3

  A small crowd of students, mostly men, had gathered around the Stephen’s basketball court. Girls’ sports trials always garnered an audience—there was no better excuse to check them out. Everyone spoke in English. I didn’t speak at all. I straightened my back and stared at the court with a sense of purpose, mainly to come across as if I belonged there. As ten girls came on to the court, the crowd cheered. Five of the girls belonged to the existing college team; the other five had applied for admission under the sports quota.

  Piyush came to the centre of the court, ball in hand and whistle in mouth. As he blew it, the girls sprang into action.

  Five feet, nine inches is tall for an Indian girl. It is tall even for a girl in a basketball team. Her long neck, long arms and long legs held every guy’s attention. She was a part of the sports-quota applicants’ team. She wore black fitted shorts and a sleeveless sports vest with ‘R’ printed in yellow at the back. She collected the ball within seconds. She wore expensive Nike ankle-length sneakers, the kind I had seen NBA players wear on TV. Her diamond earrings twinkled in the sun. She dribbled the ball with her right hand. I noticed she had long, beautiful fingers.

  ‘Ten points for looks, coach,’ a senior student called out as R passed the ball. The crowd tittered. Well, the men did. The wisecrack distracted R for a moment, but she resumed her game as if she was used to such comments.

  The sports-quota girls played well individually. However, they didn’t play well as a team.

  R dribbled the ball and reached the opposition’s basket. Three opponents surrounded her. R passed the ball to her teammate, who missed the pass.

  ‘What the. . .’ R screamed. Too late. The rival team took the ball, passed it to the other end and scored a basket.

  R cursed herself, inaudible to anyone else. She then signalled to three of her teammates to cover specific opponents and jogged across the court. When she went past me, I saw her sweaty, flushed face from up close. We made eye contact for nanoseconds, perhaps only in my imagination. But in those nanoseconds something happened to my heart.

  No, I wouldn’t say I fell in love with her. I wouldn’t even say I felt attracted to her. But I felt something deep inside, strong enough for my heart to say, You have to talk to this girl at least once in your life.

  ‘Babes, cover her. I said cover!’ R screamed. Her state of mind was as far from mine as possible. She passed the ball to her teammate, who missed scoring a basket again.

  ‘What are you guys doing?’ she shouted in perfect English. I felt nervous; how would I ever speak to her? Her face was grimy, dust sticking to her left cheek and forehead. Yet, it was one of the most beautiful faces I had seen in my entire life. Sometimes it is hard to explain why you find a person beautiful. Was it her narrow face, perfectly in line with her slender body? Was it her flawless skin and complexion, which had turned from cream to pink to red? Or was it not about her looks at all? Was it her passion, her being totally immersed in the game? I didn’t know.

  Of course, I never actually thought it would lead to anything. She seemed too posh to even give me a second glance.

  Destiny, however, had other plans. For why else, in the seventh minute of the first half, would the college team captain overthrow the ball outside the court, where it hit my head as I stood on the sidelines? Why would I grab the ball in reflex? More than anything, why would R come to collect it?

  ‘Ball, please,’ she said, panting. I felt paralysed.

  ‘I said ball, please,’ she said. I held on to the ball for an extra half second. I wanted to look at her a bit longer. I wanted to take a snapshot of her sweaty face and store it in my mind’s camera for life.

  I threw the ball at her. She caught it with ease and looked at me. She could tell from my throw that I knew the game.

  ‘Change your point shooter,’ I said. For some reason, I had managed to speak in correct English this time.

  ‘What?’ she said. She surveyed me from top to bottom. I now wished I had worn better clothes. I had not changed out of my interview shirt and pants, both of which the tailor back home had stitched too loose for me. I looked out of place on the basketball court. With my folder of certificates, I resembled a hero from those Hindi films of the seventies—the one who could not find a job. I have a Bihar state team T-shirt, I wanted to tell her. Of course, in the middle of a game, and as a first conversation, this was a terrible idea.

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