Kersi shook his head. None of the boys knew, even though they had heard the MCC mentioned in radio commentaries, because the full name was hardly ever used.
Then Jehangir Bulsara spoke up, or Bulsara Bookworm, as the boys called him. The name given by Pesi paadmaroo had stuck even though it was now more than four years since Pesi had been sent away to boarding-school, and over two years since the death of Dr. Mody. Jehangir was still unliked by the boys in the Baag, though they had come to accept his aloofness and respect his knowledge and intellect. They were not surprised that he knew the answer to Nariman’s question: “Marylebone Cricket Club.”
“Absolutely correct,” said Nariman, and continued with the story. “The MCC won the toss and elected to bat. They scored four hundred and ninety-seven runs in the first inning before our spinners could get them out. Early in the second day’s play our team was dismissed for one hundred and nine runs, and the extra who had taken Nadkarni’s place was injured by a vicious bumper that opened a gash on his forehead.” Nariman indicated the spot and the length of the gash on his furrowed brow. “Contractor’s worst fears were coming true. The MCC waived their own second inning and gave the Indian team a follow-on, wanting to inflict an inning’s defeat. And this time he had to use the second extra. The second extra was a certain Savukshaw.”
The younger boys listened attentively; some of them, like the two sons of the chartered accountant in B Block, had only recently been deemed old enough by their parents to come out and play in the compound, and had not received any exposure to Nariman’s stories. But the others like Jehangir, Kersi, and Viraf were familiar with Nariman’s technique.
Once, Jehangir had overheard them discussing Nariman’s stories, and he could not help expressing his opinion: that unpredictability was the brush he used to paint his tales with, and ambiguity the palette he mixed his colours in. The others looked at him with admiration. Then Viraf asked what exactly he meant by that. Jehangir said that Nariman sometimes told a funny incident in a very serious way, or expressed a significant matter in a light and playful manner. And these were only two rough divisions, in between were lots of subtle gradations of tone and texture. Which, then, was the funny story and which the serious? Their opinions were divided, but ultimately, said Jehangir, it was up to the listener to decide.
“So,” continued Nariman, “Contractor first sent out his two regular openers, convinced that it was all hopeless. But after five wickets were lost for just another thirty-eight runs, out came Savukshaw the extra. Nothing mattered any more.”
The street lights outside the compound came on, illuminating the iron gate where the watchman stood. It was a load off the watchman’s mind when Nariman told a story. It meant an early end to the hectic vigil during which he had to ensure that none of the children ran out on the main road, or tried to jump over the wall. For although keeping out riff-raff was his duty, keeping in the boys was as important if he wanted to retain the job.
“The first ball Savukshaw faced was wide outside the off stump. He just lifted his bat and ignored it. But with what style! What panache! As if to say, come on, you blighters, play some polished cricket. The next ball was also wide, but not as much as the first. It missed the off stump narrowly. Again Savukshaw lifted his bat, boredom written all over him. Everyone was now watching closely. The bowler was annoyed by Savukshaw’s arrogance, and the third delivery was a vicious fast pitch, right down on the middle stump.
“Savukshaw was ready, quick as lightning. No one even saw the stroke of his bat, but the ball went like a bullet towards square leg.
“Fielding at square leg was a giant of a fellow, about six feet seven, weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, a veritable Brobdingnagian, with arms like branches and hands like a pair of huge sapaat, the kind that Dr. Mody used to wear, you remember what big feet Dr. Mody had.” Jehangir was the only one who did; he nodded. “Just to see him standing there was scary. Not one ball had got past him, and he had taken some great catches. Savukshaw purposely aimed his shot right at him. But he was as quick as Savukshaw, and stuck out his huge sapaat of a hand to stop the ball. What do you think happened then, boys?”
The older boys knew what Nariman wanted to hear at this point. They asked, “What happened, Nariman Uncle, what happened?” Satisfied, Nariman continued.
“A howl is what happened. A howl from the giant fielder, a howl that rang through the entire stadium, that soared like the cry of a banshee right up to the cheapest seats in the furthest, highest corners, a howl that echoed from the scoreboard and into the pavilion, into the kitchen, startling the chap inside who was preparing tea and scones for after the match, who spilled boiling water all over himself and was severely hurt. But not nearly as bad as the giant fielder at square leg. Never at any English stadium was a howl heard like that one, not in the whole history of cricket. And why do you think he was howling, boys?”
The chorus asked, “Why, Nariman Uncle, why?”
“Because of Savukshaw’s bullet-like shot, of course. The hand he had reached out to stop it, he now held up for all to see, and dhur-dhur, dhur-dhur the blood was gushing like a fountain in an Italian piazza, like a burst water-main from the Vihar-Powai reservoir, dripping onto his shirt and his white pants, and sprinkling the green grass, and only because he was such a giant of a fellow could he suffer so much blood loss and not faint. But even he could not last forever; eventually, he felt dizzy, and was helped off the field. And where do you think the ball was, boys, that Savukshaw had smacked so hard?”
And the chorus rang out again on the now dark steps of A Block: “Where, Nariman Uncle, where?”
“Past the boundary line, of course. Lying near the fence. Rent asunder. Into two perfect leather hemispheres. All the stitches had ripped, and some of the insides had spilled out. So the umpires sent for a new one, and the game resumed. Now none of the fielders dared to touch any ball that Savukshaw hit. Every shot went to the boundary, all the way for four runs. Single-handedly, Savukshaw wiped out the deficit, and had it not been for loss of time due to rain, he would have taken the Indian team to a thumping victory against the MCC. AS it was, the match ended in a draw.”
Nariman was pleased with the awed faces of the youngest ones around him. Kersi and Viraf were grinning away and whispering something. From one of the flats the smell of frying fish swam out to explore the night air, and tickled Nariman’s nostrils. He sniffed appreciatively, aware that it was in his good wife Hirabai’s pan that the frying was taking place. This morning, he had seen the pomfret she had purchased at the door, waiting to be cleaned, its mouth open and eyes wide, like the eyes of some of these youngsters. It was time to wind up the story.
“The MCC will not forget the number of new balls they had to produce that day because of Savukshaw’s deadly strokes. Their annual ball budget was thrown badly out of balance. Any other bat would have cracked under the strain, but Savukshaw’s was seasoned with a special combination of oils, a secret formula given to him by a sadhu who had seen him one day playing cricket when he was a small boy. But Savukshaw used to say his real secret was practice, lots of practice, that was the advice he gave to any young lad who wanted to play cricket.”