Everyone in Sector-V had noticed the phallic signboard penetrating the virgin skyline of their colony. The Indian Oil signboard was not there the previous day, many had agreed. People knew, the signboard telling the arrival of a gas station "over there".
The sector's existence - between the institutional area on one side and the Aravalis (One of the oldest range of hills that skirt Jaipur) on the other - held it in the lowest esteem for the real estate sharks. A commercial undertaking of such a magnitude was therefore conspicuous in this part of the city. The arrival of a petrol pump was the most obtrusive of pointers breaking the prevailing conventions, if nothing else.
The sector was mostly inhabited by displaced Sikh families, the inhabitants not identifying with the bureaucratic classification offered to them for their well being and without consent. Of all these decades of superlative existence foreseen by the welfare state, Sector V with its population of 1,000 had a self-sustaining marketplace to its credit, a people that constituted of timely help for their wel-to-do cousins. Those with automobiles, electronics, imported and white goods came knocking for help. Those with a shaft and an attitude discovered help was rewarding.
Shops dotting the 100-ft main road outside the colony borrowed characteristics of the highway entrepreneurs - the dhabas (Low-maintenance restaurants serving on-the-go Indian cuisines) flaunting brick walls fed on thick coat of soot, service centres spelling out their efficiency in HINGLISH (half Hindi, half English), single-storied resorts awaiting a journeyman to get their existence substantiated, their condition betraying the deal most of the time.
Amidst this small appetite for survival, the coming up of the signboard was of a tall order. Eyes set on the marvel of the day. Where the Oil Company was successful in distracting attention of the adults, children, several of them, were not very happy about the prospects of "a stranger" guarding the land facing their colony. The land that had served till now - and for some generations - a maiden cricketing extravaganza with a real pitch to bat on in a facility-starved colony.
Their only place for recreation had now been usurped!
Like his friends, Naam too did not understand as to what need could a petrol pump serve in a colony where the only car owned by Himmat uncle was an outdated edition of Tata automobile that had changed several hands. What perturbed him even more was not the huge glow signboard sticking out like a lanky milestone, but the loose pile of gravel spread carelessly over the bade (big) batting pitch.
The sector's existence - between the institutional area on one side and the Aravalis (One of the oldest range of hills that skirt Jaipur) on the other - held it in the lowest esteem for the real estate sharks. A commercial undertaking of such a magnitude was therefore conspicuous in this part of the city. The arrival of a petrol pump was the most obtrusive of pointers breaking the prevailing conventions, if nothing else.
The sector was mostly inhabited by displaced Sikh families, the inhabitants not identifying with the bureaucratic classification offered to them for their well being and without consent. Of all these decades of superlative existence foreseen by the welfare state, Sector V with its population of 1,000 had a self-sustaining marketplace to its credit, a people that constituted of timely help for their wel-to-do cousins. Those with automobiles, electronics, imported and white goods came knocking for help. Those with a shaft and an attitude discovered help was rewarding.
Shops dotting the 100-ft main road outside the colony borrowed characteristics of the highway entrepreneurs - the dhabas (Low-maintenance restaurants serving on-the-go Indian cuisines) flaunting brick walls fed on thick coat of soot, service centres spelling out their efficiency in HINGLISH (half Hindi, half English), single-storied resorts awaiting a journeyman to get their existence substantiated, their condition betraying the deal most of the time.
Amidst this small appetite for survival, the coming up of the signboard was of a tall order. Eyes set on the marvel of the day. Where the Oil Company was successful in distracting attention of the adults, children, several of them, were not very happy about the prospects of "a stranger" guarding the land facing their colony. The land that had served till now - and for some generations - a maiden cricketing extravaganza with a real pitch to bat on in a facility-starved colony.
Their only place for recreation had now been usurped!
Like his friends, Naam too did not understand as to what need could a petrol pump serve in a colony where the only car owned by Himmat uncle was an outdated edition of Tata automobile that had changed several hands. What perturbed him even more was not the huge glow signboard sticking out like a lanky milestone, but the loose pile of gravel spread carelessly over the bade (big) batting pitch.
*****
Evening descended upon the colony without much fanfare. Having checked her list twice over the counter and after receiving the change as per the bargained prices, Jasveer stepped outside the grocery shop.
She turned again. "What's the time?"
"6:15", she found the workman at the store answering her and then engaging himself with another customer. "It's so late. How come I didn't realise," Jasveer mumbled as she proceeded towards her house down the alley.
