‘So you must like cricket, eh?’ people from England, from Australia, from South Africa, ask me when they find out that I am Indian. You need to see us to really know the answer to that, see us out on the streets in the afternoon heat, radiant faces shining through all the colours on this Sunday afternoon.
‘Cholun dada, aajkei to din’ (‘Come on brother, today’s the day for all this madness’). One of the guys comes out of the march running towards me as I stand leaning against my car, watching. I ask him what he does for a living. He never finished school, he says. His father died when he was thirteen and he had a mother and three sisters to support, so he found work as a household help. That was five years ago. Now he does odd jobs when he can get them – at a garage, washing cars in the neighbourhood, running errands for the clerks in a government office – but he hasn’t had one for a few weeks now. Where did he watch the game? On the tiny set in the local tea shop, packed into a square foot of space with ten of his friends, all of whom are now out with him on the street.
He smears my face with colour. ‘Could I borrow a cigarette from you?’ he asks. I fish out my packet, give him one, light one for myself and, with awkward dance steps, join their swelling procession.
Acknowledgements
The Calcutta Club swimming pool, where much of this book was written – at least in my head.
Fellow India fans – the true believers.
Tristan Jones, my editor. For that e-mail. And everything else thereafter.
Purabi and Dilip Bhattacharjee, my parents. For keeping the faith.
Chandrani, my wife, my best friend. For being there. For being you.
Thank you.
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