Free A Beautiful Lie by Irfan Master

quite a task trying to keep up with Mr Mukherjee’s long stride and I found myself jogging along to keep pace while he muttered to himself and looked at his pocket watch. This was the closest I’d been to his watch and I almost gasped at how beautiful it was. Engraved silver framed a white watch face, blocky roman numerals with intricate hour and minute hands delicately keeping time. Mr Mukherjee saw me staring at his watch and deftly slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket.
    ‘You’ve been acting strangely recently, Bilal. You and your friends. It’s something we need to talk about because it appears to me that something is bothering you, and that in turn bothers me.’
    ‘I’m fine, Masterji,’ I said, looking him right in the eye.
    ‘You and I will have to talk. Soon.’ I knew he was serious because he lifted his right eyebrow and shook his head.
    Vickesh was ready to bowl and Mr Mukherjee signalled for him to continue. Unable to beat Manjeet with a fast bowl or decapitate him with a head shot, Vickesh delivered a much slower ball enticing Manjeet to hit out wildly, which he promptly did. The ball arced high into the air and straight into the hands of Jaghtar.
    ‘Out!’ Vickesh screamed and started to celebrate by spinning around like a dervish.
    Manjeet, looking disgusted with himself, trudged off the pitch to sit with his team just as Chota appeared behind me in a rush.
    ‘Where have you been, Chota?’ I asked, nudging him.
    Grinning, he produced the ball in one hand and a pomegranate in another.
    ‘The ball bounced on to a rooftop so I had to climb up the side of a house, but a girl saw me through a window and screamed and sent her brother out to catch me. He was fat and slow and couldn’t even catch a lazy ox!’ Looking pleased with himself, he produced a small knife and cut the pomegranate in half. ‘Oh, and I also stole this from Anand’s stall. There were lots of people hanging around there and nobody noticed me. I could’ve taken anything I wanted, Bilal, but I was good this time.’
    Folding my arms, I looked at him in wonder. He was small and very slight but you’d never think of Chota being weak or helpless. His white shirt came down to his knees and his black trousers were torn and had a back pocket missing. Picking out the pomegranate seeds with his little knife, he stuffed his round face until he realised I was still standing right in front of him, frowning.
    He shrugged his shoulders and offered me a handful of seeds, saying, ‘You look like Mr Mukherjee when you make that face.’
    I self-consciously unfolded my arms and tried to cuff Chota around the head but he was already off, whistling and holding the ball aloft in a clenched fist like a returning hero. He then rather grandly announced that he’d brought pomegranates for everyone. I then watched as he produced five pomegranates from his pockets!
    Once all the pomegranates had been consumed, the cricket match recommenced and I noticed that the mood was lighter. Some of the stallholders came to watch, and as the sun began to dip we had a small audience. Vickesh – with little or no help – had managed to bowl out most of Manjeet’s team and now it was our turn to bat. Vickesh and Jaghtar were both raring to go and walked out towards the crease like two international cricketing stars, swinging their arms windmill-like and feinting blocks and off drives in preparation. The small crowd, admiring their confidence, clapped them on to the field and I breathed a sigh of relief that things felt a bit more normal. The sun dipped low over the rooftops and the maidan became a shaded place where people came to walk and unwind.
    Grabbing a bat, I made a few feints myself, much to the amusement of my team, who sniggered at my clumsy attempts. Laughing, I put the bat down and began to wonder where Chota was now. Being awful at cricket was fine by me even if it meant batting last and nobody expecting you to survive more than a few balls. I’d