The Taliban Cricket Club (16 page)

“You have to be fit not only to run once up the pitch but back down and then up again. This will be three runs. And you'll have to chase balls that pass you. You are all totally unfit.”

“Why should we be fit?” Royan asked. “Where can we run to without getting killed by a land mine?”

“Then jog in your garden or up and down a safe street. If you want to win, you must start training yourselves. Now I'll show you how to bowl.” I took the ball, walked my five paces, and slowed down my actions. “If you bowl slowly you need only a few steps. A fast bowler will need a much longer run to generate the speed of the ball. See, I've turned sideways before I let go of the ball. My left arm is straight above my head, my right one, holding the ball, is by my side at nearly a hundred and eighty degrees. Now as I bring the right up as straight as possible—and you must not bend the elbow—my left arm goes down to keep my balance and I release the ball at the very top of the arc.”

I lined them up and made them imitate my actions. They were eager but as gawky as infants learning how to walk. I moved to each one—straightening an arm, turning them more to the side. I made them run and bowl too. A team has specialist batsmen and bowlers and I would need four good bowlers. As Jahan, Parwaaze, and Qubad already knew the actions, they mastered it more quickly than the others. But I saw promise in Nazir, Royan, and, surprisingly, Omaid too.

Omaid seemed to emerge from his trance when he walked to bowl; the physical action seemed to awaken a hidden spirit in him. He surprised us all, possessing a natural talent, and he smiled with such childish pleasure that we applauded him—mutely, though, as clapping was against Talib law.

I would have to focus on bowling again later in our practice and now needed to find my batsmen. I took up the bat and they looked expectant. This is what they were here for.

I took up the position in front of them: “You see, my feet are apart to keep my balance. I'm half bent over, like a spring, so that when the ball bounces I straighten to step back, holding my bat vertically down to let the ball bounce and hit the bat. This is defensive. If you think the bounce is within your reach, you move your left foot as near the ball as possible, and bring the bat down in a straight arc to hit it.”

I repeated my actions again slowly, imagining the speed and bounce of the ball. Then I handed over the bat to each one and bowled to them. As I had thought, Royan and Parwaaze were quick to copy my actions, and gradually so did Nazir. At first, he was awkward, but then as his confidence grew and he discovered how to keep his balance and hit the ball, he became more stylish and aggressive in hitting the ball. Bilal, in keeping with his nature, was slower and more stubborn—he wasn't a risk taker and he could be in the middle of the order to steady the side. Qubad, still swinging wildly, would come in near the end to hit as many balls as he could.

Royan suddenly held up his hand, turning his head one way, then another, listening. From a distance, we heard a motorbike. It seemed to be circling us, nearing and then moving away. It suddenly stopped. We knew it was Azlam, spying on us, and we looked through the trees and shrubs but couldn't spot him. We sat, waiting. Then we heard the motorbike start up and fade away.

“Even in high school and college he was always sneaking around,” Parwaaze muttered.

We practiced bowling and batting all afternoon, but each time we heard the call to prayer we would stop immediately in case Azlam or even the religious police were hidden watchers. We knelt and prayed until it was time to resume the lessons once more.

I gathered the men. “As a bowler, you have only one objective—to get the batsmen out. You're alone, we cannot help you in your outthinking of the batsmen. And they are only thinking of mastering you and defeating you. You cannot lose your temper. You must think, remain calm, and bowl well.”

Then I took the bat and showed them more attacking strokes—the hook shot, the square cut, the cover drive, the leg glance, the late cut—all the techniques I could remember. “As a batsman you have to think only of outwitting both the bowler and all the fielders who are just waiting to get you out. You have to focus, to concentrate, and never let anyone distract you. You too are alone on the field. You have to learn to be yourself, be bold and brave when you walk out to the middle.”

Qubad, no doubt wanting to show his prowess to his cousins, grabbed the bat from me and took a batting stance. He did a good imitation—legs slightly apart, crouched over the bat, but again he held it with both fists together, as if it was a club, and not hands apart, the left elbow facing the bowler and the left hand controlling the stroke.

