The Taliban Cricket Club (8 page)

“Afghans don't play cricket,” the coach, Sharma, snorted. He had a surprisingly deep voice for a thin man and he smoked incessantly. “They don't even know the game.”

“We'll give you a tryout,” Gayatri said, rolling her eyes at her coach.

“I'm a slow bowler and spin off-breaks pretty well,” I said firmly. “But I haven't had much batting practice.”

Gayatri then introduced us to the other girls. They stepped forward, shook hands, and told me their names—Lakshmi, Hemala, Padmini—all strange to my ears, and I repeated each name to myself, hoping I would say it correctly. At least Masooda was familiar—I knew one from home. Gayatri then tossed me a ball. I polished the red leather, faded and pitted, with a little stitching coming apart. I flexed my right arm, winding it around like a windmill to loosen my muscles, and felt all eyes on me as I walked to the bowling crease. Gayatri, wearing pads, took her stance at the batting crease.

“Just relax,” Nargis whispered, jogging up alongside. “I want you on the team with me.”

“You're sure you'll be chosen?”

“I'm an old pro,” Nargis said, grinning. “I captained my school team.”

My first two balls were wide, and bounced only halfway down the pitch, but now I was determined to join this team too and not disappoint Nargis. I couldn't believe that I finally had a chance to play for a cricket team and I couldn't let this chance slip away. My days of lonely practice were rewarded. My third and fourth balls were straighter, my fifth bounced just at the right spot and turned slightly. I knew the secret of a good bowler was in the rhythm of the run-up and delivery. As I kept bowling, I found that rhythm, a five-pace slow run, a turn of the body, the right arm arcing up and releasing the ball at the top of the arc, and then the follow-through.

“Flight it more,” Sharma said. I learned later that he had played for Punjab state and once nearly made the Indian test team. He was still bitter about it, and being reduced to coaching women did not help his attitude.

It was my turn to bat then. “Bat straight, Rukhsana, your foot nearer the pitch of the ball, your head must remain still,” he shouted, and I was immediately flustered. But then I concentrated on his instructions and found another rhythm here too. If Sharma was critical, he was also quick to encourage. “That's better, play the line of the ball, keep the bat straight, and follow through.”

“No one will believe I have an Afghan girl on the team,” Sharma said grudgingly after practice. Nargis elbowed me playfully in the ribs.

When Nargis and I got in her car, I realized that afternoon had become evening. “You'll have to explain to my mother where we've been,” I said in a panic.

“No problem,” Nargis said. “You have a curfew?”

“She's nervous about what might happen to me in the big city.”

“She's right, you know. As a journalist you'll have to get out alone, interview real bastards,” Nargis said as she drove recklessly in her battered Maruti 8, overtaking other cars with a blast of her horn as if it would magically clear a gap in the traffic. She glanced at me. “Any boyfriend back home?”

“Yes. We are supposed to marry one day. He introduced me to cricket, actually.”

“You sure sound enthusiastic.” Nargis laughed.

“And you?” I said, ignoring her.

“Nope. Let's see what the big bad city has to offer. Yours is arranged from the sound of it.”

“Yes, parents pushing us together.”

“I've already said, ‘No way, Mom. I'll screw up my life on my own.' ”

B
ACK IN OUR BASEMENT
in Kabul, Jahan turned the pages of the album and stopped at a picture of eleven women, all in our whites, laughing and posing after having won the intercollegiate cricket trophy. There was Sharmila, Lakshmi, Nargis, Aruna, Gayatri . . . and I was in the center, standing in the back row. The photographs had a faint purple sheen; even as memories fade, so do the bright colors of the images captured with a click. There was another photograph of me alone, padded up, gloves on, leaning nonchalantly against my bat as if I was a professional cricketer. I wondered where all those young women were now. Did they wonder what had happened to me? They would be in mid-career in Delhi, New York, Paris, and Mumbai. Lakshmi and Gayatri had corresponded with me for a while after college. I knew about Gayatri's job with Citibank and her marriage. I knew Lakshmi had gone to Harvard for her M.B.A., while Nargis, at Caltech, was working on a doctorate in geology. They would have photographs too, buried deep under the business of their lives, while mine were easily brought to light, little else of note having happened since those faraway days.

