Free A Beautiful Lie by Irfan Master Page B

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    ‘Just take a swing at it, Saleem. Close your eyes and swing!’ yelled Jaghtar.
    Standing at the crease, Saleem was taking his time. Manjeet had completed his over and Rakesh was in. Saleem saw to it that everything was to his satisfaction while everyone grumbled under their breath. Finally ready, Saleem signalled for the game to continue. Just as Rakesh was about to deliver his first ball, Saleem stepped away from the crease and shook his head.
    ‘What’s the matter now?’ asked Mr Mukherjee.
    ‘The sun’s in my eyes, Masterji.’
    Looking up, Mr Mukherjee sighed.
    ‘The sun’s behind you, Saleem. Get on with it, will you. We’d like to get home some time today, perhaps even in time for dinner. Play!’ And with that Mr Mukherjee signalled for Rakesh to bowl.
    The first delivery came at Saleem fast. Unable to stop it with his bat, Saleem stuck out his backside and stopped the ball dead in its tracks. Our whole team fell about laughing as Saleem rubbed his backside. Mr Mukherjee was smiling too. The other team was complaining that Saleem had deliberately blocked the wicket but Mr Mukherjee ignored their pleas, gesturing for the game to continue. Saleem swung and missed the next four deliveries in quick succession. Rakesh bowled a slower delivery for his last ball. Saleem took a step forward and, planting his feet and closing his eyes, swung the bat with all his strength. The ball flew high and far over our heads straight towards the market. Cheering, we laughed as Saleem held his bat aloft. He’d just tripled his best ever score with one shot!
    But something is wrong. Skirting around the open field, I saw Mr Mukherjee walk towards the market stall closest to us. I was a few steps behind as Mr Mukherjee went to speak with Anand.
    ‘Anand-ji, do you have our ball?’ asked Mr Mukherjee.
    ‘I don’t but you’ll find that son of a swine down there has it,’ replied Anand loudly.
    ‘What did you call me, you dog? Say it again so we can hear it properly,’ replied Imtiaz angrily.
    ‘It was loud enough the first time – or would have been if your ears weren’t stuffed with dirt.’
    Mr Mukherjee held up his hands and moved towards Imtiaz.
    ‘Gentlemen, we just want our ball back. Did you see where it went?’
    ‘Your ball nearly took out my eye, Masterji. Can’t you take your kids somewhere else?’ said Anand.
    ‘If only it had taken out an eye, it might have saved you from seeing that your fruit is no good and you’d stop making a fool out of yourself,’ chipped in Iqbal from another stall.
    Standing up, Anand moved into the small clearing. ‘Oh, that’s big talk from behind your stale spices, Iqbal. Why don’t you come out here and say it to my face like a man?’
    ‘I would if I could see a man standing in front of me,’ replied Iqbal mockingly.
    The tension was growing. Mr Mukherjee, looking from one to another, held up his hands in a placating gesture.
    ‘Please, gentlemen, there’s no need for this.’
    Anand rounded on Mr Mukherjee and prodded him with his finger. ‘Just keep your ball out of here.’
    ‘Don’t blame the children – they’re only playing.’
    ‘What’s the matter, Anand?’
    I saw the whole class slowly making their way to the marketplace. The shouting match had turned into a haranguing bout with Anand and Imtiaz in the middle shouting obscenities at each other, supported by friends and family in each corner. Mr Mukherjee found himself right in the middle trying his best to diffuse the situation but the insults were getting worse.
    ‘Muslims, you think you own the place . . .’
    ‘Can you smell that? It’s the smell you lot give off in this place.’
    ‘Hindus are always sticking their noses in.’
    ‘How dare you . . .’
    Our class stood and watched as the argument escalated. Nudging my way to the front, I pulled at Mr Mukherjee’s sleeve.
    ‘They’re not listening, Masterji,’ I said quietly.
    ‘No, they’re not,’ he replied sadly. ‘Come,