sonu kumar
Posted On: 09-04-2019
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Three mistakes of my life

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Five

You. Must. Come. Now.' The kid sucked in air after every word. 'Ali. Is...' 'Relax
Paras,' lsh told the panting boy. He had come running from the Belrampur
Municipal School and was insisting we go with him.
'Now? It is only four, how can I close business?' I said.
'He doesn't play cricket that often. He always plays marbles. I'lease come today,
lsh bhaiya.'
'Let's go. It is a slow day anyway,' lsh said as he slipped on his chappals.
Omi had already stepped out. I locked the cashbox and told the owner of the
flower shop next to ours to keep watch.
We reached our school's familiar grounds. Twenty boys circled Ali.
'I don't want to play now,' a voice said from the centre of the crowd.
A thin, almost malnourished boy sat on the ground, his face covered with his
hands.
The crowd backed off. Some kids volunteered to be fielders. Omi became the
wicket keeper. I stood near the bowler's end, at the umpire's slot. Ali took the
crease. He strained hard to look at the bowler. The crowd clapped as Ish took a
short run-up. I couldn't understand the fuss in seeing this delicate, doe-eyed boy
play. The bat reached almost two-thirds his height.
Ish's run-up was fake, as he stopped near me. A grown man bowling pace to a
twelve-year-old is silly. Ish looked at the boy and bowled a simple lollipop
delivery.
The slow ball pitched midway and took its time to reach the crease. Thwack, Ali
moved his bat in a smooth movement and connected. The ball surged high as Ish
and I looked at it for its three seconds of flight - six!
Ish looked at Ali and nodded in appreciation. Ali took a stance again and
scrunched his face, partially due to the sun but also in irritation for not receiving
a real delivery.
For the next ball, Ish took an eight step run-up. The boy could play, girlie
features be damned! The medium pace ball rose high on the bounce and smash!
Another six.
Ish gave a half smile. Ali's bat had not hit the ball, but his pride. The crowd
clapped.
Ish took an eleven-step run-up for the next ball. He grunted when the ball left
his hand. The ball bounced to Ali's shoulder. Ali spun on one leg as if in a dance
and connected - six!
Three balls, three sixes - Ish looked molested. Omi's mouth was open but he
focused on wicket-keeping. I think he was trying to control his reaction for Ish's
sake.
'He is a freak. Ali the freak, Ali the freak,' a kid fielding at mid-on shouted and
distracted Ali.
'Just play,' Ish said to Ali and gave the fielder a glare.
Ish rubbed the ball on his pants thrice. He changed his grip and did some
upper body twists. He took his longest run-up yet and ran forward with full force.
The ball went fast, but was a full toss. Ish's frustration showed in this delivery. It
deserved punishment. Ali took two steps forward and smash! The ball went high
and reached past the ground, almost hitting a classroom window.I laughed. I knew I shouldn't have, but I did. To see the school cricket
champion of my batch raped so in public by a mere boy of twelve was too funny.
At least to me. Actually, only to me.
'What?' Ish demanded in disgust.
'Nothing,' I said.
'Where is the fucking ball?'
'They are trying to find it. You want to buy one from my shop, coach?' I jeered
lightly.
'Shut up,' Ish hissed as the ball came rolling back to him.
Ish was about to take a run-up when Ali sat down at his crease.
'What happened?' Omi was the first to reach him. 'I told you. I get a headache.
Can I go back now?' Ali said, his childish voice almost in tears.
Omi looked at Ish and me. I shrugged. 'I told you, no? Freak!' Paras ran up to
us. Ali stood. 'Can I go?'
We nodded. From his pocket, Ali took out some marbles that resembled his
eyes. Rolling them in his hand, he left the ground.
'I cannot believe it,' Ish declared as he finished his fifty morning pushups. He
came and sat next to me on the bank's backyard floor. Omi continued to complete
his hundred.
