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Rakesh stared at the clothes laid out on the bed—a white T-shirt, matching trousers, and a sleeveless white sweater with thin, navy bands running around the perimeter of the vee neckline. He touched the white fabric and gulped. He had last played cricket, his childhood game and national sport, twenty-seven years ago. Papa used to say that he was gifted and a natural at the sport, but like everything else he loved, the sport was jinxed. He had to find an excuse to avoid playing. He’d tell Yash that he was feeling sick, or that something came up at work. No. Not on a Saturday.
“Look, Dad!” Yash rushed through the open bedroom door dressed in matching attire. “I look like you!”
Rakesh sank to his knees, ran his hands down Yash’s back and tightened his grip around the boy’s shoulders as he looked into the brown pools of Yash’s eyes. He’d looked like Yash when he was a boy. He pulled Yash to his chest, hugged him tight, and held on, wishing Papa had hugged him like this. “How did you put this whole uniform together?”
“It was a secret. I told Mum not to tell you.”
“Well, she sure didn’t.”
“You will play, won’t you? You promised.”
Rakesh stiffened. No chance of running away from one of the hundred promises he had made and assumed Yash would forget. “How about tomorrow? We can go bowling and visit the video arcade instead.”
Yash frowned. “Today.”
“But Yash, it’s been ages. I don’t remember the rules.”
“I’ll explain them. We play cricket at school all the time.”
“But I—”
“For me, Dad,” Yash pleaded. “Do it for me.”
***
Yash hammered three two-foot-tall wooden stumps into the front lawn, several inches apart, to serve as a baseline. A semi-circular driveway bordered with red, pink, and yellow carnations arched around him and ended at two pairs of wrought iron gates manned by security guards. Yash positioned three more stumps—wickets—twenty feet away, aligned with the baseline. but closer to the flower bed to serve as the batting and bowling posts. If the batsman missed and the white ball—about the size of a tennis ball—hit a stump, the batsman was out.
Rakesh walked across to Yash and checked the sturdiness of a wicket.
“Do you remember how to play now, Dad?” Yash asked.
“Somewhat. But I’m not sure—”
“Eleven players on each team, but we’ll make do with one for now since we’re practicing.” He rose and dusted his hands. “I’ll bat first to remind you how it’s done.”
“Sounds good.” Rakesh nodded.
“So, I’ll start batting before this wicket.” He pointed to the wicket near the flower bed. “After I bat, if you catch the ball before it hits the ground, I’m out. But that won’t happen because I’m a good batsman.”
Rakesh raised his eyebrows, impressed with Yash’s confidence. “And what am I supposed to do?”
“You run for the ball and then you’re supposed to stump a wicket or some part of my body with the ball before I reach baseline. That’s called LBW. Leg Before Wicket. Or”—he raised a finger—“if you bowl and knock down a wicket behind me, I’m automatically out. But that’s not going to happen because I’m a good batsman.”
“And what do you do while I’m running around trying to catch the ball?”
“I score innings. Only two bases, so I run from one to the other with the bat and every run I make is called an inning.”
Rakesh remembered he’d once scored fifteen innings when he played with Papa, but Papa said he needed to do better.
“You look confused, Dad.”
“Hmm....” Rakesh feigned confusion. “I think I am.”
“It’s not hard. After you bowl six times, you complete one set of overs and we switch places. You bat and I bowl.” Yash scratched his head and looked around. “Let’s make the four-run mark that first step.” He pointed to the mansion’s lower step.
Four runs meant Yash would have to hit the ball as far as the perimeter of the field. If the ball rolled or bounced on the ground before it touched the field’s boundary line, the hit counted as a four or four innings. If Yash whacked the ball and the ball sailed over the field’s perimeter without touching or rolling on the ground, Yash would secure a run of six, or a sixer, the maximum score on one hit. “How about we keep the perimeter as far as the flower bed?” Yash could easily nail the distance and not lose heart.
“I’m not a baby, Dad.”
“I didn’t say you were, but we can’t risk the ball hitting a window. I mean, if you’re a good batsman then you need to go easy on me.”
“I know what you’re trying to do and I’m not falling for it.”
Rakesh sighed. “Okay. How about the perimeter equals the outer curve of the lawn? That’ll give us another six to eight feet.”
Yash wrinkled his nose, slipped on his elbow and knee pads, then shook each stump and aligned two white pegs along their flat tops until they balanced. The pegs served as indicators the stumps had been hit. Then he chose a wooden stick and hacked away at the grass with the pointed end.
“Badhi Memsahib!” Roshni yelled from the main entrance. “Look what Yash Baba is doing.”
