Turbulence (16 page)

“He’s very cute,” Tia says, idly chewing on a Giggly Jujube, the Official Sweet of the Giga League Gully Cricket Tournament. “Is he married?”

“No, but you are,” Uzma points out, throwing herself into a chair beside Aman. “Besides, he’s mine. Dating a cricketer is a well-known shortcut to the Indian glamour world.”

“You’re interviewing him at some stage, right?” Aman asks. “We need to meet him.”

“Yes, I am, after the match,” Uzma replies. “But why don’t you just ring him? Surely you of all people could get his number.”

“Number, email, official Twitter — I’ve tried everything. He doesn’t answer.”

“But he’ll agree to meet you because he’ll like me, Super-Like-Me Girl,” Uzma says. “I should charge you a fee.”

“Pay me half rent this month,” Aman says. “Don’t you have to do commentary?”

“No, I’m just a Glamour Girl. I’m free until their inning, or whatever they call it, ends.”

Reddy takes guard. The Mumbai Mad Men bowler, a burly, menacing Australian pacer, starts his run-up. The audience claps as one, the rhythm of the claps matching the bowler’s strides and then accelerating into a crescendo as the white ball flashes from the bowler’s hand towards Reddy, who takes a step forward and drives, sending the ball over the bowler’s head, screaming over the field, over the sightscreen and out of the stadium — the ultimate insult to a fast bowler. The audience howls and hollers — the party’s started.

Reddy is unstoppable. The remaining five balls of the over are treated with similar disdain, as Reddy cuts, pulls, drives, hooks a bouncer and finally, laughing, sweeps an attempted yorker over deep square leg. Thirty-six runs off a single over, six sixes, the kind of over every batsman dreams of — except Reddy’s had at least one over like this in every Giga League match he’s played. The crowd’s cheering with an almost religious frenzy. They know this is historic. They know that barring some unforeseen disaster
like a tsunami, an emotional meltdown or a Bollywood starlet, Reddy is fated to lead India to glory at the World Cup finals, two years hence, at this very ground.

“So, what’s his power?” Tia asks.

Aman’s eyes are closed. “I’m looking at videos from the broadcasting room in slow motion,” he says. “Just before he hits the ball, when he’s placing himself, preparing for the shot, he moves very fast. I think he’s got some kind of speed burst. Or he can slow time down. Give himself a little wiggle room.”

“Maybe he’s just practised a lot,” Uzma suggests.

“Maybe.”

Reddy has the strike again. The bowler, this time a wild-haired Sri Lankan, comes roaring in and hurls a lethally fast inswinger at Reddy, who takes a huge step back, exposing his stumps, and square-drives to the boundary, neatly bisecting gully and point.

In the cubicles near Aman’s, sports correspondents gasp at Reddy’s audacity and hastily scribble eloquent testimonials to his unconventional, innovative play. They reach for their thesauri as Reddy then pulls an outswinger over mid-wicket, causing the bowler to tear out clumps of his hair and screech at the sky.

“What’s his problem?” Uzma asks.

“You’re not supposed to play that shot,” Aman replies.

“Why not? Is it ungentlemanly?”

“No. But it was an outswinger pitched outside off-stump, and you’re not supposed to pull those.”

“I can hear your words, but they mean nothing to me,” Uzma says. “And I’m the TV cricket expert. And they say I can’t act.”

Tia places a hand on Aman’s arm.

“Look who just walked in,” she says.

Namrata, resplendent in her DNNTV blazer, struts into the press hall, closely followed by a bearded cameraman, a bleating assistant producer and a generic sound guy.

“Bad news,” Tia says.

Namrata scans the room imperially until she identifies the best vantage point, and then strides towards it, blithely scattering grizzled, confused sports journalists. Her crew sets up the shot with speed and efficiency. In a few seconds, the DNNTV express is ready to roll. But then Namrata calls a halt — she’s seen a better spot. She walks towards Aman, Uzma and Tia.

“Not giving up my seat,” Tia mutters, but Namrata’s already in their midst.

“Do you mind terribly if I do my story from here?” she trills. “It’ll just take a few seconds.”

“Go ahead,” Uzma says.

Namrata sees Uzma for the first time, blinks and smiles.

“Thanks so much,” she gushes. “Who are you? I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

Uzma opens her mouth to introduce herself, but Namrata’s not one to share the airwaves.

