Aravind Adiga: Selection Day

‘Maybe you didn’t hear me, Mr Tommy.’

The investor drew that magic square again.

It was one of those moments when Tommy Sir realized his age: a decade ago, he would have got up and walked out at this point.

Having taken up painting many years ago as a way to calm himself when cricket-related tension grew unbearable, Tommy Sir now thought about his own watercolour copy of Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night , a reproduction which in some ways improved on the original, and which he had framed and hung in his living room so that its stimulation, direct or recollected, would regulate his heartbeat and lower his blood pressure at moments precisely like this one.

‘If you want guarantees, play carrom. And if you don’t want the boys,’ Tommy Sir looked the investor in the eye, ‘we will go to Reliance and Nike and the Big Boys. Directly.’

‘Relaaaaaaaax.’ Anand Mehta smiled at the old scout. ‘I make an offer of … four thousand rupees a month. Four thousand. Done? Are we done?’

‘Eight thousand,’ Mohan Kumar said. ‘For one boy. And fifteen thousand for both.’

‘Two?’ The investor broke into an incredulous smile. ‘Two? I’ve done plenty of charity in my time, mate, but I did not come here to make a donation.’

‘Two. Two is the opportunity. ’ Tommy Sir bunched his fingers together. ‘Two is the visionary aspect. Listen. Sport alone isn’t enough today. People want sport and a story. I know, because I am also a writer. Two brothers from the slums making it big. One of them looks like a film-star. It’s a story.’

Anand Mehta rubbed his moustache.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘As I often ask my wife, Asha: what are Indians? To which I give the answer: Indians, my dear, are basically a sentimental race with high cholesterol levels. Now that its hunger for social realist melodrama is no longer satisfied by the Hindi cinema, the Indian public is turning to cricket. Brothers X and Y from the slums. Playing cricket for Bombay. I can see the potential. I once donated a lakh of rupees to a school in the slum near Cuffe Parade, back when I had just returned from New York. You know what the Mumbai Sun did? Called me a hero, and printed my photo. Page four. But Brother Y is too young. Voice hasn’t broken yet.’

‘Manju is almost fourteen,’ Tommy Sir said. ‘In this city we throw boys out of the women’s compartment of the train when they are seven, and tell them, go to the men’s compartment. Push and survive. In sport there is not always a difference between a boy and a man. What is cricket, anyway, Mr Mehta? Game of chance. Take two, one may win.’

Anand Mehta looked at the ceiling so sadly.

‘What is cricket?’

Meaning, no. He was not taking two boys.

He pointed at one man, and then at the other, and asked:

‘Done?’

So the scout put his large palms on the table and got to the point.

‘Doing well in Mumbai is nothing: being noticed while you do well is everything. There are competitions, shields, trophies, prizes I have to get these boys into. There’s a fine art to getting a boy selected in this city. No guarantee , but … if I support a boy, he is well supported.’

Anand Mehta did not smile.

‘For all this work that I will do for the boys, I don’t want any money, Mr Mehta. Not one rupee. But I have a simple question, Mr Mehta: tell me, what makes a great batsman great? Hard Work? Sacrifice? Mother’s Prayers? Each is necessary, yet all together are still insufficient. Even I don’t know. It is a shroud before my eyes. Believe me when I say I could be running a very profitable coaching academy for fat and rich mummy’s boys, instead of which I am out here day after day, in the field, in the sun, trying to solve this mystery of mysteries and find a great, I mean great batsman. The shroud must part, and that is the only reason I—’

Anand Mehta had other things to do with his life.

‘I’ll compensate you a thousand a month for your time, Tommy Sir. Done deal?’

The scout looked away.

‘Two thousand. Final offer.’

‘Plus I want a T-shirt,’ Tommy Sir said.

‘T-shirt?’ Anand Mehta frowned.

‘Yes. Like the one you’re wearing. Manchester United Gold. For Lata, my daughter.’

Everyone shook hands with everyone else; they bought South Indian paans, rich with clove and pulverized sugar, and placed them on their tongues to close the deal; before the sugar had melted, Tommy Sir had disappeared.

At once, Mohan Kumar caught the rich man by his wrist and said: ‘Finally, I can open my mouth.’

•

Revenge is the capitalism of the poor: conserve the original wound, defer immediate gratification, fatten the first insult with new insults, invest and reinvest spite, and keep waiting for the perfect moment to strike back. Because every mocking remark that Mohan Kumar had heard about his plan to produce champions had been stored away in his keen memory, he knew only one way of telling his sons he had secured their future for them:

‘I’ve screwed a rich man, my boys,’ he said, even though he had taken a liking to Anand Mehta. He clapped his hands. ‘A man in a red foreign T-shirt. I flipped him over and screwed him royally. Come and see.’

His boys gathered around; Mohan Kumar showed them a paper napkin from the MIG club, which was covered with writing in a blue ballpoint pen. A contract.

Until mountains fall and rivers dry this contract will be honoured by Mohandas Kumar of Alur Taluka and Anand Mehta of Mumbai. One-third of all future earnings of my two sons Master Radha Krishna and Master Manjunath will be the legal property of Shri Mehta, in return for his commitment to sponsorship. May God fill our mouths with worms if either breaks this contract.

‘Isn’t it beautiful, boys? Words are magic, remember this: words are magic. There is a man who comes to our village and with a spell and a secret poem he makes an elephant dance for him. Today, I made a rich Gujarati man dance for me. At first he said, No, no, I don’t want Manju, his voice hasn’t broken, but I said, you will take Manju, because I made two champions! Yes, he said, and he’s giving us five thousand rupees each month! But I wasn’t done. Made him sit down and bought him a samosa and told him about this flour-mill and how it pollutes the air, until he said, oh, terrible, how terrible, and then I said, there are rats and stupid neighbours, how can I raise champions here — so he gave us a loan, interest-free, of 50,000 rupees, so we can get out of this hole, boys! To a more “hygienic location”. His words! Screwed him.’

Manju and Radha looked at the contract that guaranteed their future, and the older boy asked: ‘But where are we moving to? And when?’

Mohan Kumar rubbed his hands, and pointed one of his warmed palms at Radha: ‘Get ready for a check-up. Manju, stand outside. Stand at attention.’

Radha began removing his shirt. Manju closed the tin door behind him and stood outside with his arms pressed to his sides like a soldier at a drill. It was evening in the Shastrinagar slum, and men were returning to their homes after work; their faces, dark from fatigue, glowed with the anticipation of seeing their children again. There are times when only a sick man knows how warm and bright the rest of the world is. Manju watched his neighbour, Ramnath, showing his daughter how to stack up a pile of fresh shirts and cover them in newspaper, so that they could be delivered in the morning.

He strained his ears: from inside the hut, his father’s voice rose.

‘Are you thinking of shaving? I can see in your eyes that you are thinking of shaving.’

‘No, Appa.’