“I’m flattening the runway between both wickets like a real cricket pitch.” Yash looked up. “How do you expect me to run—”
“Ai-ee!” Pushpa rushed down the front steps. “My lawn! Hai Ishwar! You are ruining my front lawn. Mali! Chowkidar!” she called for the gardener and security guard. “Stop them.”
Jinxed. “How else is he supposed to set up the pitch?” A strip of barren earth usually formed the runway between wickets, but obviously, Pushpa would throw a fit if they harmed a blade of grass. They’d have to manage with the lawn.
Rakesh walked the front lawn and jiggled each stump. They were sturdy. Yash had done a good job.
“Don’t you hear me? Have you all gone deaf, I tell you?”
“We’re not ruining anything,” Rakesh shouted.
“You’ll knock my flowers down, you will.” Pushpa pumped her hands on her hips.
“If you insist.” Rakesh grabbed the cricket ball near his feet and pretended to aim at a blooming rose bush. Pushpa screamed. He rolled the ball and relayed hand signals to Yash. “Ready?” he asked.
Yash hurried to the wicket nearest the flower bed, picked up the two-foot-long cricket bat, and pointed the tapered end at the ground, holding the bat parallel to his body.
A security guard watching from the guard post’s cubicle rushed out as several gardeners, tending shrubs and plants along the mansion’s periphery, dropped their tools and hurried to watch.
“Ready.” Yash signaled.
Pushpa waved her arms, her bangles jingling in fury. “Play somewhere else, I tell you. In the back garden.”
“And knock the bonsais down?” Rakesh stretched for his about-to-bowl position. “Look, I’m going to play with my son whether you like it or not. If you don’t want to get hurt, I suggest you back off.”
“Go play in the back, I tell you.” Pushpa insisted. “Far back in the clearing where Mali burns wood.”
Rakesh shook his head. “No good for cricket. We need grass on our cricket field, not just barren land.”
“Yash.” Pushpa frowned and folded her arms. “No playing here, I tell you. You know the rules.”
Rakesh ran toward Yash, swinging the ball in an anti-clockwise motion. The moment his toe landed on a long stick—the bowler’s boundary line—he let go. The ball bounced, missed Yash’s swinging bat by an inch, and knocked two stumps over before ramming into the bed of carnations and knocking out several flowers.
“Out!” Rakesh yelled. “You’re out! But since you’re the only one on your team, you can play. Didn’t you say you were the best batsman?”
Yash frowned and straightened. “On a real cricket pitch, Dad.”
“One ball down, five to go.”
“Out!” Pushpa wagged a finger in the air.
“Practice run,” Yash rebelled. “Anyway, that ball doesn’t count.” He pounded two stumps back into the ground and the game continued. Yash missed almost every ball and hacked away at the ground until the area surrounding him became a patchwork of uprooted grass and upturned soil.
Pushpa cupped her mouth.
“One inning over,” Rakesh yelled and changed positions with Yash.
“Kaka! Hey everyone!” Yash waved to the servants, who came running to his aid. “All of you help me field. I can’t handle Dad alone.” He appointed a staff member to stand behind the bowler’s wicket. “And you must go stand all the way there.” He appointed another to the mansion’s front entrance. In less than two minutes, Yash had assembled the first Dhanraj cricket team—nine fielders—and assigned Laal Bahadur, the chef, as umpire. Cheers and laughter lifted with the Raigun breeze as servants cheered for Yash. Rakesh whacked a four and a few high balls. Each time, the fielders darted, hands outstretched to catch the flying ball.
“What’s wrong with you all, I tell you?” Pushpa screamed. “Back to work. Enough nonsense.”
“Not until game over.” Rakesh prepared to bat again, looked up, and saw Sheetal peer around the edge of her studio window. He winked, but she slipped from view. He narrowed his attention on the fielders closing in.
Yash bowled.
Rakesh swung the bat, connected with the ball, and a “puck” carried on the breeze. The ball sailed over Yash, over Pushpa, and over the four Venetian pillars that supported the portico. Glass shattered.
The servants froze. Yash froze.
Pushpa marched across the lawn and jabbed a finger toward the studio windows. “I hope you’re happy now, I tell you. Look what you’ve done!”
“A six!” Rakesh threw his bat on the ground and ran to scoop Yash in his arms. “It’s the first sixer I’ve scored in a long time.”
“Waah! Waah! Rakesh Babu!” Applause filled the air as gardeners and servants left their positions to join in the excitement.
Yash squealed, “Teach me, Dad. Can you? Will you? Huh?”
“Of course!” Rakesh spun Yash in circles. Sunlight pierced the clouds and, in that moment, a heaviness lifted and filled him with delight. The sky shimmered an ocean of blue. The leaves sparkled emerald green. The roses blazed ruby red. And the air! Rakesh took a deep breath. So light. So breezy. So cool. For the first time, he felt weightless, free, delirious!
