The Taliban Cricket Club (21 page)

I watched the young men bowl and bat; despite their equipment, they were as new to the game as my team. The bowlers were erratic, and we could hear the coach shouting at them and pointing to the spot where they should bounce the ball. The batsmen swung clumsily or their feet got tangled up when they tried to defend. But one bowler drew my attention. He was fairly tall, a shade or two darker and older than the others. He ran up to the wicket smoothly, had a high action, and the ball whipped down the wicket to hit the stumps.

“Well? What do you think?”

“They don't look better than us,” I said truthfully. “Except one of them. Now watch that bowler. See how he runs up and bowls. It's a coached action, he's played cricket before. He's the one we must watch out for. But the others are all on our level.”

The tall pace bowler worried me the most. He could run through the other teams like an AK-47. The match was fixed already, with the ringer on their side. I didn't confide my fear to Parwaaze and the others when we rose to leave the stadium after a half hour. The other young men remained watching, hoping to learn the game. On the way to the university, we stayed silent in the taxi. When we reached the grounds, we sat in a circle and I waited for one of them to start the discussion. If they believed they could be beaten now, I had wasted my time. I hoped that all the training and talking I had done would influence their thinking and attitude.

They had keen eyes and had learned enough of the game to read the nuances and, without my telling them, knew the pace bowler would cause them problems. I wanted them to work out how they would play him.

“We'll have to be d-defensive when he's bowling,” Qubad said. “Play him on the back foot, as the bounce could be high on that wicket.”

“Wait for the change bowler and hit him then,” Namdar said, smiling.

“We should also try to hit him,” Royan suggested. “He won't be accurate with every bowl, and if we hit him around, he could start bowling badly.”

“He looks too cocky,” Parwaaze said, also starting to smile. “We'll deal with him, so we must not worry now. We must only think of winning.”

“He looks like a P-Pakistani too,” Qubad said dourly. “Who's going to lead us?”

“Parwaaze should be the captain,” I said.

Parwaaze grinned. “Yes, I'm the captain.” He straightened and threw me a glance of gratitude for electing him as their leader.

“Why can't he be a general?” Qubad mocked. “A c-captain is very low down in an army. Generals are the ones in charge, leading from b-behind.”

“Do any of you want to be captain?” I said, stopping the discussion. They hesitated and remained silent. “Then Parwaaze must be the captain.” I nudged Jahan.

“I think he should,” he said quickly when he caught my eye.

“What does a captain do?” Parwaaze asked, pulling me aside when we started to practice.

“He goes out with the opposing captain for the coin toss. If you call right, then you decide whether to bat or field first. That depends on the pitch. On the stadium pitch, you should bat first as it will break up after a few balls and hopefully be harder to play on in the second innings. And the captain leads the team out onto the field for a start.”

“I'll never remember all this,” he wailed.

I smiled in sympathy at his dilemma. A captain who knew nothing, leading his men, who knew less, into battle and off the cliff. Yet, I felt he would have an instinct for the role. “Don't worry. I'll write it all down.”

We joined the others at practice and I saw how excited and motivated they had become after having seen how vulnerable the state team was. They cheered themselves when they hit a good shot and when they took a wicket. Each one had acquired different skills that rose out of their personalities. Once more, they were individuals, even in the way they walked, the swagger of their steps, turbans at an angle, the grins on their faces. As the hills melted into the arms of the sky at dusk, we practiced our fielding and catching. Where once they had been lethargic, they now ran like hares to the ball, scooping it up and throwing it back.

“We're going to win,” they shouted to each other until it grew too dark to practice.

On our street corner, Jahan and I heard the motorbike behind us and kept walking, expecting Azlam to pass. Instead, he switched off his engine and, as he drew parallel, stopped.

We exchanged
salaam aleikums
, my greeting only a whisper, and waited for him to talk.

“I want you to bring the book and teach my team to play cricket,” he announced, looking at me. “How much is Parwaaze paying? I'll double it.”

“He's not paying us anything,” Jahan said. “He's our cousin.”

“You should be paid, cousin or not.” Azlam hooked a leg over the petrol tank, preparing for a long bargaining session. “I'll give you ten thousand. It's a lot of money.”

“I just told you, we're not doing it for money,” Jahan said testily. “We love the game, and our cousins wanted to learn it, and that's enough for us.”

“Twenty then, and no more.”

“No.”

“Can't he answer?” Azlam stared at me intently.

“He has a very sore throat and a fever,” Jahan said, ending the negotiations and nudging me toward our gate.

“Twenty-five, and that's the last offer,” Azlam called out.

