The Taliban Cricket Club (29 page)

“Good afternoon,” Markwick called out to us when he stopped at the edge of the pitch. Wahidi and Droon continued on, crossing it, and Markwick winced at this disrespect. “I am looking forward very much to watching this game and I know the better team will win. It's very generous of your government to send the winning team to Pakistan later today for further training, and I'm sure you'll return here to teach many others to play. I will strongly recommend to the ICC that Afghanistan should be accepted as an associate member when I return with my report.”

I saw Droon look for Jahan, find him, and whisper to Wahidi. Then Droon gestured for Jahan to come across. Almost reluctantly, the team shuffled aside to allow a nervous Jahan out of our group. Namdar stepped in front of me in Jahan's place. Jahan reached them and looked so young and vulnerable against men whose profession was violence. Veer was still beside me.

“Which one's Wahidi?” he whispered.

“On the right,” I replied. The two men I loved and the two men I feared on the same field.

“God, he's old and he's ugly,” Veer said, disgusted. “I want to put a wicket through his heart, now.”

“Don't move,” I said, holding his hand tightly. “I've seen him shoot two people without blinking.” When he glanced at me in surprise, I realized I had forgotten to tell him, blocking that horror from my mind.

With one mind, our team followed Jahan's every move as if we could protect him from any violence.

Wahidi took a step to Jahan, a foot away, to shake his hand, and they exchanged greetings, “
Salaam aleikum
,” “
Aleikum salaam.
”

“I am honored to meet you, my brother,” Wahidi said.

Jahan took the hand, but, before he could let go, Wahidi drew him into a lover's embrace. “It is my honor, my . . . ,” Jahan replied with little inflection and held himself stiffly, arms only half raised, not completing the embrace.

“I am very happy that you will consent to my marriage to your beautiful sister.” Wahidi stepped back, releasing the embrace but holding the hand, as if Jahan would escape. He looked to Droon for confirmation, who nodded slyly. “Your sister is well?”

“Yes, well,” Jahan managed. “She is in Mazar, returning very soon.”

“We must talk about that.” Droon's smile flickered like a serpent's tongue. He turned to his brother. “You must look after our guest while Jahan and I discuss this matter.”

“We will come to pay our respects when she is home.” Wahidi sounded soothing but there was an edge to his tone. “I wish to greet my future wife with all formality. She will make a good mother to my sons, who lost their mother recently. We have a beautiful house in Kabul in Wazir Akbar Khan and you must visit us often. Tomorrow, my brother will make the proposal and you will accept it.”

Wahidi turned away to join Markwick. Droon remained until he was out of earshot.

“My men couldn't find your uncle's house,” he said venomously. “You lied, and for that you will pay the price.”

“I didn't lie,” Jahan said with spirit, the team at his back. “I told you the exact directions. The Akbar business center, it's a new building half a mile west from the shrine, on the main road. There you turn right and after three streets . . . no, four streets . . . you turn left. After the third street, you'll see a postbox. You pass that and you'll see a large red building. There is a lane opposite it and my uncle Koshan's house is the fourth one. It's a very old, large house built by my great-grandfather and it has a large rosebush just inside the gate.”

“You said the second street after the postbox.”

“Third street, sir,” Jahan insisted. “That was why I wanted to write it down.”

“Where is she?” Droon demanded. “My brother wants to see her, I want to see her.”

“She called this morning. Uncle has reached Baghlan and they will be here this evening, at the latest tomorrow morning. She will be here for our mother's third-day ceremony.”

Droon couldn't control himself. He grabbed Jahan's
shalwar
front and lifted his other hand to slap him.

I started to raise my hand and took a step. I couldn't let him hit Jahan again.

“I—” was all that I could say. A hand clamped over my mouth, and Veer pulled my hand down.

“Stay quiet,” Qubad hissed, and kept his hand over my mouth.

The team pushed forward protectively.

Just then, Markwick came up behind Droon and Jahan.

“We're playing cricket,” he said in the stern voice of a schoolmaster, looking to Jahan and then to Droon. “We must start the game. It's half past two.” He tapped his silver watch, not yet taking his eyes off Droon. “The light goes quickly here and I have a meeting after the match.”