Rakesh ran up to Sheetal’s studio and found her kneeling on the floor, picking up shards of glass. He lifted her by the arms and pulled her away from the mess. “Don’t. You’ll hurt yourself. I’ll call the servants to clean up.”
Sheetal handed him the cricket ball and turned away.
“Look, I know you’re still angry about that night on Diwali. I’m sorry.”
She picked up a brush and resumed painting, her back to him.
“I didn’t mean to break your window. The ball—”
Her jingling bangles cut him off.
“I shouldn’t have behaved like—done that to you. I’m sorry. I was angry. I don’t know what happened. What overcame me.”
“You don’t know what happened? Then who does?”
“It was a mistake, Sheetal. I admit it. I make mistakes. I’m human.”
“Oh? And I’m not?”
“Things are going to be different from now on. Promise. Dr. Kishore called yesterday.”
Her brush paused in mid-air.
“He told me I’m suffering from cirrhosis of the liver. You were right. But I’m only at the initial stages, so it’s not that bad. I can fix this.”
“This isn’t about right or wrong.” She turned to face him. “You’re sick and need professional help.”
“I’m going to stop drinking. Make changes. Dr. Kishore said it’s what I need to do. Get better. I’ll do what it takes.”
“I’ve heard that before.” She lowered her brush tip to the pallette and continued without so much as a glance in his direction.
Words and talk wouldn’t win her over. He’d have to earn her trust and prove himself.
He left with the ball and took the stairs two at a time. He helped Yash pull all six stumps out of the ground then got down on his knees and began patting handfuls of loose soil back in place.
“Arrey, Sahib!” The gardeners rushed to his side. “We’ll fix the lawn. Don’t you worry. Don’t get your clothes dirty, Sahib.”
The security guard rushed over and got down on his knees. “Sahib, we fix. You no worry.”
“Nothing will happen if I pitch in.” Rakesh wiped sweat from his brow. He dug his fingers into the earth. Moist soil filled the crevices of his fingers with warmth as servants straightened bushes.
Instead of running away, the servants fussed over him, expressing concern at the dirt smudging his white clothes and lodging under his fingernails. They cared in the same way he needed to care for and hold onto his family.
***
Two days later, Rakesh opened the door of Sheetal’s studio and a draft wafted the scent of paint, turpentine, and linseed oil toward him. His attention shifted to the broken window. He needed to call someone to fix that.
Sheetal stood before her easel dotting crests of snow along a range of the Himalayas.
“Hey.” He entered and closed the door softly. “Busy?”
“Yes. This series is due next month.” Diamond bangles clinked with each brush stroke.
“I came to talk.”
She paused, turned, and raised her eyebrows as if he wasn’t worth her time.
“About your window. I’ll have Janvi cover it up with something and call a repair guy to come and take a look. Next week, maybe.”
She laid the brush on her worktable, wiped her fingers on a paint-smeared rag, and faced him.
“I played cricket with Yash again yesterday. We had fun. I want things to stay like this. Not lose what we have.” He gulped. “I want us to be a family.”
“We are.” She crossed her arms.
“I mean, a real family, like everyone else.”
“Oh, just like that?” her tone sliced the air.
Why did she have to be so judgmental? Why couldn’t she just listen? “Our son needs to live with us. Here. There are things you don’t know about boarding schools and what happens there. Older boys do things to the younger ones.”
“What things?”
“It’s an all-boys dormitory, Sheetal. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“What are you trying to say? And how do you know?”
“Look, you’ve lived a sheltered life. There are things you don’t know, and you’ll probably never know. I know because—I just do. I grew up in a boarding school. Sometimes it’s not just the older boys. The staff, the custodians, can be perverts, too.”
Her jaw dropped.
“Why put Yash at risk? Think of this opportunity as a chance for us to come together as a family—only if we are together.”
“We tried for a long time. But with your mother and Nainaji around—”
“It’ll be different this time. I’ll try harder to—”
“To what? How will this time be different from earlier attempts?”
The back of his head throbbed. “I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers, but give me a chance. We need Yash here. I know it. I feel it. We’re so much happier with him around. We’re laughing and doing things like a normal family. Like how you two spent the afternoon at my office. We can do it right and make our family right.
“I want you to know, I thought hard about what you said. I could tell from your expression that you didn’t like my idea of using the Japanese and their money to fix our problems.”
“You’re not fixing anything, Rakesh. You’re violating the law and—”
“I get it. I’m wrong. I’ll talk to Vipul Sahib and find another way.”
Sheetal leaned against the table.
She’s listening. “See! I’m already changing. I can feel the change in me. I can do it. I’ll stick to my promises. I’ve already given up smoking and I’m cutting down on the drinking.”