“We're going to win the match,” Jahan called back.

“We'll see,” Azlam shouted and started his bike. He roared up the road, gunning it as he passed us.

“What's he going to do now?” I said, looking after him.

“What can he do? Just lose to us.”

Abdul had opened the gate to see who was shouting.

“Have you seen that motorbike before?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Once or twice. It could be the same one, but I can't tell the difference.”

“Any letters, packages?” I asked.

“No. Don't worry, they will come.”

When we went in, Dr. Hanifa heard us and came out of Mother's room. Even in the gloom, we could read her face.

“She's sleeping, and I gave her dinner. I've increased the dosage of morphine. You'll have to give her another injection if she wakes.” She touched my face, and then Jahan's, and we understood the message: death was speeding toward our mother and we would be orphaned very soon.

Jahan went out to walk Dr. Hanifa home. I cooked dinner, kebabs, rice, and a salad, a simple meal for both of us and for Abdul to eat in his quarters. When Jahan returned, we ate, and midway through we heard the telephone, crying out like a lost child. Jahan hurried to answer it and I listened to someone call “Hello” again and again until he gave up.

“Who was it?”

“Sounded like a man, but all I could hear was his hellos. Stupid phone.”

“Shaheen?” I asked hopefully.

“No, I'd know his voice, even in a hello.”

“Was it Uncle?”

“No, I'd recognize his hellos. It was a stranger's voice.”

“Long distance?”

“There was such a buzzing on the line, it was hard to tell.”

As we rose from the floor, Abdul knocked on the door and, without thinking, I ran down the stairs and waited in the well, poised to sprint into the secret room.

A Short Note

I
HEARD THE FRONT DOOR OPEN AND THE MURMUR
of voices.

Jahan called down softly, “Stay where you are. It's Uncle Jaweid with Auntie Badria.”

Badria was Shaheen's third cousin on his father's side. It had to be a good omen. Shaheen had sent the money and papers to them and they had come to hand them over. I could leave tomorrow, if I wanted. I sat and waited in the dark.

Jaweid was a thin man, always with a frown of worry creasing his forehead; Badria, as thin, had her lips clamped in disapproval. I thought they would enter, but they remained just inside the door despite Jahan's invitation to have tea. “No, no, we just had tea,” Jaweid's protesting voice. Then another rumble of words and Jahan, “Maadar's not well . . . sleeping now.” A silence. “We came to see Rukhsana . . .” And Jahan replying, “. . . Mazar . . . back soon . . .” Then Badria's higher tone; she had a quarrelsome voice that always grated, “This came for Rukhsana this afternoon and we came straightaway. Shaheen asked . . . give her this . . .”

I clung tightly to her words and waited impatiently for them to leave.

“Buses are so bad . . . long waits . . .” Badria had a litany of complaints.

Finally, I heard the door close and I crept up the stairs. Jahan was holding a letter, not a package, and gave it to me. My name was on the envelope. I went to sit on the bottom stair, weighing it carefully. I held it up to the light and saw the outline of a sheet of paper.

“It could be a check inside,” Jahan said.

“It could be.”

I gently prised open the flap, slid out the sheet of paper, and read it. I remained holding the letter until Jahan took it from my hand.

Dear Rukhsana,

Thank you for your letter. It was good to hear from you, finally. Your mother's illness saddens me deeply and I pray that she recovers and is well soon. As I had not heard from you, and did not know whether you would ever come to America, my parents believed I could not wait much longer. You had postponed our engagement three times, and as much as I very much wanted our marriage, I have to obey my father. I married a good Afghan girl here. Her father was a great help to my father in settling in America and setting up a business together. As I now have such financial commitments to my family, I will not be able to send you the money that you requested. I pray you find another person who can be of more help than I can. Please forgive me.

My good wishes to your mother and Jahan.

With affection,

Shaheen

Jahan and I sat in silence. He reread the letter in the hope that we had misinterpreted the simple message.

“I didn't think he'd get married,” I said angrily. “I didn't think he'd ever not send for me. We were committed to each other.” I took the letter, crushed it into a ball, and hurled it down the hall.

“He let us down, and broke his word,” Jahan said angrily. “He should have informed us before and not told us after. He has no honor.”

“Don't tell Maadar, it will only worry her even more.”

He put an arm around me and drew me close. We felt like two small children lost in a huge, dark, menacing world. “What do we do now?”

“I'll have to borrow as much money as I can to pay the smuggler. I'll wait for you in Pakistan.” And then what would I do with my life in that limbo?

