Aravind Adiga - Selection Day

Radha came near the tent with all the other cricketers but remained outside: he could not go in and face them again.

Two homeless men squatted nearby, watching the cricket. A black hen, after clucking around them, came to peck at the earth at Radha’s feet, making him shiver.

‘Sorry I got you out, man. No hard feelings, no?’

Having slipped during the game, Deennawaz Shah, the young Pace Terror, was limping over to the tent, rolling up his white trousers to expose the red wound on his shin.

He smiled at Radha, in a docile, even ingratiating way, and said: ‘Give me some water, man.’

Deennawaz turned back towards the cricket. From behind him, Radha observed the boy’s small neck.

Whack! The sound of the ball striking the meat of the bat made Deennawaz look up with an open mouth.

‘Your brother is on fire today. He’s pulling good-length balls. Fast balls. And off the front foot. Give me some water, dude.’

His jaw clenched, Radha thought of Javed Ansari: he was the one to blame for everything. Everyone knew he was the homo. When he thought of ‘J.A.’, he saw a boiling pot of steam behind which his baby brother’s face was hidden.

Radha was now right behind Deennawaz: close enough to see where the bone thickened on the boy’s neck and the downy hair started to climb down his back. One Muslim would do as well as another.

His tongue curled up like a bull’s to touch his upper lip: and the right hand that was no longer good for cricket turned into a fist.

Deennawaz was about to turn around to ask again for water, when he felt something hit him at the top of his neck, pounding him like a sledgehammer, compressing the length of his backbone, until the tip of his spine almost pierced through skin.

The cricket stopped when the players heard the scream.

•

Instructing his father to stand still for a moment, Manju signed the guard’s register for both of them. The lift waited behind a collapsible lattice gate. There was no lift-boy inside: just a cold wooden stool. Getting in, Manju held the lattice gate open for his father.

Then the lift rose.

‘The moment we get home, there will be news of Radha, just you see. He’ll call and tell me where he is.’

A small sickly figure, coughing from its diaphragm, opened the door of Anand Mehta’s flat on the thirteenth floor. Manju could see that the room behind him was dark, except for a table-lamp, where Mr Mehta sat holding a glass filled with a golden liquid.

‘They’re here, Anand,’ the man with the coughing fit said hoarsely.

‘Come in. Rakesh, you sit right here. I’ll handle these people.’

Manju pushed against his father, to force him to enter the room.

Anand Mehta got up and walked about the dark room with the glass in his hand, sipping from it as he glanced at Manju and his father; the coughing man who had opened the door sat on the beige sofa and ran his fingers up and down its leather arms.

Manju and his father stood.

‘Where is this famous thug and terrorist of yours, Radha Krishna? The police haven’t found him yet. Rakesh, this is the younger boy in the sponsorship. He must be a criminal too. You watch out for your wallet.’

‘Sir, I come to you shamed and publicly humiliated that my son has attacked his fellow cricketer. There is a saying in our language, he who steals an elephant is a thief. He who steals a peanut is also a—’

‘Shut up!’

Anand Mehta pointed a finger at father and at son. He put his glass down on the silent television. A cloth-covered object sat on the TV; unwrapping it, Anand Mehta picked up his cell phone, which he read, and then covered it again in the white cloth.

‘I took your idea, you fuck. I covered my phone in a hankie. Keeps the germs away, you said. What about the big fat germ known as Mohan Kumar? Do you know what this Deennawaz Shah’s uncle wanted from me? 75,000 rupees in compensation. 75,000. Tommy Sir brings that man here and tells me, please pay him. Otherwise he’s going to file an FIR against Radha for assaulting his nephew. They had to put Deennawaz Shah in hospital, your boy hit him so hard. After which, still crazy, he tried to strangulate him right there, and would have done so, if the others hadn’t … I’ve been paying and paying and paying you people for years.’

Joining his palms together, Mohan Kumar tried to bend down and touch Anand Mehta’s shoes.

‘Don’t touch me. Go back. Go back. I’m sick of being fucked and fooled around by you. Bloody Mexican bartender thinks he owns the whole fucking bar.’

The sickly man on the sofa cracked his knuckles.

Now Mohan turned, and reached for the shoes of the man with the loud knuckles.

‘Don’t bow to him, bow to me ,’ Anand Mehta shouted. ‘I own this bar.’

‘Don’t shout at my father.’

‘What?’ Mehta looked at the boy.

‘My father is not very strong these days. It’s not his fault, what Radha did today. It’s not Radha’s fault, either.’

‘You talking to me ?’

Anand Mehta put his hand on Manju’s head, and rubbed the boy’s hair. He kept his hand there.

‘Say what you said again. Say what you just said, a second time.’

Manju looked at the dark carpet. A violent coughing from the sofa dragged the carpet back and forth.

‘You listen to me, golden boy. I’m dealing with the mafia in Dhanbad. Do you understand? Rakesh here is an IAS officer’s son. He’s helping me handle mafia there. I don’t even want to think about cricket, I don’t even want to think about Mumbai anymore. Why? We’ve got a power plant near Dhanbad and we’re turning it around. Do you know the operating capacity? Four hundred thousand units of electricity a month, and current operating output zilch. When we turn it around, we make six crores a month. Do you know how much money that is, you fuck? And you make me waste my time here? Of course there are problems. Of course. Everyone in the district has lined up for a bribe. Instant the plant starts working, it gets worse. The phone will ring every hour. Hello, I am your Member of Parliament. I’m sending fifteen men from my village. Employ them or I’ll murder you and fuck your wife. You understand what this means? If I say jump, you jump. And right now I’m saying, you and your brother have fucked me over enough. Where is that criminal boy now?’

Manju said, ‘I think he is on his way to our village, sir. They will hide him from the police.’

‘Fuck.’

Anand Mehta’s face had become darker and older, and made Manju remember the night he had invaded their home.

‘Sir’ Manju could smell, all the way in the pit of his stomach, the liquor on Anand Mehta’s breath. He had to speak or retch. ‘Sir. Sir. Sir. I don’t want to play cricket anymore after today.’

The air-conditioning was working strongly, and Manju rubbed his forearms up and down.

‘I did this thing to my brother today. I won’t play after this. I want to stop and study forensic—’

‘Shut up!’ the two men said together, and then Anand Mehta informed Mohan Kumar: ‘I’m the one who says shut up in this room.’

The sickly man coughed a bit; Anand Mehta pointed a finger at Manju.

‘Golden Boy: in one minute I’m going to tell you, do something, and you will bloody well do exactly that.’

He opened a cabinet and took out a bottle and poured two full glasses.

Mohan took one glass, emptied it and put it down. Anand Mehta’s finger pointed at Manju, and then at the second glass.

But Manju said, ‘No.’

‘Do you want me to tell the police where your brother has gone?’

Manju picked up the glass, closed his eyes, and drank. His small body convulsed.

Anand Mehta smiled.