Qubad removed his hand from my mouth.

The interpreter stepped beside Droon and began to translate. He was dismissed with a flick of Droon's hand. Droon slowly released his grip on Jahan's shirt and stared at Markwick. We knew he would kill us for daring to interfere. Markwick was either brave or ignorant of the fact that he faced a murderous man with only a patina of piety. Markwick met Droon's malevolent stare with the slightest smile and Droon whirled away, his
shalwar
flapping.

“Are you okay?” Markwick asked Jahan.

Wisely, Jahan waited for the interpreter before nodding and stepping back to us.

“Captains,” Markwick called.

He had the coin in one hand and in the other held a new, shiny cricket ball, his first and second fingers parallel to the white seam, circling the red ball like an equator, the reflexive grip of a fast bowler.

The coin spun and fell. Parwaaze called heads, and grinned happily when he'd called right. It was an auspicious start.

The team formed a huddle, draping our arms over each other's shoulders, closing out the world. I squeezed between Veer and Jahan.

“We have to play our very best,” Parwaaze said. “We have a hard fight ahead of us and I know we'll win it.” He turned to peer at me, and the team also craned in my direction. “And without Babur we would not be here. We cannot let her down. She taught us the game, she showed us how to love it and that it's a fine game.”

“This will be the first time a cricket tournament is played in our country,” I whispered to them. “In a small way we're making history, and not a blood-stained one. So we cannot lose. We will show the Talib we'll fight them even on a cricket pitch and beat them with our cricket bats, and not guns.”

We all remained silent, heads bowed, until Omaid whispered, “Win, win, win,” and we all took up the chant.

We returned to our dressing room for Veer and Parwaaze to put on their pads and gloves.

“I'll open with Parwaaze,” Veer said. “Babur should bat number three.”

“I was going to bat last.”

“No, come in early, and try to stay in as long as you can so you're not seen in the stands with the others.”

“Watch out for the Pakistani bowler,” I whispered.

“He'll only be allowed three overs,” he said as he strapped on the homemade pads. “If he picks up quick wickets they'll bowl him out. I'll try to keep Parwaaze at the other end.”

Markwick and the state team coach, as umpires again, were waiting for the two batsmen. I didn't have to wait long to join Veer, as Parwaaze was out for five runs bowled by Wasim. Veer had hit up thirty runs against the other bowler. Poor Parwaaze was crushed.

As we passed each other, Parwaaze whispered, “Walk straighter and don't sway so much.”

I never felt more alone on this long walk to the pitch. I imagined with each step that Wahidi and Droon were staring at this youth, their sharp eyes penetrating the disguise, running onto the field to grab me and bundle me away.

Veer waited for me and noticed my nervousness.

“I love you” were his first words. “I can't wait to get that beard off your face.”

“Don't distract me, I can't think of that now.” Then I saw his disappointment. “I love you, and we have to focus.”

“Just think you're playing with Nargis and the others and that no one is watching the match,” he whispered. “You're a good batsman, I saw you play, so just focus on the ball. Be patient. I'll score the runs. So don't think about anything else. And don't call the runs. They'll hear your voice. I'll call.”

“Is that all?” I walked beside him to the pitch, looking around at the fielding side.

“No. I love you.”

The pitch was scruffy and already pockmarked from the balls landing on it. I took my guard and looked around at the field placements. It was a warm day, the quiet was soothing, and I remembered those days with my college team and the feeling of serenity each time I went out to bat. I felt as if I had found my natural place in the world, here on a cricket field, crouched over my bat and surrounded by hostile fielders. I had two balls to face from Wasim. They came fast, bouncing high, and I let them whistle past me.

It was a pleasure to watch Veer bat. He had great footwork, a good eye, and he timed the ball sweetly. He hit a high ball and I held my breath as a fielder positioned himself for the catch. It slipped through his fingers and I did a little jump for joy.

I went over to Veer and whispered, “Don't take too many chances.”

