Free A Beautiful Lie by Irfan Master Page A

never managed to get the hang of swinging my bat before the ball bounced. Manjeet had, on numerous occasions, tried to explain to me that prep­aration was everything, but it was lost on me. I knew the shot I wanted to play, I could even visualise it in my mind, but by the time I’d done all that thinking the ball had passed me, leaving me frustrated that the world I lived in wasn’t the world where I was actually good at cricket.
    Vickesh and Jaghtar were putting on a good show for the crowd and were slowly chipping away at the total Manjeet’s team had set. Standing up to get a better view of the pitch, I suddenly felt two hands over my eyes and smiled.
    ‘Saleem, I can smell your grubby hands a mile away.’
    Saleem shoved me playfully and went to sit down with the rest of the team, beckoning for me to follow. We sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the thud of wood each time Vickesh or Jaghtar batted away another ball. From the corner of my eye, I could see Manjeet limbering up and wondered if he was still fuming about Vickesh trying to take his head off. Saleem sat next to me, paring a piece of wood and watching the game. His sense of contentment was infectious and always put me at ease. They all did – Manjeet and Chota too, living out their lives unaffected by or happily ignorant of the world around them. Perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair – they merely chose to live out their lives without worrying about what might happen. Not like me. They didn’t want to control things all the time. They didn’t think all the time. They weren’t interested in second guessing what was around the corner and having plans in place in order to stay ahead. Always ahead.
    Manjeet had stepped up to bowl and after a short meeting between overs, Jaghtar and Vickesh had set upon a strategy – block Manjeet and hit everybody else. Manjeet approached the crease like a monsoon-powered maniac, his turban a blur of fire signalling his run-up. The growing crowd was appreciative of both the tactics employed by the batsmen and the flame-topped energy Manjeet was displaying. Stretching out his legs, Saleem looked at me and smiled.
    ‘Quite a contest, eh? It’s all nicely set up for you and me to win the game.’
    The rest of the team laughed at Saleem’s bold claim and we applauded as Jaghtar hit another ball away smartly.
    ‘Chota back on the roof? I assume you didn’t kill him then?’
    ‘Nah, he sneaked up on me, the little runt, and we wrestled. It always surprises me how strong he is. I finally beat him and he produced a sack of pomegranates! That more than made up for the mango he’d eaten.’
    ‘A sack! He told me he’d only stolen one pomegranate, little liar!’
    Saleem looked sideways at me and, smiling, produced another pomegranate. Wiping his knife on his trousers, he began to cut the pomegranate into little pieces.
    What does that make me then? Lying about fruit is one thing. Lying about what’s happening in the real world to Bapuji is another. I’m the prince of liars. At least Chota knows when to stop. I seem to lie stronger and better as time passes until, one day, I won’t know the difference between truth or lies . I pulled in my knees and tried to ignore these thoughts.
    After a good ten minutes of trying to disembowel Jaghtar with the ball, Manjeet threw in a slower bowl. Jaghtar swung wildly, looping the grubby white ball into the hands of a grateful Manesh. Jaghtar trudged off the dusty field but perked up at the smattering of applause he received. Fifteen minutes later, most of our team had been bowled out. Saleem was next in to bat and in preparation was cutting the air with what could pass for a cricketing stroke at a distance, but up close resembled a butcher hacking at a carcass with a cleaver. Walking on to the pitch confidently, Saleem smiled and waved to me.
    ‘Watch you don’t get your head taken off,’ I shouted, laughing.
    ‘What? Not me! You just watch me, Bilal,’ he shouted