“I thought the Gully Glamour chicks were all, like, total bimbos,” she says. “I feel like I should apologise to someone. We should hang out. I want to do a story on the women in cricket and the men they worship. Coffee afterwards?”

“Sure,” Uzma says, flummoxed.

Aman rises willingly, Tia somewhat less so, and Namrata’s crew takes over their cubicle.

“If she’s had another premonition about today, we should think about getting you out of here,” Aman tells Uzma.

“I just got you one of the meetings you wanted,” Uzma says. “I’m not going anywhere until I fix you up with Reddy.”

They lean on the cubicle wall and watch as Namrata clears her throat, grabs her mike and launches into her piece.

“I’m reporting live and exclusive for DNNTV, in a special report on match-fixing, the spectre that has haunted cricket for decades and refuses to die,” she says.

“Spectre refuses to die, my foot,” Tia grumbles.

Outside, Reddy smashes another six-over long-off into the cheering crowd.

“Prashant Reddy’s extraordinary form has raised many questions,” Namrata continues. “While many Indians are happy to see a new cricketing hero take over the mantle from Sachin Tendulkar, many more are asking: is it possible that a man clearly past his cricketing prime should discover a winning streak as glorious as Reddy’s? Could there be other forces involved? Forces such as the betting syndicates of Dubai? Here at the Wankhede Stadium, the crowd is at boiling point — how long will their rage be kept in check? Will Reddy’s ongoing demolition of the Mumbai team on their home turf cause a storm that will shake the foundations of Indian cricket?”

“What rubbish,” Tia snarls. “No one’s raising any questions. The crowd isn’t angry — they love this guy.”

“Wait,” Uzma says. She points at the roaring crowd beyond the glass. “Something’s wrong.”

High fences, patrolled by cricket-loving Mumbai policemen, separate the field and the spectators. A section of the crowd has left the Sunil Gavaskar stand on the eastern side of the stadium, and is pushing its way forward. Aman sees raised fists, men and women screaming in rage, their shouts lost amidst the general
outburst as Reddy gently guides the ball between the slips for another boundary.

“She’s doing this,” Tia hisses. “She set this up. She knew this was going to happen.”

“I can see you don’t like her, but I don’t think she has anything to do with those people,” Aman whispers. “She probably knew somehow that there was going to be trouble, and came here just in time to get it on camera.”

“If she knew there was going to be a riot, she could have warned the police or something. Not just arrived in time to win journalism awards. Bitch.” Tia’s really angry now. She starts towards Namrata, but Uzma stops her.

“She’s a reporter, her job is to report,” Uzma says. “She just has a leg up on the competition. This is like what happened at the Kalki Baby rally, isn’t it?”

Namrata continues her report breathlessly as the riot builds steam on the eastern stand. Some hurl themselves onto the barriers; others start climbing them. All over the ground, blood-curdling shouts of rage rend the air.

The game stops. The players move uncertainly towards the centre of the field as various missiles, bottles, torn posters, caps, are hurled into the ground. Some of the foreign players, already paranoid about terrorist attacks in South Asia, race off the field and up the stairs to the players’ dressing rooms. A line of policemen trots out towards the eastern stands.

“Whoever’s behind this, it’s not her,” Uzma says, pointing at Namrata. The intrepid reporter has now dropped her mike and is staring at the crowd, her face drawn, horrified. Beside her, the DNNTV assistant producer yells curses and then runs off.

On the western side of the stadium, a fence falls and angry
spectators swarm into the field. The few policemen between the crowd and the players do nothing to stop them. Instead, they turn, raising their batons, and join the first wave of people streaking towards Prashant Reddy.

Aman cannot believe his eyes. He’s watching fifty thousand people, all of whom moments ago were rejoicing in the exploits of one man, now united in their desire to tear his heart out. Brightly coloured seats form patterns all over the stadium as the people abandon them to pour out on to the ground, struggling through ever-widening gaps torn through security fences. Men, women, children, some still holding banners extolling Reddy’s virtues, streak across the outfield. The other players bolt, but Reddy stands his ground, clearly petrified. He drops his bat.

In the press box, journalists scramble towards the exit. They yell loudly about match-fixing scandals, and how Reddy was definitely a conspirator who should be hanged for his misdeeds.

Namrata turns from the window, and Uzma meets her eyes. Something in Namrata’s face speaks to her of sorrow, of loneliness, of deep-seated terror. Uzma smiles reassuringly, and whether it’s her powers or just the sight of a friendly face, relief floods Namrata’s face, and she smiles wanly in turn.

