Aravind Adiga - Selection Day

Don’t let all three members of our family be disgraced today. Look at the ball.

THE HARRIS SHIELD BEGINS

Early morning at Cross Maidan. The shops of Fashion Street are closed. The concrete tower of the Tata Communications building rises in one corner; the domes of the Western Railway headquarters and a flame-shaped Zoroastrian fire-temple are visible on the other side of the maidan. Boys in white have gathered in a semi-circle at the centre of the maidan, and they are looking at an old man; the old man is looking at an electronic mike in front of his nose.

The old man’s name is J.B. Adhikari; he might have played for Bombay, though no one was sure when; and he was spending his retirement writing a history of one hundred and fifty years of Bombay cricket in the library of the CCI, where he was so often seen snoring over a newspaper it was generally felt his history would take one hundred and fifty years to write.

‘Gharana.’

The old man spoke at first to the mike, and then, as if gaining in confidence, to the boys.

‘We call it the Mumbai Gharana. A School of Music. A school of music of cricket. You know the names. Ajit Wadekar, who led us to our first series win in England in 1971; Farokh Engineer and Vinoo Mankad; Eknath Solkar, the finest close-in fielder this country has seen; the two gems of Indian batsmanship, Sachin and Sunny; and the two Dilips, Sardesai and Vengsarkar. All of them were local boys like you; they learnt to play at the Oval and the Azad Maidan. Like you they took the trains and buses; like you they batted in the Kanga League in the rain and in the Gymkhana in the heat. Now what are the characteristics of this Mumbai school of music expressed as cricket? All-round defensive and attacking play; a strong back foot; the skill to survive the moving and turning ball alike. When he stands at the wicket, a young batsman must bring to his technique all the toughness of our city. He must bat selfishly. Must humiliate the other side, particularly if it is Delhi. He must hoard runs for himself. But he must also bat selflessly. Sacrifice himself when the team needs it. Scoring a century or double century is not enough: it has to be the right century or double century. It takes more than just success to join the hundred-and-fifty-year-old gharana of Bombay batsmanship. So, boys: Play hard. But play within the rules. And may the spirit of Vijay Merchant and Vijay Manjrekar shine upon you.’

FIRST DAY

0–131 RUNS

By 11 a.m., Manju, his muscles warmed, his face striped with zinc cream, was swinging his bat in big circles with his left arm.

Grim, grim: all was grim. Put in to bat by Dadar Bhadra School, Ali Weinberg had lost its openers in the first few overs, and then — Khallas! — its star batsman, Radha Kumar, record-holder, was bowled around his legs.

One Kumar out, another in: Manju observed his superstitions. Even as the fielders cried, ‘The crazy boy is doing it again,’ he circumambulated the stumps. ‘Obbane, Obbane/Kattale, Kattale.’ Wait. Wait. Not yet ready. He looked all around.

In one corner, he saw the Dadar Bhadra coach, seated on a white chair under blossoms of white and pink bougainvillea and shouting nonstop at his boys — Dil se khelo! Avinash, Aisa mauka aur nahi ayega! Shall I tell your father that you are no good? You. I want minimum two wickets and two catches from you. Let’s at least make an effort, guys? If you believe we can win, boys.

‘I said not yet ready!’ Manju held his arm up to tell the bowler to wait.

He had to find his rhythm. Scraping the crease with his bat, he began hunting for the rhythm. Tap, tap, tap. Before he could find the right rhythm, another bat’s tapping interrupted his, and he had to hold his hand up once again and shout: ‘Wait.’ At the non-striker’s end, wearing a blue helmet with the initials ‘J.A.’ in gold lettering, Javed Ansari stood tapping his bat, imitating Manju, beat for beat.

Fascinating, Tommy Sir thought, an hour later. He was standing as far away as his eyes would let him. Both Ansari and Kumar were playing better than they had ever done before: and this partnership of theirs, which had already accumulated 90 runs, might well make tomorrow’s newspapers, if it continued like this. The two boys were perfect contrasts. Long-sleeved, elegant, Javed’s footwork was basic, but his southpaw strokeplay had the intricacy of exquisite filigree-work; Manju’s batting was direct, simple, iron. As they played together, they did not speak, and barely even acknowledged each other’s existence: yet Tommy Sir saw the two styles blend.

•

As the papers reported the next day:

Batting for the Ali Weinberg School of Bandra, the combination of Manjunath Kumar and Javed Ansari had added 260 runs at the Karnatak Sporting Association pitch of the Cross Maidan; both batsmen had become centurions.

‘The bowlers have given up; the fielders have given up. The real contest now appears to be between the two batsmen themselves.’

SECOND DAY

132–150 RUNS

On the morning of the second day, the coach of Dadar Bhadra School, now straddling his white plastic chair under the bougainvillea blossoms, had not given up: he continued to yell at his under-achieving bowlers with unflagging energy — Pyaar se fielding karo, Ramesh — What is this nonsense, Avinash? — Adi, let’s see some spirit, young man. What will I tell your father otherwise?

By 11 a.m., both Manju and Javed had changed bats, opting for heavier versions of their SGs, an indication that the real hitting was just beginning.

SECOND DAY: AFTER LUNCH

151–256 RUNS

Manju and Javed’s partnership had broken at least seven known Mumbai school records. One of them had made 212. The other was four runs behind.

The post-lunch session began. As Javed, rubbing the black rubber handle of his cricket bat, watched from the non-striker’s end, Manju, bending low and orientalizing his style with baroque wristwork, flicked the first ball from outside off-stump to the square-leg boundary.

Each time either of them hit a four, the two boys solemnly walked down to the middle of the pitch and touched their gloves, then turned and walked back.

Suddenly, in the middle of the pitch, as their gloves met, Javed asked:

‘Does your father tell you only one of us can be Tendulkar and the other has to be Kambli?’

Manju’s mouth opened.

Javed repeated his question. Manju moved back to take strike. He saw the golden ‘J.A.’ initials on the blue helmet, and thought: It’s a mind-game.

In the next over, Javed hit a four off the back foot. The boys walked down the pitch, and touched gloves again.

‘Same thing my father says,’ Javed said.

Manju looked around.

‘Does your father tell you things will be easy for me because I’m a left-hander?’

Manju ran back to his crease. But the next time they walked to the middle of the pitch and touched gloves, he said:

‘I’ve given the bowlers nicknames. Want to hear?’

Mohan Kumar had taught his sons to do this, to establish psychological dominance over the bowlers. Manju had given the leg-spinner the name ‘Taibu’, because he was small and dark, like the Zimbabwean; one tall fast-bowler started off as ‘Akram’, because he was left-handed, and turned into ‘Nehra’, as his deliveries were smashed to the boundary. And this chubby round-arm spinner who was preparing to bowl, this spinner who had been hit to the fence and over it so many times, how else could Manju refer to this spinner but as ‘Loser’?

‘Don’t call him a loser,’ Javed said.

‘Why not?’

‘His father died the other day. His name is Jamshed. I heard the boys talking.’

‘So what if his father died?’ Manju asked. ‘I’ll call him what I want.’