The Way We Were

“C
LOSE IT
,” I
TOLD
J
AHAN
. B
UT HE KEPT TURNING
the pages of my photo album. Me, with a gang of us, five girls and one man.

“Who's the man next to you? He's smiling at you.”

I peered at the photograph. The man, half a head taller than me, casual, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, a camera hanging from his neck, was smiling.

I flushed and ached at seeing him. Where was
he
now? “I think his name's . . . Veer? . . . Yes, it's Veer . . . and he's the brother of”—I stabbed a finger at the girl standing next to him to deflect his attention—“Nargis. We all hung out together. We went to movies, sat around cafes having coffees, went to cricket matches, had a few classes together.

“Come on, Jahan, let's go. Our cousins will be here soon.”

But Jahan turned more pages, studying each photograph, paying no attention to me.

A
T THE END OF
the cricket season, Nargis invited the team to her house for dinner.

Nargis's father worked in communications and, though Nargis never made any mention of it, was very wealthy. She lived in a large house filled with antiques, paintings, and four playful Dalmatians that she adored. I wasn't comfortable around dogs; the ones in Kabul roamed the desolate streets as hostile survivors of the chaos. But I enjoyed the company of my teammates and we laughed and talked around the enormous polished mahogany dining table that could seat all eleven of us squeezed together.

I was sitting between Gayatri and Sushila, rehashing the recent cricket match between India and Australia, when I looked up to see a man standing at the door. He resembled Nargis, but his light brown eyes were penetrating where hers were soft. His hair was unruly and he brushed it back off his forehead impatiently. Although he scanned the table filled with chattering girls, his eyes came back to catch mine.

“What the hell are you doing back here?” Nargis interrupted the flow of conversation when she saw her brother.

“This is my home, or did Dad bequeath it to you in my absence?” His voice was low with quiet amusement.

“This is a private dinner party, and you're not invited. I'll have the cook send you up a meal to eat in your room, as you're not used to any company apart from wild animals.”

“And women aren't wild?” He waved to the room, then turned, and we heard him stomp up the stairs, laughing.

“My brother, Veer,” Nargis announced witheringly. “The chosen one.”

“Adorable,” Gayatri sighed.

“Fabulous,” Mala breathed loudly.

“You hid him away from us,” Sushila scolded Nargis.

“Shit, none of you has any taste at all. Believe me, he's horrible. He lives in jungles all the time, making documentaries, and has no manners.” She turned to look down the table. “Rukhsana, don't you agree? Horrible.”

“Very horrible.” I smiled, though not in complete agreement.

The following Saturday afternoon, Veer came to watch us play a match. His presence surprised Nargis. He was shaved and looked presentable in jeans and a black shirt.

“He's never ever come to watch me play,” Nargis said. She looked around at the team suspiciously. “He's come to watch one of you.”

“Does he play cricket?” I asked as we took to the field.

“He played for Delhi University and was really good until he decided to make his living in the jungle.”

He sat in the shade of a tree with his big black camera hanging from his neck. I noticed how alert we had all become on the field; we were all showing off for an audience of one. A New York Yankees cap was pulled down low on his forehead, shading his watchful eyes.

Every time I glanced in his direction, his camera panned the field. After the match, Veer joined the team at the college canteen for a snack and tea.

“You bowled terribly,” he said to Nargis.

“Why are you here?” she demanded, hands on hips. “You totally distracted me.”

“I just felt like watching a game, that's all,” he said innocently. “I thought you would be delighted you had at least one person watching you play.”

“Well, I didn't want you to be the one.”

At first, Veer was inclusive of the other girls in his conversation at the table. He praised each one for her performance before finally congratulating me on my top score.

“How did you learn cricket in Kabul?” He spoke softly, low enough for the conversation to be private. I remembered how he had remained at the door, looking at me.

“Something to pass the time,” I replied. His attention was suddenly uncomfortable. Images of Shaheen and my parents filled my head—whatever his intentions, I had to be careful. “That's the same reason Uma and Sushila learned too. Didn't you?” I swiveled around, pleading for them to join the conversation again.