Preet was rushing downstairs when he heard his mother's footsteps. There was no light in the staircase. He could make out his mother's presence from her silhouette against the evening light shuffling through the vehicles passing outside. As he held out his hand to take the basket from hers, she said, "How come you did not go to play today?"
He said nothing. Upstairs, in the small room adjoining the living, he filled a glass with water and offered his mother. He turned around to leave when his mother's voice filled in the room again.
"What happened? I hope you did not pick up a fight with Amit again."
You know how his mother is. The last time…"
"I did not," Preet joined the dialogue, reluctantly. "No one is playing. There, our pitch has been spoilt. I was going to get Naam back before it gets dark." The
Moments of uncertainty were exchanged in glances between the two when Preet made the move. "I shall return soon."
He did not wait for an answer for the fear the dialogue would resume. He was wrong. His mother had chosen not to.
On his way back home, Naam was a bag full of questions. Will they never play cricket again? What if they told the police uncle and asked him to allow them to play? Where would they play the tournament with the Jagatpura Team? To each of his volleys Preet would with a calm perseverance give an unruffled response that would seem to pacify his younger companion. Between the two of them they had a relationship of blood separated by seven years. When Naam was born, Preet had started his primary. He was himself seventeen and would be passing out of school next year.
For Naam, Preet was more than a brother. Quite early he found a natural confidante in his brother. Preet was his role model. No one stood near when his brother would captain the boys of their colony against other teams. "Preet Pra was the best." There was no argument in that. The two rode on their father's bicycle, Naam on the beam in the front and Preet on the driver's seat.
Naam looked ahead at the asphalt road winding into the kaccha stretch (dirt road) to their colony. They passed the cricket ground. Both lifted their heads in an orchestrated movement to see the huge signboard disappearing into the darkness. He could recognise a few urchins playing cricket near the edge of the road.
So Naam thought.
In his heart he had desired to play alongside Preet pra as a Vice-Captain. He saw it realising in his rendezvous with Preet's bat, which he believed was consistently improving. He told none about his game but gloated on the thought of him vanquishing the "outsiders" in a game of cricket.
That does not seem to be taking off for now. The petrol pump was coming up. He had heard Maan's father telling them of how the petrol pump would increase the prospects of development of their colony.
A petrol pump would mean more truckers halting their way to Agra and New Delhi. Increased business on dhabas, spare-part shops, more engagements for mechanics - better roads, better constructions, better lifestyle, better everything, Maan's father had presumed.
If that was the case and so it seemed, he would never have a chance to play his dream finale. A car's high beam hit in from the opposite direction and forced him to turn his face away from the road. He looked up his brother's face. He was unflinching. "The captain's look," Naam thought to himself and took a deep breath.
Evening descended upon the colony without much fanfare. Having checked her list twice over the counter and after receiving the change as per the bargained prices, Jasveer stepped outside the grocery shop.
She turned again. "What's the time?"
"6:15", she found the workman at the store answering her and then engaging himself with another customer. "It's so late. How come I didn't realise," Jasveer mumbled as she proceeded towards her house down the alley.
Preet was rushing downstairs when he heard his mother's footsteps. There was no light in the staircase. He could make out his mother's presence from her silhouette against the evening light shuffling through the vehicles passing outside. As he held out his hand to take the basket from hers, she said, "How come you did not go to play today?"
He said nothing. Upstairs, in the small room adjoining the living, he filled a glass with water and offered his mother. He turned around to leave when his mother's voice filled in the room again.
"What happened? I hope you did not pick up a fight with Amit again."
You know how his mother is. The last time…"
"I did not," Preet joined the dialogue, reluctantly. "No one is playing. There, our pitch has been spoilt. I was going to get Naam back before it gets dark." The
Moments of uncertainty were exchanged in glances between the two when Preet made the move. "I shall return soon."
He did not wait for an answer for the fear the dialogue would resume. He was wrong. His mother had chosen not to.
On his way back home, Naam was a bag full of questions. Will they never play cricket again? What if they told the police uncle and asked him to allow them to play? Where would they play the tournament with the Jagatpura Team? To each of his volleys Preet would with a calm perseverance give an unruffled response that would seem to pacify his younger companion. Between the two of them they had a relationship of blood separated by seven years. When Naam was born, Preet had started his primary. He was himself seventeen and would be passing out of school next year.
