Aravind Adiga - Selection Day

‘What if I fail? Tommy Sir said Radha would make it, now he says I will make it. Who can believe a thing he says?’

‘Who, Manju? Who fails in cricket? Everyone becomes happy in cricket. And you’re the best.’

‘I’m not the best. I don’t want to be the best the way T.E. Sarfraz does, and if you make me stay in cricket I’ll be just a …’

Mohan Kumar sighed and scratched himself.

‘If you are a fraud, you are still my son. You can go to Bangladesh to play. They have IPL there too. You send me the money by mail. They must have a post office over there? And whatever you earn, we’ll give half to Anand Mehta Sir. I signed this on the name of our family god, and let them never say at Deepa Bar that I am the sort of man to break my word.’

Closing his eyes, he recited from memory what he remembered of the contract:

‘ … will be the legal property of Shri Mehta, in return for his commitment to … May God fill our mouths with worms if either— ’

‘Have some self-respect, Father. Please stop.’

When he opened his eyes, Mohan Kumar saw Manju looking darker and smaller, as though he had lost his essential oils. He clapped his hands.

‘… Oh, I completely forgot, Manju. Completely forgot. A man came from the MIG club and gave you this. It’s a gift from Tommy Sir. To inspire you to bat well tomorrow at Shivaji Park. Here, read it and feel better. You were always a big reader.’

It was an old black-and-white magazine, Classics of Modern Indian Cricket , a photograph of the Nawab of Pataudi on the cover.

A yellow note was pinned to it, bearing the handwritten words: ‘For Manju Sir. You will be joining them one day.’

Manju stared at the magazine, but thought instead of a BBC science documentary that showed how an amoeba reacts to a drop of dilute hydrochloric acid: by contorting itself in an almost human grimace, and moving away. ‘One of the distinctive traits of any life-form is irritability,’ the British voice-over had observed. That is how he felt right now: like a colourless amoeba irritated at everyone and everyfuckingthing around. He grit his teeth, and turned the pages of the magazine.

Mohan Kumar went to the sink and let the water run. Bending forward, he submerged his hair in the fast-flowing water. When he emerged with his head wrapped in a towel, he found Manju speed-reading the magazine, until he stopped at one page, and ripped it out. It was another photograph of the Nawab of Pataudi. Throwing the rest of the magazine in the waste-bin, Manju pushed his father aside and went into the toilet.

‘Why are you taking that photograph in there ?’ his father asked.

From behind the closed toilet door, the boy roared: ‘Why do you think ?’

And his father put his hands on the toilet door and whimpered like a dog. ‘Manju, this is immoral, he was our greatest captain, don’t … don’t … do immoral things in there, Manju, with the Nawab of Pataudi. What will the neighbours think of your father?’

‘Shut up!’ the boy shouted from inside. ‘It’s like batting. I need to concentrate. Don’t disturb me for the next three minutes.’

•

Towards morning, Mohan Kumar dreamed of the laterite arch in the jungle, set against its backdrop of stars, with the bullfrogs croaking all around it …

… then he raised his neck off the pillow and the arch and the stars and the frogs suddenly disappeared: it was morning in Mumbai.

When he went to Manju’s bed, it was empty. Mohan touched the bed, up and down.

Without breakfast or a bath, he left the flat and went to the temple. It was not yet open, so he sat under a nearby banyan tree and looked at the dark little leaves. Suddenly all the leaves lit up: Mohan Kumar remembered that the Deepa Bar was open early in the mornings.

He took an autorickshaw to the train station, and found himself, an hour later, entering the bar, where the manager, Mr Shetty, recognized him and smiled.

He sat down at a table. The only other customer, a villager with a close-cropped grey beard and shrewd rustic eyes, a man who looked like he’d fuck his own daughter-in-law any day, chewed aniseed, while Mr Shetty, the bar manager, arms folded over his white shirt, talked to him about real estate.

‘Things are mad enough in Udupi. My uncle’s small plot was bought for five lakhs. And Mangalore — forget it. Real money is out there nowadays, not here.’

Mohan Kumar began drinking.

After a while, he had a pleasant surprise. His old neighbour, Ramnath the ironing man, had come to the bar with a carton of sweets and great news.

‘My daughter has done it,’ he said, handing the entire box over to Mohan Kumar.

She had been accepted into the Illinois Institute of Advanced Technology, a famous college in America. A teacher had filled out her forms; she had studied for two years for the entrance exams. The best part was that this Illinois Institute of Advanced Technology was paying for her to study there. Even the plane ticket.

‘Wonderful, wonderful. But, no thank you, no sweets for me. Just another whisky.’

All his life Mohan Kumar had warned his sons about the danger from other talented boys: he had forgotten that the real threat was from the normal and the average, like this smug shirt-ironer from the Shastrinagar slum. These were the people who had destroyed Radha: they and their normal sons, who had tempted him with drugs, shaving kits, and sexual materials.

When he unwrapped his phone from its white cotton handkerchief, he saw that Tommy Sir was calling.

‘Good morning,’ Mohan Kumar said with the phone held in front of his mouth, and then moved it to his ear to listen.

‘Where is he?’ Tommy Sir asked. ‘At this very minute, where exactly is he? Your second son.’

‘At the cricket. Isn’t he?’

Tommy Sir’s voice was hotter this time:

‘No. He’s not in Shivaji Park. I told him, he had to come show himself to the selectors or they’ll think he’s crazy like his brother.’

Mohan Kumar hung up on him. The sunlight was harsh; he did not want to leave Deepa Bar.

The phone rang again. Mohan Kumar picked it up again: ‘Yes,’ he said, and held it to his ear.

‘The boy’s phone is switched off.’ Tommy Sir’s voice was thin, tense. ‘The match is starting now.’

Mohan Kumar moved the phone from one ear to the other.

‘… eh … um … mmm … mmmm … eh …’ he said. There was a pause and then Tommy Sir’s voice hissed at him: ‘Congratulations. This boy has also run away.’

Tommy Sir swore, and the phone line went dead.

Mohan Kumar re-wrapped his cell phone in his handkerchief. He remained in the bar for several hours. Late afternoon is when the sunlight hits the tables, and the germs and the slime begin to shine. Darkness will clean the bar, but right now nothing is concealed. The life you have made for yourself — and have hidden from yourself — is on full display.

He began to play with the menu card on his table. The back of the laminated card bore a cyclostyled advertisement, something that looked decades and decades old.

‘Improves memory, inner strength, and character.’

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