'Tea,' I announced and handed Ish his cup. My best friend had laced serious
mental trauma yesterday. I couldn't do much apart from making my best cup of
ginger tea in the bank kitchen.
'It can't be just luck, right? No way,' Ish answered his own qestions.
I nodded my head towards a plate of biscuits, which he ignored. I wondered if
the Ali episode would cause permanent damage to Ish's appetite. Ish continued to
talk to himself as I tuned myself out. Omi moved on to sit-ups. He also belted out
Hanuman-ji's forty verses along with the exercise. I loved this little morning break
- between the students' leaving and the shop's opening. It gave me time to think.
And these days I only thought about the new shop. 'Twenty-five thousand rupees
saved already, and fifteen thousand more by December,' 1 mumbled, 'If the
builder accepts forty as deposit, I can secure the Navrangpura lease by year end.'
I poured myself another cup of tea. 'Here are your shop's keys, Mama. We are
moving to our shop in Navrangpura, in the air-conditioned mall,' I repeated my
dream dialogue inside my head for the hundredth time. Three more months, I
assured myself.
'You guys ate all the biscuits?' Omi came to us as he finished his exercise.
'Sorry, tea?' I offered.
Omi shook his head. He opened a polypack of milk and put it to his mouth.
Like me, he didn't have much tea. Caffeine ran in Ish's family veins though. I
remembered Vidya offering me tea. Stupid girl, duh-ing me.
'Still thinking of Ali?' Omi said to Ish, wiping his milk moustache.
'He is amazing, man. I didn't bowl my best, but not so bad either. But he just,
just...,' Words failed Ish.
'Four sixes. Incredible!' Omi said, 'No wonder they call him a freak.'
'Don't know if he is a freak. But he is good,' Ish said.
'These Muslim kids man. You never know what...,' Omi said and gulped the
remainder of his milk.
'Shut up. He is just fucking good. I have never seen anyone play like that. I
want to coach him.''Sure, as long as he pays. He can't play beyond four balls. You could help him,'
I told Ish.
'What? You will teach that mullah kid?' Omi's face turned worrisome.
'I will teach the best player in Belrampur. That kid has serious potential. You
know like...' 'Team India?' I suggested.
'Shh, don't tempt fate, but yes. I want to teach him. They'll ruin him in that
school. They can barely teach the course there, forget sports.'
'We are not teaching a Muslim kid,' Omi vetoed. 'Bittoo Mama will kill me.'
'Don't overreact. He won't know. We just teach him at the bank,' Ish said. For
the rest of the argument, Ish and Omi just exchanged stares. Ultimately, like
always, Omi gave in to Ish.
'Your choice. Make sure he never comes near the temple. If! Bittoo Mama finds
out, he will kick us out of the shop.'
'Omi is right. We need the shop for a few more months,' I said.
'We also need to go to the doctor,' Ish said. 'Doctor?' I said.
'His head was hurting after four balls. I want a doctor to see him before we
begin practicing.'
'You'll have to talk to his parents if you want him to pay,' I said.
'I'll teach him for free,' Ish said. 'But still, for Indian parents cricket equals time
waste.' 'Then we'll go to his house,' Ish said. 'I am not going to any Muslim
house,' Omi said almost hysterically. 'I am not going.'
'Let's go open the shop first. It's business time,' I said.
★
No cricket, I like marbles,' Ali protested for the fifth time. Ish took four
chocolates (at the shop's expense, idiot) for him, a reward for every sixer. Ali
accepted the chocolates but said no to cricket coaching, and a foot-stomping no
to meeting the doctor.
'Our shop has marbles,' I cajoled. 'Special blue ones from Jaipur. One dozen for
you if you come to the doctor. He is just across the street.'
Ali looked at me with his two green marbles.
'Two dozen if you come for one cricket coaching class in the morning,' I said.
'Doctor is fine. For coaching class, ask abba.'
'Give me abba's name and address,' I said.