For Naam, Preet was more than a brother. Quite early he found a natural confidante in his brother. Preet was his role model. No one stood near when his brother would captain the boys of their colony against other teams. "Preet Pra was the best." There was no argument in that. The two rode on their father's bicycle, Naam on the beam in the front and Preet on the driver's seat.
Naam looked ahead at the asphalt road winding into the kaccha stretch (dirt road) to their colony. They passed the cricket ground. Both lifted their heads in an orchestrated movement to see the huge signboard disappearing into the darkness. He could recognise a few urchins playing cricket near the edge of the road.
So Naam thought.
In his heart he had desired to play alongside Preet pra as a Vice-Captain. He saw it realising in his rendezvous with Preet's bat, which he believed was consistently improving. He told none about his game but gloated on the thought of him vanquishing the "outsiders" in a game of cricket.
That does not seem to be taking off for now. The petrol pump was coming up. He had heard Maan's father telling them of how the petrol pump would increase the prospects of development of their colony.
A petrol pump would mean more truckers halting their way to Agra and New Delhi. Increased business on dhabas, spare-part shops, more engagements for mechanics - better roads, better constructions, better lifestyle, better everything, Maan's father had presumed.
If that was the case and so it seemed, he would never have a chance to play his dream finale. A car's high beam hit in from the opposite direction and forced him to turn his face away from the road. He looked up his brother's face. He was unflinching. "The captain's look," Naam thought to himself and took a deep breath.
******
The next few days were uninteresting.
Preet engaged himself in his preparations for the Boards forced by the announcement of school pre-board schedule and his mind juggling with the impending arrival of the gas station that successfully distracted his attention from cricket.
His pre-occupation with books also divided his attention to Naam that had, till now, been wholesome. Naam on his part had some better chances of romantic interludes with his brother's bat, which lay idle for most time except when bhai (brother) would occasionally attend to it.
The exact age of the bat was not known but its origin was in Dubai from where their father had brought it on his first return from overseas. That was four years back. But its value as a prized possession had not lost its sheen one bit in all these years. Fish-cover bat was a new name to everyone in the colony when Preet possessed one. Now, there were others who had a bat with similar genes and Amit was one of them but they were "local", not of stuff that a phoren willow is made of.
Their father was in Dubai, running a small cloth-trading firm with revenue fluctuating like the voltage, in sector five. He had a partner to say, but soon realised to his disappointment, that his contribution in the trade looked better on the left half of the ledger records. The partner, a local, their father had often cursed, was "the best friend to have but a bad partner to live with". Together they would trade in shirts and perfumes, his father managing the Dubai end of the deal, while his partner looking after the Indian retail.
Their father was gone within two weeks, then. That was a day after Diwali. He had promised to return the next year. Preet and his mother understood and with a feeble smile kept up his spirits. "Papa, I would accompany you then," Naam couldn't conceal his excitement of going with his father, his eyes gleaming like bright gems pocketed by Ali Baba.
Preet was half asleep when Naam woke him up. "The basti wallahs (the slum dwellers) are playing on our pitch," he was saying and tugging at his brother's pullover. Preet as if waltzing through thin air just gathered his senses. Next, he was tying the pyjama, unsure if Naam had his reservations in place.
The ground realities came out in support of Naam's conviction. It was cold outside, even though sunny. Preet engaged himself in a conversation with boy not very tall, neither short with a freckled face and chapped lips who was the third man for his team. The conversation was not very polite as Naam tried to make out from his brother's stern talk and the irritated somewhat disrespectful disposition of the other fellow.
Whatever exchanges they had during that time was enough for the game to be halted. Seeing their third man engaged without assignment, his fellows were on his back.
Then seeing Preet - he seemed to be a popular man in neighbourhood cricket - one of them taller than the rest and standing in his best competence as high as the shoulder of the intruder, spoke.
"We would leave after this game."
"You better, and don't spoil the pitch," said Preet trying to control himself.
"We cleared the pitch," the guy who was batting said as a matter of fact.
"So?" Preet demanded.
A brief moment ensued with hushed conversations in the cricketing camp. Then Preet turned to go. "I don't want to see you playing here again," he said, "Play on the other side of the ground where you played earlier and I won't trouble you," he finished and went away with Naam following him out of the field, out of the ground and across the road.
Naam rushed to the living room. Quickly he opened the door, which complained of the effort. Deftly, he drew out the bat from the corner and placed the door back in its position. There was no one outside. Bhai had not yet come. He went inside his mother's room and in front of the dressing table, in front of its mirror he raised the willow to his chest and admired his pose. "Perfect," he said to himself.