Wrinkles creased the corners of her eyes. “For a few days? Then you’ll go back to what you were before.”
“I even went to the doctor like you asked me to and I’m taking care of my health. I’ll do everything Dr. Kishore says.” Thoughts raced at lightning speed. “Look, I cut down to one glass of scotch over the last week. I almost stuck to my promise but then I got this letter from the bank.”
“The bank. The company. There’s always going to be an excuse. I need you to stay in your senses, to be a sensible father, a responsible father, if we’re to keep Yash here. I can’t handle Mummyji and Nainaji and raise a child—a sane child—by myself.”
“You’re—”
“I’m his mother. I feel the same way you do. Our son can never have a normal life with our million problems. He doesn’t deserve any of this craziness. He needs an environment that’s predictable and safe.”
“Safe?” He almost laughed but resisted the urge. “We have servants and guards all the time. What more security does he need?”
“Stability, Rakesh.” Sheetal pressed a palm to her forehead. “A stable home so he’s not living in fear of his own family. Can you change Nainaji and put some sanity in her? No. Because Mummyji won’t allow her to go for therapy. Can you change Mummyji? Make her less of a control freak? No. Because Mummyji owns the property. All of this is hers.” She thrust a hand in the air.
“I lost out on a huge order for the Sheraton Hotel because of Mummyji. All the paintings were ready to go. Seven orchids on four by five feet canvases, each worth three hundred and fifty thousand. But on the spur of the moment, Mummyji decided to go on a cruise and left me babysitting Nainaji, a fully grown adult. And because of that, my work was two days late. I lost the entire contract. Now I have ten paintings due by the fifteenth worth—”
“So, your career is more important than Yash?” He glanced at his watch. He needed to be at Kartik’s place in half an hour.
“Our conversation has nothing to do with career or money. Not everything about my career is tied to money.”
“No matter what I do, nothing is ever good enough for you.”
“How can Yash’s well-being have anything to do with you when you’re hardly ever around? I put aside my work to make sure your mother and sister are not poisoning Yash’s mind. Can you move us out if I asked you to? No. Because leaving will affect the company and confidence of your board members and stakeholders. I want Yash here with us, too, but that’s impossible.”
He ran a palm along the back of his head and pressed hard, but his head pounded. He had to make changes. He couldn’t be in two places at once anymore. He had to let one go.
***
At the apartment, Kartik tipped scotch from a bottle into a tumbler. Cubes of ice rattled and clinked. “I don’t get it. Why you doing this?”
Rakesh’s attention traveled up a thread dangling from a seam of Kartik’s blue shorts to the wrinkled and tattered gray T-shirt. From Kartik’s worn clothing, no one would expect him to afford a plush condo in downtown Raigun and live a carefree lifestyle. Rakesh wiped sweat from his brows and turned away from the glass Kartik offered. Kartik set the glass on the coffee table and turned back to the bar.
“She found out—no?” Kartik’s eyes hardened. “You scared? That it? A double scotch on the rocks is what you need.” Kartik poured himself a glass. Bottoms up?” Kartik edged the tumbler on the table closer to him. “Go on. Take it.”
Rakesh slid the glass back toward Kartik and left a trail of condensation on the wood. “She doesn’t know. And I’ve given up drinking.”
“You joking—no?” Kartik swigged the golden liquid and stared at him. “What? You serious?”
“About everything.”
“So, you—”
“I can’t do this anymore.” He took a deep breath to hold his composure and slowly released the breath. “They deserve better.”
“And me?” Kartik’s eyes narrowed. “What about me?”
Rakesh clenched his jaw. Did anyone care about him?
A nearby click was followed by a quiet whirr.
“You knew what we had was temporary and good for as long as it lasted, but we can’t go on anymore.”
“So, this is how it ends?” Kartik snapped his fingers.
Rakesh’s head seemed to prick with needles.
“Just like that? And now where do I go from here, man? You just kick me out and that’s it?” his voice deepened with anger. “I gave up a high-paying PR job with perks for some small-time, shit-hole job at the local pharmacy. ‘Be discreet and be invisible,’ you said. And this is what I get?”
“Shut up!” Rakesh thwacked the air with his hand.
“No. You fuck up.” Kartik thumped his empty glass on the table. “You fucking....” he roared like all twelve cylinders of the Lamborghini. “You can’t just fucking walk out on me as if I’m nothing.”
“My son is living away and my marriage is a shit hole. I’m screwed.” Arrows jabbed his forehead. His hands flew all over the place and he couldn’t hold them down. “I can’t take it anymore. Just go fucking wherever you want.”
Kartik paced the room, fingering the light stubble on his chin. He poured himself a second drink and pushed a glass closer to Rakesh. “All right, man. If this is it. One last scotch for old time’s sake.”