“It's the only way to win.” He laughed.

Between us, we put on another sixty runs, with me contributing ten and Veer reaching his fiftieth. Fortunately, their fielding wasn't good at all. They dropped a few more catches and let the ball through their legs. But then, going for a big hit, Veer was caught near the stands. The score was sixty-five runs for two wickets.

“That was reckless,” I scolded him quietly.

“Sorry,” he said meekly. “Now you have to keep as much of the batting as possible. If we can get to ninety-five or more, I'm sure we'll win.”

Jahan joined me as the next batsman.

“Don't be afraid and don't think of Droon. Remember what I taught you—play with a straight bat and just block the balls. I'll try hitting them.”

“I know,” he said testily.

When he took his stance, I watched anxiously. I wanted him to score runs too. He played the first ball with textbook perfection and I relaxed. The next one, he surprised me by aiming it between the fielders and we ran for two.

“Good shot,” I whispered as we passed, and he smiled.

Together we managed another ten runs before Jahan, like Veer, became too impetuous and hit a catch.

“I told you . . . ,” I scolded gently.

“Sorry . . . ,” he replied as he trudged off.

I took Veer's advice, facing as many balls as I could, but my team collapsed at the other end. Namdar came last and, despite my advice, took a swing and, to our surprise, hit three balls into the stands. When we finished our fifteen overs, we had scored ninety-eight runs.

We huddled again before taking to the field, and Veer told us, “We have to field not just well but brilliantly. We must catch every high ball and stop the ground balls from reaching the boundaries. It's the only way we can win this game.”

Veer opened the bowling against Wasim, and they were naturally wary of each other, knowing that they were the ringers. We worried about him, as he looked too professional, and he played with aggressive confidence, hitting the ball to all corners.

When we heard the call to prayer, we and the spectators, around four hundred or more now, knelt quickly and bowed our heads. I peered to Markwick, as upright as a lone flagpole, the breeze teasing his tie. In the distance was another upright figure, a religious policeman looking at Markwick. He finally decided to leave him be, and knelt too.

We continued playing after the prayers. After each boundary, we clustered to discuss how to get Wasim out. Each of us had an opinion and gave it: “Move a fielder here, move another there, change the bowler, bowl slow, bowl fast. He will beat us by himself if we can't get him out.”

Bowling from the other end, Omaid was spinning the ball, and the batsman either hit a catch, which was caught, or else the ball hit their wicket. He was so delighted each time.

But Wasim remained belligerent, the runs creeping up to catch ours, and we thought he would win the match.

His team was nearing our total and a shadow of depression settled over my team. They were giving up, and even I began to think we would lose.

In our next huddle to talk strategy, I told them, “We have to think of winning, we must not give up. In cricket, anything can happen suddenly and there's still time left. Don't give up.”

Veer looked determined as he ran up to bowl at Wasim. The bounce was higher than he expected, he swung, and the ball nicked the edge of his bat. I dove full length to my right, hand stretched out, and the ball smacked into my glove. It was the best catch of my life, and I lay looking up at the pale gray sky, thinking we had a chance to win now.

I jumped up, holding the ball high. Wasim looked back, and saw me holding the ball. He hit the ground with his bat in disgust and stalked off.

Veer ran to embrace me, but I backed away just before his arms enclosed me. “Not here, you can't, it's against the law.”

“Fantastic catch,” he said quietly, dropping his arms, and the others crowded around to pat me on the back. In the stands, our fans stood up and waved excitedly and called out, “Good, good.”

We were so relieved at seeing Wasim go out, but he had brought his team near victory. Finally, we picked up the last wicket when they were at ninety-three runs.

“We won, we won, we won!” we shouted, jumping up and down.

It was nearing six thirty and dusk was sweeping into the stadium

“We'll be going to Pakistan,” Parwaaze said. “Thanks to you . . . Babur.” Each one in turn repeated his words as they patted my shoulder tenderly.

Then we sobered. We had to include Jahan, who stood apart, worry on his face, looking toward the stands and the two Talib gunmen, now rising and stretching. We couldn't see Youseff.