“Omaid,” he called. “B-bowl me a slow ball and I'll hit it all the way to the Hindu Kush.”

Omaid took the ball, walked slowly to the crease, and bowled. His action wasn't perfect, but near enough. Qubad, forgetting to move his feet, took a huge swing at the ball and missed. The ball bounced, turned—an off-break—and hit him squarely in the crotch. He collapsed with a strangled scream.

Oh god, I'd forgotten about that.

I could barely watch. Qubad groaned and curled up, tight as an earthworm when touched with a twig. Had I killed him? Had I ruined his life forever?

There was no such compassion from the cousins for poor Qubad; they were all laughing as he writhed on the ground, clutching his crotch. Namdar and Bilal hopped around, imitating Qubad, holding their balls, screaming with laughter. Only Omaid looked shocked and frightened, his face forming a small, tight fist. Royan, his brother, made his way out to where Omaid stood. Parwaaze and I hurried across to kneel by Qubad's side as he lay there cursing in his still strangled voice.

“You didn't tell us that we need to protect . . . ourselves,” Parwaaze said accusingly.

“A cup, it's called a box in cricket,” I whispered.

“What does it l-look like?” Qubad managed to say. “I need one made of i-iron.”

“I'll show you tomorrow.”

Omaid kept staring at Qubad, tears streaking his cheeks. I joined him and Royan.

“Qubad is okay,” I told him quietly. “You're not to blame.”

“See, he's getting up,” Royan said and embraced his brother tightly, trying to squeeze the fear out of his frail body. “Qubad, tell Omaid it wasn't his fault.”

“It wasn't your fault, Omaid,” Qubad managed to wheeze. “It was m-mine. Don't worry, I'll be okay.”

Omaid sniffled once and then his face relaxed. He managed a tentative smile.

Parwaaze and Daud helped Qubad to his feet. He could barely stand and remained bent over, like an old man with an arthritic back. His every pain-filled action drew even more laughter from his unsympathetic teammates. Even Jahan was laughing. Although it took the funereal looks off their faces, I couldn't understand their bizarre sense of humor. If a ball hit one of us on our breast, or anywhere else, and she collapsed with the pain, we would rush onto the field to comfort her, not roll over laughing at her agony.

“Will he be able to walk again?” I asked Parwaaze, who was himself stifling laughter.

“Of course. In five minutes he'll be back to his usual self.”

“No, he w-won't,” Qubad groaned. “And I'll be a eunuch and never be able to lie with a w-woman.”

“Don't worry, you'll still be able to use your hands—” Namdar said before abruptly stopping, remembering that I was Rukhsana and not Babur.

“I'll bring the box tomorrow,” I said.

We practiced bowling and batting, each one taking a turn. I corrected their bowling actions and their batting strokes. It wasn't as easy as they thought it would be but they worked hard. The sun was sliding down, throwing long shadows, and I decided to finish for the day. They reluctantly stopped, but the day's play had brought a healthy flush to their faces and they kept miming the actions I had taught them, smiling.

“You and the team must keep practicing—bowling and catching especially. If we practice well, we'll play well.”

“Don't forget that we want to see that cricket tape,” Parwaaze reminded me.

“I'll bring it after dinner. And I'm serious about practice—I want all of you to keep practicing, even in your sleep.”

I
WAS THIRSTY, TIRED,
and hungry. I wasn't as fit as I had been when I exercised daily in Delhi.

“Any letter?” I asked Abdul eagerly as we entered our gate.

“No.”

“What about a package?”

Abdul shook his head.

I had been trying not to think about the letter, but now another day was passing without news. Jahan put his arm around my drooping shoulders as we went into the house.

“What package are you expecting?” Jahan asked.

“The money, of course. How else can he send it, except through a
hawala
dealer? He won't use a bank, as the money can be traced. Besides, I don't think our banks know how to handle international transactions.”

“Is there one here?”