“Oh yes,” they chorused and deliberately fell silent, seeing the panic in my eyes, teasing me with theirs.

“Well, it's a dangerous country, but a beautiful one. I was in the Hindu Kush three years ago photographing the gray wolf for a magazine. I had two mujahedeen protecting me. There aren't many gray wolves left, just one or two packs, and they're such magnificent creatures.”

“We keep chopping away at our forests,” I said sadly.

“I'll show you my shots one day.”

I panicked—how to let him know this needed to stop?

“Did you see a snow leopard?” I asked, my hands beginning to shake. I wanted to leave, but that would be horribly rude.

“Not up there, but in the Himalayas. It takes a hell of a lot of patience and a lot more luck to get a shot of one. But what about you? Why do you want to be a journalist?”

Talking more calmed me down. Perhaps I had overreacted—there didn't seem to be any harm in our conversation. We were still talking when we finished our tea, left the cafeteria, and strolled slowly together across the cricket field. At this time in my life in Delhi, I had not had any long conversations with a man outside of my father, brother, and family friends, but I found myself at ease talking to Veer. The way he focused on me made me feel special. When I didn't want to talk about myself, I changed the subject to cricket. He told me about playing for his college; he'd even been given a tryout for the state cricket team. But by then he had lost interest in the game and followed his love for wildlife photography.

“When was the moment you knew you wanted to write about the world?” he said during a lull.

“One day when I was twelve, on my way to school, I saw a Russian soldier sitting on the road, all alone. He was just a few years older than I was. He had whitish blond hair and blue eyes and he was crying. Everyone could see the tears running down his face. He cried silently, not caring who saw him. He looked so tired and there were dark rings under his eyes. We are a very kind people and everyone tried to help him. Someone offered him tea, another water, another food, thinking that he needed sustenance for his body. I thought he cried because he was lost and knew it. Not in the sense that he didn't know where he was but that he was lost in the world.”

“What did you think?”

“I believed he was crying for his dead friends and for his damaged soul. I wanted to speak to him but I didn't know Russian and he wouldn't have spoken Dari or even English.”

“What happened to him?”

“An armored car drove by and the soldiers saw him. They had to carry him into the car as if he was a dead body. He was so lifeless, and so young too. I cried for him.”

“You didn't hate him for invading your country?”

“No,” I said. “I felt sorry for him. He was just a lost boy. In the old days generals—Alexander, Ghengis Khan, Babur—led their armies into battle, risking their lives alongside their men. Now, the generals sit behind their desks far away and send orders to kill us.” I smiled, feeling shy. “I never told anyone this story. I did write it, but I didn't submit the essay.”

Our shoulders touched accidentally and I felt the heat of his body through my shirtsleeve. I stepped away but the sensation lingered. He sensed the touch too and tried to ignore it.

“And cricket? How did you learn? I didn't know Afghan women played any sports.”

“We don't, we've never been encouraged to play anything. A cousin brought the game back after a visit to Pakistan and taught it to me so he'd have someone to bowl for him. I guess I wanted to be different, and cricket was certainly unheard of even in Kabul.”

“So that's why you have a free-flowing style of play. The girl expressing herself outside of society's expectations.”

I laughed. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm a psychologist in my spare time. I can tell a person's character by the way he or she plays the game.”

“And mine's free flowing?” I grinned, and when I looked at him, I felt him studying my face.

“I'd say . . .” He frowned in mock seriousness. “You're pretty focused, but you have a reckless streak.”

I considered what he'd said. “I'm not reckless, but I can be impulsive at times. I should control that.”

“Never do that. Just be yourself.”

I felt Shaheen come and perch on my shoulder, a nagging hawk, pecking at my conscience, monitoring my reactions, grimacing at my smiles, intently listening to Veer with disapproval. “A woman,” he whispered in my ear, “should never speak to strange men. Stop it at once, I order you.”

Nargis was waiting for me in her car. As we approached, Veer took my floppy cap and exchanged it for his, firmly placing his New York Yankees one on my head, saying, “That's better protection from our Indian sun.”

“So, what do you think of my brother?” Nargis asked when I climbed into the car.