The game resumed on the pitch that evening. The boys of the Vineet Vihar were back on the track. This was the track that had been and traditionally belonged to the Vihar cricketers. There were other tracks on the ground, but none had the strength and the flatness of this pitch. The track also unassumingly reflected the stratification within Sector V. Vineet Vihar was the only regularised colony in the sector and faced the main road. Other colonies were called bastis where the best engagement the residents could get was daily wages as labourers.
Cricket flowed throughout evening, the enthusiasm refusing to go down with the sun. When there was no more light and the last of the feeble rays filtering through the shops in opposite direction died fighting the darkness outside, the boys' realised that their reflexes had started to tell.
For the first time in a week they had played, their ligaments in thighs and shoulder aching from the infinite indulgence.
Preet's team had lost the second match. "We won the first and would have won the second had they not cheated," Naam said narrating the incidents of the day to his mother.
"Isn't it Preet pra?"
"Dosen't matter. We will beat them again," Preet said patting naam's back. Naam was humming hum honge kamayab (We shall overcome...).
At night Naam complained of pain in his stomach. His mother brought out the Pudinhara phial from the last row on the rack and gave a doze to him, telling him, "It would be over by tomorrow."
Preet engaged himself in his preparations for the Boards forced by the announcement of school pre-board schedule and his mind juggling with the impending arrival of the gas station that successfully distracted his attention from cricket.
His pre-occupation with books also divided his attention to Naam that had, till now, been wholesome. Naam on his part had some better chances of romantic interludes with his brother's bat, which lay idle for most time except when bhai (brother) would occasionally attend to it.
The exact age of the bat was not known but its origin was in Dubai from where their father had brought it on his first return from overseas. That was four years back. But its value as a prized possession had not lost its sheen one bit in all these years. Fish-cover bat was a new name to everyone in the colony when Preet possessed one. Now, there were others who had a bat with similar genes and Amit was one of them but they were "local", not of stuff that a phoren willow is made of.
Their father was in Dubai, running a small cloth-trading firm with revenue fluctuating like the voltage, in sector five. He had a partner to say, but soon realised to his disappointment, that his contribution in the trade looked better on the left half of the ledger records. The partner, a local, their father had often cursed, was "the best friend to have but a bad partner to live with". Together they would trade in shirts and perfumes, his father managing the Dubai end of the deal, while his partner looking after the Indian retail.
Their father was gone within two weeks, then. That was a day after Diwali. He had promised to return the next year. Preet and his mother understood and with a feeble smile kept up his spirits. "Papa, I would accompany you then," Naam couldn't conceal his excitement of going with his father, his eyes gleaming like bright gems pocketed by Ali Baba.
Preet was half asleep when Naam woke him up. "The basti wallahs (the slum dwellers) are playing on our pitch," he was saying and tugging at his brother's pullover. Preet as if waltzing through thin air just gathered his senses. Next, he was tying the pyjama, unsure if Naam had his reservations in place.
The ground realities came out in support of Naam's conviction. It was cold outside, even though sunny. Preet engaged himself in a conversation with boy not very tall, neither short with a freckled face and chapped lips who was the third man for his team. The conversation was not very polite as Naam tried to make out from his brother's stern talk and the irritated somewhat disrespectful disposition of the other fellow.
Whatever exchanges they had during that time was enough for the game to be halted. Seeing their third man engaged without assignment, his fellows were on his back.
Then seeing Preet - he seemed to be a popular man in neighbourhood cricket - one of them taller than the rest and standing in his best competence as high as the shoulder of the intruder, spoke.
"We would leave after this game."
"You better, and don't spoil the pitch," said Preet trying to control himself.
"We cleared the pitch," the guy who was batting said as a matter of fact.
"So?" Preet demanded.
A brief moment ensued with hushed conversations in the cricketing camp. Then Preet turned to go. "I don't want to see you playing here again," he said, "Play on the other side of the ground where you played earlier and I won't trouble you," he finished and went away with Naam following him out of the field, out of the ground and across the road.
Naam rushed to the living room. Quickly he opened the door, which complained of the effort. Deftly, he drew out the bat from the corner and placed the door back in its position. There was no one outside. Bhai had not yet come. He went inside his mother's room and in front of the dressing table, in front of its mirror he raised the willow to his chest and admired his pose. "Perfect," he said to himself.
