Free The Parcel by Anosh Irani Page A

bat,” said Taher.
    “What?”
    “You’re on our team. Come down and bat.”
    “But…”
    “Come down, I said.”
    Taher was so firm, so tough. And he wanted Madhu. It was this fact that had Madhu running for the stairs. His mother did not mind. She was, as usual, praying before the picture of Shiva with deadened devotion, but she managed to send him off with a smile. If only his father were home, Madhu thought, he would have been proud.
    Someone explained the match situation to Madhu, but he wasn’t listening. The bat was too damn heavy and he had forgotten how to hold it even though his father had tried to teach him several times.
    “We need four runs to win,” said Taher. “I hate these bastards. I want to win.”
    Bastards. Yes, the entire lot of them. Anything for Taher.
    The bowler came in. Madhu closed his eyes and thought of Kapil Dev, that great all-rounder, because his father loved Kapil. But this was no time for inspiration. It was a time for miracles.
    Something connected.
    Madhu sent the ball flying into a second-floor window. Glass shattered. It was a six; they had won. Taher jumped in celebration as the opposition skulked away, but Madhu stood there frozen, terrified that his father would have to pay for the broken glass. They were the poorest family in the building.
    “Never mind,” said Taher. It was the window of his own flat, and he would never replace the glass because it was a symbol of victory.
    Madhu’s head was spinning. He was associated with victory. He was a symbol. Taher thumped him on the back. Madhu thumped him back.
    Then Taher smiled at Madhu. A soft breeze hit Taher’s cheeks and made him squint, and Madhu was overwhelmed with love. He tried to shake Taher’s hand to thank him profusely. But he ended up holding it instead—only for a second or two, but it felt like forever.
    It was Monday by the time Madhu landed on earth again.
    When he entered his classroom, he was not ashamed to walk. He walked to his seat and took his time. During the first recess, he waited for Taher to come over and say hello. He would have gladly accepted even a sneeze from Taher, but no word or gesture came his way. During the lunch break, he went outside and sat on his favourite tree branch. He ate his lunch here, alone, five days a week. The tree’s white branches were like tusks, and it was on this tree that he had started to like the feeling of something hard and solid between his legs.
    “There’s our champion,” said Taher.
    He had appeared suddenly, accompanied by Nitin and Sohail, neither of whom had ever before talked to Madhu.
    “Hi,” said Madhu eagerly. He jumped off his branch. “Hi…” He had no idea what to say. Most of his conversations were with himself.
    “I heard you smashed a huge six,” said Sohail.
    “Yes, I broke his window,” said Madhu proudly, looking at Taher. “We really showed them, those Navjeevan bastards…” He forced the words off his tongue, feeling like a charlatan.
    “You want to play with us again?” asked Taher.
    Every cell in Madhu’s body wanted to refuse. Holding a bat again would only remind him of his disapproving father.
    “Sure, I love cricket,” he said.
    “Come with us,” said Taher. He put his arm around Madhu, and Madhu went electric. He could have given light to an entire slum.
    “Where’s the bat and ball?” he asked.
    “We don’t need one,” said Taher, and he pushed Madhu to the ground. Madhu wanted so much to believe that he had stumbled and caused his own fall. But he could not convince himself that Taher’s foot had landed on his stomach by accident. He squirmed in pain.
    “Why did you hold my hand yesterday?” asked Taher.
    Madhu wanted to answer, but he was drowning in two separate streams of tears coming down his cheeks. The drops from the right eye were because he was in physical pain; the ones from the left were because he had allowed himself to think that he had made a friend.
    “Do you know that the boys from