“He seems . . . nice,” I said neutrally. “You don't like him much, do you?”

“You kidding? I love him. I just like yelling at him.”

“I enjoyed talking to him,” I said, trying not to give anything away.

“It looked like that,” she said drily.

“Doesn't he have a girlfriend, a fiancée?” I asked, hoping he had someone to distract him, yet hoping he didn't.

“Nope. He's a free spirit, wandering the earth.”

That was certainly true. He called a few days later.

“Hey. It's Veer. Do you want to see a movie?”

I was alone in the house, Father at work, Mother shopping, Jahan at school.

I replied with an abrupt “I can't go out with you,” and hung up. I stared at the phone, panicked, and prayed he would not call back. No one had ever asked me out on a “date.”

I looked around as if expecting to see Mother step out from the shadows asking, “Who called? What did he want?”

Shaheen scolded my conscience again. “You must have encouraged him to call you.” “No,” I replied to his spirit, “all I did was talk to him. I didn't ask him to call me.”

The phone rang again, interrupting my thoughts. I knew it was Veer calling back, and I froze for an instant before picking up the receiver.

“We were disconnected,” Veer said calmly, knowing perfectly well I had panicked. “Listen, I know in your culture you can't see a man alone. Nargis is also going to the movie and so are a couple of other girls. I just thought you might like to join us. Before you say no again, I'll get Nargis to call and invite you. How's that?”

“I'll have to think about it . . .”

“And I'll sit at the far end so there'll be three girls between you and me.”

I laughed.

I dressed casually, in imitation of the other girls, in jeans, a white shirt, and high heels. As if to prove her credibility as a chaperone, Nargis picked me up, coming in to talk to my father and mother.

“See what I do for my brother?” She laughed. “Playing the gooseberry.”

“Gooseberry?”

“I'm the third person who spoils everything by being present on a date—it's a sour fruit. That's the only way to get you out, Veer said. He owes me a huge favor for this.”

“Who else is going?”

“Just you, me, and Veer.”

Veer waited at the entrance of the cinema, holding the tickets. I watched him scanning the crowd as we approached, and when he saw me, he broke into a wide smile. I couldn't help smiling too. I was so strangely happy to see this man again. I quelled any internal dialogue with the watchful Shaheen. It was only a movie, and Nargis was with us. Veer was a friend, a movie buff like me, and I would probably not see him again after this.

Nargis sat between us in the dark theater, yet I could sense Veer's presence, distracting me from the film.

On the way home, after Nargis dropped her brother off, she drove in uncharacteristic silence, staring ahead, stealing glances at me and smiling. “I think my brother's very interested in you,” she said finally. “That worries me.”

“Why?” I was surprised. “I'm the one who should worry. I didn't ask him to be interested.”

“Sometimes it can't be helped. And you are too, though you're trying to deny it because of that guy back home, waiting faithfully for you.”

“I'll stop seeing Veer,” I said firmly. “It would be best for both of us.”

“If that's what you want, tell him. But don't ask me to do that. You're both adults. My brother can take care of himself.”

“I will then,” I said, and tried to explain what I believed I felt. “I've never been out with a man, and I like him as a friend. He's interesting. That's all.”

“Famous last words.”

“Are you upset, Nargis?”

“Me? No. I just think it's sad, since you two seem like you're having a good time. But you do what you have to do.”

I had decided, and rehearsed my words. “I'm sorry, I can't see you again, Veer. My parents will strongly disapprove. It's for the best, as there is someone waiting for me to marry him.” I thought they were the right words, spoken kindly, as I withdrew from this friendship. I would spend my afternoons at home and would never answer the phone. I am relieved, I told myself. But I didn't hear from him for a whole week and then another. At first I was relieved and then angry with him. He should at least have had the grace to tell me instead of cutting me off coldly. In novels, men behaved in such a way. Didn't Heathcliff in
Wuthering Heights
just ride away without a backward glance or a good-bye? I was so angry, I refused to ask Nargis whether he was in Delhi or not. And so I spent my afternoons at home and didn't ever answer the phone. Two weeks passed, then another and another. “Are you all right?” Mother asked, not for the first time.