I was tired after a day of such tension and bitter disappointment and went down to the hidden room. I left the door open and slept the moment I lay down and dreamed of Zorak Wahidi again.

S
URPRISINGLY, DESPITE THE DARK
dreams, I woke feeling lighter, afloat in my bed, halfway to the ceiling. For a moment, I couldn't understand my sense of euphoria and lay luxuriating in it. I sat up. Of course. I was alone and I had lost my way out of the country for now, but I was free, the burden of my commitment to my family through this marriage, and to Shaheen, was gone. I could do what I wanted now—I could marry whom I wanted. Veer. I would call him now, this instant, and went down to Father's office. I tapped the Delhi number into the phone. But what should I tell him? Veer, I am free? I put the phone down. He hadn't replied to my letter sent two or three months ago; I couldn't remember the exact day I'd mailed it. Was I too late, again? Had he lost patience and married? Even now, he could be writing his letter telling me, but couching it in gentler tones than Shaheen's. This one would break my heart into tiny pieces. I bit my nails. I tried to imagine our conversation.
Veer, it's me, Rukhsana, how are you? Fine. How are you? Fine. No, I'm not. You must help me get out, I don't have much time and I need money for a smuggler. Did you get my last letter? Yes, I meant to reply but . . . but . . .

It didn't matter—I had to tell him, now. I sat up determinedly and made the call. Even if married, at least because of our love he would send me money. I was the beggar again. I pressed redial, and each time, I only connected to a dull hum. I stopped when I heard the sound of a distant motorbike pass the house then fade away. Azlam wasn't the only one in the city to own one, but I could only think it was him, watching us. I wondered when Droon would return to make his demands, impatient with waiting, taking Jahan to prison. I redialed and held my breath as I heard a ringing phone.

A man picked up. “
Quanhai?
” He was a servant.

I replied in Hindi, “I want to speak to Veer sahib.”

I heard the dreaded response. “Veer sahib out. Who is memsahib?”

I hesitated, not wanting to commit my name to this man. “Tell him, tell him I call from Kabul. You understand, Kabul.”

It took him a long moment. “You are Kabul memsahib? I will tell him.”

“When will he return?”

“I don't know, memsahib.”

We both disconnected. I sat at the desk, wondering how long I should wait. All day? All week? My life was spent waiting, and each day the knot in my stomach tightened. I gave it a half hour and left when the call wasn't returned. I had to go to practice. I left the door slightly ajar to hear the phone, and stained my face, thickened my brows, affixed the beard, and put on my turban.

There was a week left to practice. We had to win; there was no other escape for Jahan. I drove them harder, criticizing each ball bowled, sneering at every batsman.

Royan rebelled. “What's happened? Why are you so angry with us?”

“I'm not angry,” I said. “You're not trying hard enough. You have to beat Azlam's team and that state team.” Then I announced it. “He's offered me a lot of money to coach his team.”

“When was that?” Parwaaze said, startled. “What did you say?”

“What do you think I said?” I let them wait, holding their breath. “You're my family, a lazy family, and I told him I didn't want his money.”

“He wasn't happy about that,” Jahan said. “He even went up to twenty-five thousand.”

Although it sounded astronomical, it was only a few dollars depending on that day's rate of exchange.

“So he is d-desperate,” Qubad said.

“Desperate enough to hire anyone else he can find in the next week,” I said. “Unless you want to lose to him, you'll have to work harder, you have to be as good as you all can be.” I tossed the ball to Namdar. “Let's not waste any more time.”

O
N OUR WAY HOME
from practice the next evening, we shopped for food. “No letter, package,” said Abdul as we came through the gate.

“They won't come,” I said.

Upstairs, I visited Mother. Pain had drawn ugly graffiti on her face, but now in sleep it had been erased, and her beauty surfaced, a gift for us to remember her by. We watched her shallow breaths, counting them; breathing along with her.

“Did anyone call?” I asked Dr. Hanifa.

“I didn't hear the phone ring. My hearing's bad anyway,” she said, packing up.

Jahan went to walk Dr. Hanifa home. “I'm going over to Parwaaze's to watch a Bollywood film. Do you want to come?”

“Don't watch the movie, watch the cricket tape again and again. You know the team must win the match, so don't let them waste time.”

“They need to relax, even I do.”

“Do it when we've escaped.”

I remained awake in my room until I heard Jahan return, then went down to the basement and my stuffy cell. I left the door open and lay down.

Jahan woke me when it wasn't yet dawn.

“Shut the door,” he whispered, shaking me, and his urgency brought me wide awake. “The police are banging at the gate.”