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Authors: Irfan Master
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this rate.’ He saw my face and stopped. ‘What’s the matter, Bilal? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened. Yet. Can’t you sense it? It’s different around here – Anand is standing and Sandhu is sitting! It’s all upside down.’
Saleem frowned and moved past me. ‘Go and enjoy the game. I’ll get Chota and send him down. I hope he hasn’t eaten my mango, the little thief.’
Saleem left and a minute later Chota flew past me giggling like a maniac. I turned round to see Saleem on the rooftop swearing at the top of his voice.
‘I ate his mango. Come on, before he starts chucking stones at me!’
I waved to Saleem and jogged with Chota into the glare of the afternoon sun to join the play. Manjeet stood at the crease, grinning. Even without the turban giving him a few extra inches he was the tallest in our class. I’d never seen Manjeet in a shirt or a pair of trousers that actually fitted his gangling frame. Manjeet’s mother always complained that she made clothes to fit him one day but by the next morning they were already too small. The sun glanced off his orange turban as he hit yet another ball into the sky high over our heads. One of the key factors in winning was to have Manjeet on your side because once he stood in front of a wicket you couldn’t see round him or past him.
The field had been set out after a lot of wrangling, a few arguments and finally a shouted rant by Mr Mukherjee, who had threatened and cajoled both teams into starting. I watched Suraj standing a few feet away from me, sucking on a mango. He always has food with him . Noticing I was watching him, he looked over and offered me a little bit of the pulpy mango he’d been chewing on. I held up my palm to say no thanks and heard the heavy thud of bat on ball. Turning quickly towards the crease, I tried to spot the ball and relaxed when I saw it had been hit in the opposite direction. Looking across at Suraj again, I noticed he had sat down and was now slowly peeling a banana.
I had positioned myself near the market end of the maidan and could hear some of the talk among the stallholders. Only snatches of conversation filtered through to me but there was something about the flavour of what was being said that made me feel anxious. The taste was bitter, like when you ate a bad mango and it tasted really sour but you had bitten into it thinking it would be sweet. A lot of the people had expressions on their faces as if they’d just had a taste of bitter mango. They looked decidedly uncomfortable and nervous. A few shuffled their feet and one or two looked as if they were ready to bolt. Manjeet thwacked another ball far to my left, giving me the opportunity to casually turn round again and look at the market. Now I noticed people standing around in groups and although there were people milling about everywhere, anybody who knew the market could see that standing in a group meant something.
I turned away from the scene, moving towards Mr Mukherjee on my left. He had also positioned himself quite close to the edge of the maidan and stood rigidly as Manjeet prepared to face another delivery. Shaking my head to clear it, I tried to focus on the game. Vickesh was up next to face Manjeet and he was one of a very few who actually could bowl. The only thing was, Vickesh often thought it was an international test match as opposed to a friendly game in a dusty maidan. He would measure out his approach carefully, counting each step with the utmost care. When he was ready he would lick his forefinger and test the wind. Only then would he nod at Mr Mukherjee to let him know he was ready. Approaching at speed, Vickesh’s first delivery almost toppled Manjeet’s turban. Holding up his hand, he mumbled his apology, ‘Sorry, still finding my range.’
Adjusting his slightly skewed turban, Manjeet glared at Vickesh and gripped his handle, furiously thumping the ground with the bottom of the bat. The next delivery was a bit more sensible
‘Nothing’s happened. Yet. Can’t you sense it? It’s different around here – Anand is standing and Sandhu is sitting! It’s all upside down.’
Saleem frowned and moved past me. ‘Go and enjoy the game. I’ll get Chota and send him down. I hope he hasn’t eaten my mango, the little thief.’
Saleem left and a minute later Chota flew past me giggling like a maniac. I turned round to see Saleem on the rooftop swearing at the top of his voice.
‘I ate his mango. Come on, before he starts chucking stones at me!’
I waved to Saleem and jogged with Chota into the glare of the afternoon sun to join the play. Manjeet stood at the crease, grinning. Even without the turban giving him a few extra inches he was the tallest in our class. I’d never seen Manjeet in a shirt or a pair of trousers that actually fitted his gangling frame. Manjeet’s mother always complained that she made clothes to fit him one day but by the next morning they were already too small. The sun glanced off his orange turban as he hit yet another ball into the sky high over our heads. One of the key factors in winning was to have Manjeet on your side because once he stood in front of a wicket you couldn’t see round him or past him.
The field had been set out after a lot of wrangling, a few arguments and finally a shouted rant by Mr Mukherjee, who had threatened and cajoled both teams into starting. I watched Suraj standing a few feet away from me, sucking on a mango. He always has food with him . Noticing I was watching him, he looked over and offered me a little bit of the pulpy mango he’d been chewing on. I held up my palm to say no thanks and heard the heavy thud of bat on ball. Turning quickly towards the crease, I tried to spot the ball and relaxed when I saw it had been hit in the opposite direction. Looking across at Suraj again, I noticed he had sat down and was now slowly peeling a banana.
I had positioned myself near the market end of the maidan and could hear some of the talk among the stallholders. Only snatches of conversation filtered through to me but there was something about the flavour of what was being said that made me feel anxious. The taste was bitter, like when you ate a bad mango and it tasted really sour but you had bitten into it thinking it would be sweet. A lot of the people had expressions on their faces as if they’d just had a taste of bitter mango. They looked decidedly uncomfortable and nervous. A few shuffled their feet and one or two looked as if they were ready to bolt. Manjeet thwacked another ball far to my left, giving me the opportunity to casually turn round again and look at the market. Now I noticed people standing around in groups and although there were people milling about everywhere, anybody who knew the market could see that standing in a group meant something.
I turned away from the scene, moving towards Mr Mukherjee on my left. He had also positioned himself quite close to the edge of the maidan and stood rigidly as Manjeet prepared to face another delivery. Shaking my head to clear it, I tried to focus on the game. Vickesh was up next to face Manjeet and he was one of a very few who actually could bowl. The only thing was, Vickesh often thought it was an international test match as opposed to a friendly game in a dusty maidan. He would measure out his approach carefully, counting each step with the utmost care. When he was ready he would lick his forefinger and test the wind. Only then would he nod at Mr Mukherjee to let him know he was ready. Approaching at speed, Vickesh’s first delivery almost toppled Manjeet’s turban. Holding up his hand, he mumbled his apology, ‘Sorry, still finding my range.’
Adjusting his slightly skewed turban, Manjeet glared at Vickesh and gripped his handle, furiously thumping the ground with the bottom of the bat. The next delivery was a bit more sensible
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