Page 65 - 31OCT2019E

From Tehelka Archives
December 1, 2000

an unexpected cover drive. of seed that would sprout shortly, and unex- Urmila Deshpande had had their hair done at
Then the camera moved to a tall and pectedly, from the barren soil. the Hilton; Urmila had acquired the perma-
swarthy Ravi Shastri, his cricketing days long Mrs Shweta Kapoor, wife of the relatively nent curls she’d need for a film once she got
over, but finding himself in the midst of a com- recently appointed CEO of Britannia India, back. Mrs Kapoor had bought a portable CD-
mentary renaissance, a tie knotted round his was sitting not far from Urmila Deshpande, player, with a three-CD-changer, for her son.
neck, laughing and talking to Anju Mahindra, whom she didn’t know, but whose last film, The camera now discovered a group of men in
who had once almost married Rajesh Khanna, Jaadu — ‘Magic’ — she’d seen twice already. the cheaper stalls who were holding up a plac-
and gone out with Sir Garfield Sobers. She was The Pakistanis won the toss, elected to bat, ard: HI URMILA YOU HAVE DONE JAADU TO
past her heyday; even the long-distance lens and every time Saeed Anwar executed the pull OUR HEARTS. The moment they realised they
couldn’t conceal the tiredness beneath her shot the camera panned to the celebrating were on television the sign began to vibrate as
eyes; she looked abstracted as she listened to Pakistanis and the studiedly sceptical faces of if it were alive in their hands. The next minute
Ravi Shastri. Ijaz Ahmed was out to a catch at gully held
‘Is that what they get paid for, yaar?’ by Azharuddin. The camera showed Mrs
asked Khatau, reaching for his beer. Kapoor smiling and saying something to a
‘God it must be hot over there,’ said beautiful woman next to her, as if exchang-
Yusuf. ing a particularly unworthy piece of gossip;
But, contrary to what the microphone and then it showed a young man clapping,
in the stump had told them, there was no fair, with blond hair, colourless eyes, who
Aziz the next day, and neither had the more could have passed for a European but for
raucous Pakistani supporters, with their the fullness of his lips.
shining green flags, come; were they not ‘They’re all there,’ said Inspector Khatau,
interested in watching England lose? The sucking in his stomach.
Bombay ‘glitterati’ were there again, duti- ‘Who’s he – never heard of him?’ Yusuf
fully, the executive vice-president of Pepsi asked with justifiable irritation.
sitting next to the chairman of the Board Raghav Chopra had displayed his latest
of Cricket Control in his dark glasses, their collection only two weeks ago at the Taj;
wives, in their flaming saris which might cholis, 21st-century ghagras; ‘Clothes are
have received interrogatory looks from a language that changes before other lan-
passers-by in the streets outside, smiling guages do,’ he’d said in an interview. Mita
vacantly at the camera as they stared back Reddy had been one of the models. In her
at their friends in Bombay, to all appearanc- column, Mita Reddy had been christened ‘a
es unmoved by the hot desert breath. Their dark Kate Moss’ by Shobha De, a ‘will o’ the
children, in striped T-shirts and shorts or wisp’.
jeans, either leaned and lolled against their ‘Where is Sharjah?’ asked Khatau finally.
fathers or revolved like satellites around ‘I don’t know,’ said Yusuf, looking blank.
their parents and parents’ friends, tripping ‘Near Du-Dubai.’ He added, ‘That guy doesn’t
lightly down the steps. look Indian, yaar!’ he protested.
Rashid Latif hit the winning runs, and As far as everyone knew, though, Ra-
a cry rang out in the stadium. A beauti- ghav Chopra was a real blond. How he’d
ful woman in a salwaar kameez clapped come to be one was a mystery no one
emphatically. enquired into. The colour of the hair had
For the ‘big one’ the stadium was full changed probably as the universe had
again. Pakistanis jostled each other; and In- changed temperature; just as orange frogs
dians jostled Pakistanis; and here and there, were found recently in English gardens.
sheikhs, cellphones in their hands, désha- the Indians, and also to Shweta Kapoor, who’d ‘Three hundred and five,’ said Khatau, ris-
billés, in small, male harems, looked around once been a newsreader, a personality in her ing suddenly. ‘Phew!’
them, listening to the roar. Boycott knelt in his own right, and to her husband, whose youth- All out, 305 runs. Boycott proclaimed that
pressed trousers and short-sleeved shirt and ful face was overhung by prematurely grey- defeat was at hand.
felt the pitch with an arcane hesitation again ing hair, and then to Urmila Deshpande, who ‘It’s a known fact,’ he said, ‘that Eendiuns
and again. It was like a dry piece of land, a bit was inscrutable and indecipherable behind are no good at chasing!’ He shook his head and
of Arabia, that had never been rained on. He her dark glasses. There was a rumour, uncor- seemed to smile in bewilderment at his words.
patted it one last time and said to the camera: roborated, that she was seeing Jadeja, who was Floodlights had been switched on about an
‘Yes, Rahvi, the pitch is flat and true, and there standing hunched, not far away, at mid-off. hour ago, night had come and brought with
will be runs in it’ — as if ‘runs’ were some sort The previous day, both Mrs Kapoor and it a school of dragonflies cruising through

Tehelka / 31 october 2019 65 www.Tehelka.com