim of the chutney mafia, who had nothing, not even a friend in the world, and even agreed to leave the club at once, with the result that when Tommy Sir put the boy (along with his elder brother) into the auto that would take him express to Lilavati Hospital, he patted Manju’s cheeks and whispered into his ear: ‘Best fracture in human history.’