“Of course there is, they're everywhere. It's an ancient Indian system, older than the silk route, to move money between countries without going through a bank. Shaheen will give the money to a dealer, an Afghan or a Pakistani, in San Francisco, pay him a commission, and the dealer will call his contact in Kabul, the
hawaladar,
to deliver the money to my door. It will take only three or four days once Shaheen gives the dealer the money.”

“But how will they call Kabul to tell the
hawaladar
here to pay you the money? Our phones don't work for days.”

“They'll have four or five phone numbers, as their business depends on that.”

To keep my mind occupied, I went down to the basement and trawled through the trunk, uncovering more memories—a low-cut black dress that barely reached my knees, boldly worn at a party; Hyderabadi glass bangles bought near the Charminar bazaar; picture postcards sent by friends traveling to exotic places; papers, letters, cheap jewelry. I discovered that the memories no longer held their sting of regret now that I felt comforted, immersed again in cricket, and also knowing that soon I would be liberated. I would leave it all behind, carrying only a passport and a bundle of clothes.

I did have a box, from sheer malice, thanks to Nargis. She and Veer had picked me up at home for one of our matches. Veer was driving, and Nargis and I sat in the backseat. They were arguing—and had been arguing all morning. Nargis was so furious with her brother, she reached into his bag at our feet, took out his box, opened my kit bag, and dropped it in. “That'll teach him a lesson,” she had whispered. We both laughed at her prank, although I was worried for Veer. Maybe I had kept it as a strange reminder of my memory of him, not that I needed something so tangible. I never did see him play. It just remained in my kit after that.

Finally, the box surfaced from under a layer of tracksuits and books. It resembled heavily reinforced underwear with straps to hold it in place around the lower waist and a molded pouch to protect the testicles below. I held it, as daintily as a dead mouse, by the edge of the strap and slipped it into a plastic bag. I grabbed the tape I wanted to show the boys and hid both under my
shalwar
.

I cooked our simple meal of rice and fried chicken and peas. I sent Jahan to buy fresh naan. Dr. Hanifa came downstairs and offered to wash dishes. Mother had slept most of the day, and when she was awake, they had read to each other and played cards.

After dinner, we went to Parwaaze's house and met the team in the basement. The windows were covered with blankets, and a television set and VHS player stood in the corner cupboard, now open for the show. Stuck on the walls with tape, and curling at the edges, were posters of Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, and Rivaldo, the magicians of Brazil's World Cup football team. The air stank of cigarette smoke and tea. It was a private theater for trusted friends to view banned films—the family's secret income. Parwaaze's father bought the tapes from smugglers, just as Noorzia bought her creams and perfumes.

Parwaaze switched on the television and started the tape.

“Who's playing?” Namdar asked.

“England and India.”

I watched for a few minutes, forgetting the expectant company waiting for me to explain. The stage was the almost bare, dun-colored pitch in the center of the emerald oval; the wickets upright at either end; the bowling and batting marks in immaculately straight white lines, visible from the farthest seats of the stadium. The passage of the lawn mowers had left regimental stripes on the grass outfield. I loved the game's quiet rhythms, its peaks of tension, and the sudden violence that subsided back into deceptive calmness. The fans watched the two main characters, the bowler and the batsman, confront each other on center stage. Everyone waited, breaths held, for the enactment of this ritual. The sounds of the game were not raucous but muted, the bat hitting the ball a sold
thwack,
a fielder sprinting to stop it or catch it.

“Tell us what's happening!” complained Qubad.

“Sorry—start the tape again. Okay, now watch the bowler's and batsman's actions. And look at this drawing I made.” I had sketched out the fielding positions before dinner. “See how the batsman guided the ball through the gap? And now he's out, caught. There are five ways to get a batsman out and I'll explain each one and why when it comes up.” We watched the game progress and suddenly a batsman was given out when the ball hit him on his shin. “Here the umpire believes if his leg hadn't been in the way, the ball would have hit the wicket. It's called leg before wicket.” I added softly, “LBW. The umpire's decision is final. No argument. It's not cricket.”

“So who'll u-umpire our match?” Qubad asked no one in particular.

“The minister said there's supposed to be that man from the ICC,” I said. “Maybe he'll umpire.”