'Naseer Alam, seventh pol, third house on the ground floor.'
'What name did you say?' Omi said.
'Naseer Alam,' Ali repeated.
'I have heard the name somewhere. But I can't recall...' Omi murmured, but
Ish ignored him.
'Dr Verma's clinic is in the next pol. Let's go,' Ish said.
'Welcome, nice to have someone young in my clinic for a change.' Dr Verma
removed his spectacles. He rubbed his fifty-year-old eyes.
His wrinkles had multiplied since I last met him three years ago. His once
black hair had turned white. Old age sucks.
'And who is this little tiger? Open your mouth, baba,' Dr Verma said and
switched on his torch out of habit. 'What happened?''Nothing's wrong. We have some questions,' Ish said.
The doctor put his torch down. 'Questions?'
'This boy is gifted in cricket. I want to know how he does it,' Ish said.
'Does what?' Dr Verma said. 'Some people are just talented.' 'I bowled four balls
to him. He slammed sixes on all of them,' lsh said.
'What?' Dr Verma said. He knew lsh was one of the best players in the
neighbourhood.
'Unbelievable but true,' I chimed in. 'Also, he sat down after four balls. He said
his head hurt'
Dr Verma turned to Ali. 'You like cricket, baba?'
'No,' Ali said.
'This is more complicated than the usual viral fever. What happened after the
four balls, baba?'
'Whenever I play with concentration, my head starts hurting, Ali said. He slid
his hands into his pocket. I heard the rustle of marbles.
'Let us check your eyes,' Dr Verma said and stood up to go" to the testing
room.
'Eyesight is fantastic,' Dr Verma said, returning. 'I recommend you meet my
friend Dr Multani from the city hospital. He is an eye specialist and used to be a
team doctor for a baseball team in USA. In fact, I haven't met him for a year. I can
take you tomorrow if you want.'
We nodded. I reached for my wallet. Dr Verma gave me a stern glance to stop.
'Fascinating,' Dr Multani said only one word as he held up Mi's MRI scan. He
had spent two hours with Ali. He did every test imaginable - a fitness check, a
blood test, retinal scans, a computerised hand-eye coordination exam. The Matrix
style MRI, where Ali had to lie down head first inside a chamber, proved most
useful.
'I miss my sports-doctor days, Verma. This love for Amdavad made me give up
a lot,' Dr Multani said. He ordered tea and khakra for all of us.
Are we done?' Ali said and yawned.
'Almost. Play marbles in the garden outside if you want,' I )r Multani said. He
kept quiet until Ali left.
'That was some work, Multani, for a little headache,' Dr Verma s.iid.
'It is not just a headache,' Dr Multani said and munched a kliakra. 'Ish is right,
the boy is exceptionally gifted.'
'How?' I blurted. What was in those tests that said Ali could smash any bowler
to bits.
'The boy has hyper-reflex. It is an aberration in medical terms, but proving to
be a gift for cricket.'
'Hyper what?' Omi echoed.
'Hyper reflex,' Dr Multani lifted a round glass paper weight from I lis table and
pretended to hurl it at Omi. Omi ducked. 'When I ihrow this at you, what do you
do? You reflexively try to prevent 1 he attack. I didn't give you an advance
warning and everything happened in a split second. Thus, you didn't do a
conscious think to duck away, it just happened.'
Dr Multani paused for a sip of water and continued, 'It matters little in
everyday life, except if we touch something too hot or too cold. However, in sports
it is crucial.' Dr Multani paused to open .1 few reports and picked up another
khakra.I looked at Ali outside from the window. He was using a catapult to shoot one
marble to hit another one.
'So Ali has good reflexes. That's it?' Ish said.
'His reflexes are at least ten times better than ours. But there is more. Apart
from reflex action, the human brain makes decisions in two other ways. One is
the long, analysed mode - the problem goes through a rigorous analysis in our
brain and we decide the course of action. And then there is a separate, second
way that's faster but less accurate. Normally, the long way is used and we are
aware of it. But sometimes, in urgent situations, the brain chooses the shortcut
way. Call it a quick-think mode.'
