4

  ‘Your shooter is useless,’ I said.

  The referee whistled to commence the game. She turned away and forgot about me faster than her throw reached her team member. ‘Here, pass it to me,’ R shouted as she reached the opposition basket.

  Her point shooter held the ball and looked around, confused.

  ‘I said here,’ R screamed so loudly that pigeons flew off the trees in the lawns. The point shooter passed the ball, R caught it and took a shot from well beyond the three-point line.

  Whoosh! The ball went through the basket. The crowd cheered. They already had a soft spot for R anyway.

  The referee announced a break at the ten-minute mark. The college team led 12-5. R huddled with her team, figuring out their strategy for the next half. As her team meeting ended, she wiped her face and neck with a towel.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I forgot I had my own trial in less than an hour. I only wanted to figure out a way to talk to her a bit more. Maybe I could tell her she played well. I wondered how to tell her about my state-level game without coming across as a show-off. And, more than anything, how would I go beyond five words of English?

  She caught me staring. I wanted to kill myself. She continued to look directly at me, the towel still around her neck. Then she walked up to me. A shiver ran down my spine.

  I didn’t mean to stare, I wanted to tell her. I wondered if she would scream at me like she had done during the match.

  ‘Thanks,’ R said.

  She had walked across the court to thank me?

  She was breathing hard. My eyes were glued to hers.

  Look away, Madhav, I scolded myself and turned away.

  ‘That was a good tip,’ she said to my left profile.

  ‘Welcome. . . You. . .are. . .good,’ I said. Uttering each word was like lifting a brick.

  ‘Any other suggestions for the second half? We’re losing.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, turning to face her again. I wanted to give her more tips, but couldn’t in English. ‘You speak Hindi?’ I said.

  She looked baffled. Nobody in St. Stephen’s had ever asked anyone that question.

  ‘Well, yeah, of course,’ she said.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, and explained in my language, ‘they have two strong players. Cover them tight. Don’t fix formations for your players. Two of yo 

urs should move with them. You become the shooter. Of the other two, one is your defence, the other supports you.’

  The whistle blew again.

  ‘Got to go,’ she said. ‘Catch you later.’

  I didn’t understand what ‘catch you’ meant. Did it mean she would catch what I had said later? Did it mean she didn’t understand what I had said? Or did she mean she actually wanted to catch me? Like, she liked me so much she wanted to catch me? Of course, this seemed unlikely. But then I had given her good tips and you never know with these modern people. You see, my mind has this overdrive switch, especially when it’s excited. It starts to get ahead of itself and thinks useless thoughts when I could actually be doing something constructive, like watching the game or finding out that girl’s name.

  The game restarted. The referee’s whistle, the sound of the players’ shoes as they run across the court, the shrieks, the yells and the cries of victory and defeat—few things in life match the excitement of a sports court. Basketball, underrated as it might be in this country, packs it all in half an hour. I cannot understand why Indians don’t play this game more. It doesn’t take up too much space, doesn’t need much equipment and a big group can play it all at once.

  ‘Yes!’ she screamed as she scored a basket. The ball went in without touching the ring, making the most beautiful sound in a basketball game—the soft ‘chhaak’ when only the net touches the ball. Sweat dripped off her face as she ran back to her side of the court.

  The match ended 21–15. The newbies had lost, but still kept pace with the college team—a considerable achievement. R, however, seemed disappointed. She wiped her face with a towel and picked up her blue Nike kitbag. A few boys tried to make eye contact with her but she ignored them. I wanted to speak to her. However, no boy from Dumraon has ever had the guts to approach a high-class girl from Delhi. I wanted her to watch my game. There was nothing else I could impress her with. Coach Piyush went up to her. They became engrossed in a conversation. This was my chance. Underconfident guys need a go-between to speak to a girl. I ran up to Piyush.

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