To Uzma’s right, Aman’s legs turn to jelly. A wave of anger strikes him, a scarlet haze of pure rage. He has never experienced anything like it. The whole world blurs, and all he can think about is the lone cricketer standing in the middle of the field, watching in desperation as a wave of people converges around him; policemen brandishing batons, even a snarling umpire. All Aman wants, right now, is to see Reddy disgraced, humiliated, dead. His powers kick in. He shuts his eyes, and goes online. The now familiar ocean of data swirls over his mind, engulfing
and cooling his brain. Images of Reddy are washed away by liquid terabytes, bickering, all-explaining, distracting, illogical, objective, soothing. Aman opens his eyes. His anger has vanished. Beside Uzma, he sees another Tia emerge. Her face contorted in fury, she runs out with the mob of journalists, unnoticed in the chaos, leaving a confused, worried Tia behind, looking around her at the rapidly emptying press box.

“What’s wrong?” Uzma asks.

“Did you feel that?” Aman asks. Tia nods. Uzma is puzzled.

“Feel what?” she says.

Aman looks out on to the field. He is convinced now of Reddy’s time-adjustment power, and impressed by the man’s intelligence. Aware of the cameras that might be trained on him, Reddy does nothing to arouse suspicion. He simply dodges blows, outruns pursuers, ducking, bobbing, weaving like a white-eyebrowed kung fu monk. Aman cannot imagine what the world must be like for Reddy; a museum full of slow-moving statues, glaciers to his quicksilver. But this cannot last forever, soon Reddy will be buried under a solid mass of enraged humanity.

Tia grabs Aman’s arm and points. In the middle of the throng, tossing people aside in their hurry to get to Reddy, are a tall man who is either wearing an incredibly realistic tiger mask or actually has a tiger’s head, and a little girl who is surrounded by an aura of green light.

“I told you, it’s not her,” Uzma says, gazing intently. “It’s them, isn’t it? They’ve come to get him. Can we do anything? Aman?”

“Nope. We’re the Combat-Useless Powers Brigade.”

There’s a flash of blue light in the press box, and the lights
go out. Aman feels dizzy, light-headed, as if the weight of the internet has been lifted from his shoulders. He tries to go online, finds his own internal modem, wherever it is, has been switched off, and struggles to recognise that he has spent most of his life feeling like this.

An uproar breaks out around them. The few journalists still in the press box reach for their phones, and find them dead. The central power has been cut, but the light-towers around the stadium, powered by separate generators, shine on, bathing the field with bright white light even as the rooms inside the stadium building plunge into darkness. Above the din, Aman can hear Namrata, she’s sobbing.

“It’s him. He’s here. Get me out.” Deaf to her pleas, her cameraman and sound assistant flee.

Namrata starts to run, but Aman steps forward and stops her.

“Don’t panic,” he says. “We were on the plane as well. We’re here to help.”

Namrata tears her arm away and shrinks from him, the light from outside casting deep shadows on her face.

“You’re with him,” she hisses. “Let me go.”

“Aman!” Tia calls. “The tiger guy and the girl — they’re gone. So’s the cricketer.”

Aman rushes to the window again and sees, standing all over the field and in the stands, thousands of completely bewildered people looking around for an answer, finding nothing. Policemen form lines now, pushing people away from the pitch. Cheerleaders, team owners and random celebrities yelp in anguish, suddenly surrounded by hordes of fans. Of Reddy or his pursuers there is no sign.

“Namrata!” Uzma calls. “What’s your power?”

“Who are you people?” Namrata’s high-pitched voice is now hoarse, ragged. “What do you want from me?”

“We’re like you,” Aman says. “We know you see things. We know how you get news first.”

“Come with us,” Uzma says. “It’s all very strange, but it helps if we’re together.”

“Were you at the Kalki Party rally? Did you people drive the crowd crazy?” Namrata whispers. “Did you turn off the lights?”

“No,” Uzma says.

“Whoever did this — whoever got the whole stadium mad is very powerful,” Aman says. “I felt it — I could have been standing out there right now. But it didn’t affect you, did it? You were just scared.”

“I didn’t feel it either,” Uzma says. “Namrata. Don’t freak out. We can help each other. I know just how you feel.”

She walks towards Namrata, holding out her hands, but Namrata backs away.