The game resumed on the pitch that evening. The boys of the Vineet Vihar were back on the track. This was the track that had been and traditionally belonged to the Vihar cricketers. There were other tracks on the ground, but none had the strength and the flatness of this pitch. The track also unassumingly reflected the stratification within Sector V. Vineet Vihar was the only regularised colony in the sector and faced the main road. Other colonies were called bastis where the best engagement the residents could get was daily wages as labourers.
Cricket flowed throughout evening, the enthusiasm refusing to go down with the sun. When there was no more light and the last of the feeble rays filtering through the shops in opposite direction died fighting the darkness outside, the boys' realised that their reflexes had started to tell.
For the first time in a week they had played, their ligaments in thighs and shoulder aching from the infinite indulgence.
Preet's team had lost the second match. "We won the first and would have won the second had they not cheated," Naam said narrating the incidents of the day to his mother.
"Isn't it Preet pra?"
"Dosen't matter. We will beat them again," Preet said patting naam's back. Naam was humming hum honge kamayab (We shall overcome...).
At night Naam complained of pain in his stomach. His mother brought out the Pudinhara phial from the last row on the rack and gave a doze to him, telling him, "It would be over by tomorrow."
*****
The autorickshaw was on time today. The honk was heard twice and Naam was biting into his jam sandwich. The second honk forced him to gulp his slice. He picked up his tiffin that was lying on the table neatly packed and wrapped in a polythene, replaced it in his schoolbag. His mother held the bag in her arms and followed him to the doorstep.
"I told you, you would be late."
"But mumma I was not feeling well," Naam said, not guilty.
"But then, didn't you tell me that your pain was gone?"
"Yes, it's no more paining now," saying he shifted his gaze to the window.
The driver took the bag from his mother and slung it on one side of the autorickshaw.
The engine returned to life and over and above its loud hum, Naam could hear his mother's voice. "Do not eat anything outside. No ice-creams, no churan."
It was noon. The kabadiwallah (rag picker) was wrapping up his deal when Preet returned home. His mother was seated on the staircase ordering the kabadiwalllah to clean up the place.
"Maan had come, was asking for you," she spoke even as she surveyed the kabadiwallah picking up the plastic bottle.
"He met me on the way. Has Naam gone to school?"
"Yes."
"No pains, then."
"No pain. That's what he told me."
With one deft pull, the Kabadiwallah flung the heavy rug on his cart. He called out to the neighbours in his sonorous chants trudging away with his cart. "
Preet followed his mother upstairs.
"Maan has been eating outside. It's all because of his bad habits," Jasveer complained while walking through the narrow corridor. "The season has changed. You have to tell him," she said.
"Tell him, what?"
"Tell Naam you won't be playing cricket with him anymore if he has anything outside," Jasveer said.
The autorickshaw was on time today. The honk was heard twice and Naam was biting into his jam sandwich. The second honk forced him to gulp his slice. He picked up his tiffin that was lying on the table neatly packed and wrapped in a polythene, replaced it in his schoolbag. His mother held the bag in her arms and followed him to the doorstep.
"I told you, you would be late."
"But mumma I was not feeling well," Naam said, not guilty.
"But then, didn't you tell me that your pain was gone?"
"Yes, it's no more paining now," saying he shifted his gaze to the window.
The driver took the bag from his mother and slung it on one side of the autorickshaw.
The engine returned to life and over and above its loud hum, Naam could hear his mother's voice. "Do not eat anything outside. No ice-creams, no churan."
It was noon. The kabadiwallah (rag picker) was wrapping up his deal when Preet returned home. His mother was seated on the staircase ordering the kabadiwalllah to clean up the place.
"Maan had come, was asking for you," she spoke even as she surveyed the kabadiwallah picking up the plastic bottle.
"He met me on the way. Has Naam gone to school?"
"Yes."
"No pains, then."
"No pain. That's what he told me."
With one deft pull, the Kabadiwallah flung the heavy rug on his cart. He called out to the neighbours in his sonorous chants trudging away with his cart. "
Preet followed his mother upstairs.
"Maan has been eating outside. It's all because of his bad habits," Jasveer complained while walking through the narrow corridor. "The season has changed. You have to tell him," she said.
"Tell him, what?"
"Tell Naam you won't be playing cricket with him anymore if he has anything outside," Jasveer said.
*****
(To be continued...)
(To be continued...)
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