We nodded as Dr Multani continued:
'In reflex action, the brain short-circuits the thinking process and acts. He can
just about duck, forget try to catch it. However, the response time is superfast.
Sports has moments that requires you to think in every possible way - analysed,
quick-think or reflex.'
And Ali?' Ish said.
Dr Multani picked up the MRI scan again. 'Ali's brain is fascinating. His first,
second and even the third reflex way of thinking is fused. His response time is as
fast as that of a reflex action, yet his decision making is as accurate as the
analysed mode. You may think he hit that superfast delivery of yours by luck, but
his brain saw its path easily. Like it was a soft throw.'
'But I bowled fast.'
'Yes, but his brain can register it and act accordingly. If it is hard to visualise ...
imagine that Ali sees the ball in slow motion A normal player will use the second
or third way of thinking to hit a fast ball. Ali uses the first. A normal player needs
years of practice to ensure his second way gets as accurate to play well. Ali
doesn't need to. That is his gift.'
It look us a minute to digest Dr Multani's words. We definitely had to use the
first way of thinking to understand it.
'To him a pace delivery is slow motion?' Ish tried again.
'Only to his brain, as it analyses fast. Of course, if you hit him with a fast ball
he will get hurt.'
'But how can he hit so far?' Ish said.
'He doesn't hit much. He changes direction of the already fast ball. The energy
in that ball is mostly yours.'
'Have you seen other gifted players like him?' I wanted to know.
'Not to this degree, this boy's brain is wired differently. Some may call it a
defect, so I suggest you don't make a big noise about it'
'He is Indian team material,' Ish said. 'Dr Multani, you know he is.'
Dr Multani sighed. 'Well, not at the moment. His headaches are a problem, for
instance. While his brain can analyse fast, it .ilso tires quickly. He needs to stay
in the game. He has to survive Until his brain gets refreshed to use the gift again.'
'Can that happen?' Ish said.
'Yes, under a training regimen. And he has to learn the other aspects of cricket.
I don't think he ever runs between the wickets. The boy has no stamina. He is
weak, almost malnourished,' the iloctor said.
I am going to coach him,' Ish vowed. And Omi will help. Omi will make him eat
and make him fit.'
'No, I can't,' Omi refused as all looked at him. 'Dr Verma, tell I hem why I can't.''Because he's a Muslim. Multani, remember Naseer from the Muslim
University? Ali is his son.'
'Oh, that Naseer? Yes, he used to campaign in the university elections. Used to
be a firebrand once, but I have heard that he has toned down.'
'Yes, he is in politics full time now. Moved from a pure Muslim to a secular
party,' Dr Verma said.
Ish looked at Dr Verma, surprised.
'I found out after you guys left yesterday. Sometimes I feel I run a gossip
centre, not a clinic' Dr Verma chuckled. 'Anyway, that's the issue then. A priest's
son teaching a Muslim boy.'
'I don't want to teach him,' Omi said quickly.
'Shut up, Omi. You see what we have here?' Ish spoke.
Omi stood up, gave Ish a disapproving glance and left the room.
'How about the state academy?' Dr Verma said. 'They'll ruin him,' Ish said.
'I agree.' Dr Multani paused. 'He is too young, Muslim and poor. And he is
untrained. I'd suggest you keep this boy and his talent under wraps for now.
When the time comes, we will see.'
We left the clinic. I took out four marbles from my pocket and called Ali.
'Ali, time to go. Here, catch.'
I threw the four marbles high in the air towards him. I had thrown them
purposely apart.
Ali looked away from his game and saw the marbles midair. He remained in his
squat position and raised his left hand high. One, two, three, four - like a magic
wand his left hand moved. He caught every single one of them.

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