Misfit

Ever since the football season started, guys at my work have been running a football pool. The pot is increasing by the day and each week a handsome amount is handed out. I don’t know if it is the excellent marketing skills of the bookies or the fast traveling word of mouth, but lately I have seen people from other departments drop by to place their wagers. One of the guys had approached me also, asking if I wanted to go half with him. Encouraged by the plastic smile that I had plastered across my face, he started to discuss the picks. But my mind was stuck: Saley maiN shakal sey tujh ko Juwaari nazar aata hooN. Juwaari hoga tu, Juwaari hoga tera baap…. “I don’t follow the game mah man,” was all that came out.

To rub it in some more, a minority is involved in fantasy-football and is constantly trading players. And then there is always fantasy-baseball. A baseball fan happens to know a little about cricket. Or let’s just say he is curious because the game is also played with a bat. One lunch break he asked me if I think I’d like baseball and invited me over to his son’s Sunday practice. Yeah, maybe I’ll relive Miandad ka Sharjah wala chakka, I thought. Basking in my glory, I must have appeared to be in a state of coma. “You know they do have fantasy-cricket,” he uttered probably feeling sorry for me. “Yeah I know.” I finally came out. His next gesture was something that you would only expect from your friend’s nakhrey-wali blonde girlfriend. “What are you eating?” Pointing towards my food he fussed with ‘yuck’ written all over his face. “It’s Katta-Kutt minus the Kapoorey” I lied. “What’s Kapoorey?” As if the word ‘Katta-Kutt’ was totally comprehensible, an explanation of the latter was being demanded. He was just where I wanted him. “They’re goat-balls.” If you have never seen a man who was amazed, shocked and disgusted, all at once, this was the time. “Well at least they don’t cook it in with the sack.” I smiled. From the hooter to the tooter baby; good, now you know how I feel about pickled pig lips.

I must confess, however, that over the years football has brought me the goods. Sundays have been particularly lucrative. Back in my delivery-driver-days, when the games were on, I’d specially request to work on Sundays. To a bunch of drunken delirious Gora’s, a desi pizza boy with a hot pie is no less then Umrao Jaan Adaa; ‘Bakhshish hee Bakhshish’. But it bothered me. It wasn’t the Bakhshish part that was the problem. Hell! that was the whole point of working on a Sunday. It would make me uneasy for I remembered my friends that I had left in Pakistan; I would recall the five-day ‘not a blink’ watching of Test-Matches and the constant influx of Aundaa-Paratha kabhi Keema-Paratha. “Na kaam key na kaaj key, dushman anaaj key” AmmaN Jee, my daadi, would fire a taana our way. But we were like the Matrix-team. And taaney were like little bullets that would stop a foot away from us and drop harmless at our feet. AmmaN Jee was firing from her throne, the raggedy old takh t in the veranda. I would choose to ignore her. The poor old lady didn’t know that she was also a part of my Riyaya. I was a self-proclaimed king. So what if my folks would nag me all the time. That’s what Riyayas usually do; they complain. Phir uun ka haq bhi tou banta hai.

But the king was among the masses now; delivering pizzas. To erase the lingering memories of the old empire, I was unconsciously trying to get away from football. And now that I had a real job, I had finally managed to do so. Or so I thought. “Can you believe that Derek only had three right last week. God! A retard can make better picks.” Kenny cackled like a witch. The cackle faded away and Kenny had seized to exist as my eyes followed Ms. Haseena-e-Alam. She was coming my way, but her tracks stopped by the bookie. She handed him a sheet of paper, they were conversing and laughing away. I could not hear them and it all appeared to be happening in slow motion. Perhaps a love letter or maybe just her weekly picks? I couldn’t decide which was worse. But it can’t be, I protested. She is Indian. And she is not born and raised here. Or is she? It was evident that I did not know much about her. I didn’t even know her name. But one thing I knew was that my poet Oryaa Maqbool Jaan had pictured her. Why else would he have written?

Aam sa chehraa, ke jis key naqsh saarey, khuwaab khuwaab
Aam si rangeth, ke jaisey, bujh gayaa ho aaftaab

Aam si aankheiN, ke khil uuttheiN gulaabouN ki tarah
Khuwaab si palkeiN, ke chaa jaeiN hijaabouN ki tarah

Aam si baateiN, khilindrapan, jawaani ka khumaar
KhuwaahishouN ke bojh sey, tootey badan ka burg-o-baar

Raat ki soorath, ghani zulfouN ka saya bey-hisaab
Roshni kho deiN jahaN jazbouN ke saarey aaftaab


She had left. I walked up to my buddy Raj, a silent spectator, on the other side of the hall. “Kia dikhtee hai! naheiN?” I was thinking out loud but he was quick to agree. “The other day, unfortunately main ney uus ko kareeb sey dekh liya.” He added.

“Unfortunately?” I looked at him like he was crazy. There was confusion.

“Haan yaar qad buhat chouta haey. Tum sey tou buhat chouti haey. ”

And this was not the first time I was hearing this. Little did Raj know that my Bachpun-ki-Muhabba t had been a mere four feet eleven inches. This was where she was adrift from Oryaa’s girl. As he concludes the poem above:

Haan magar qaamath, ke ho jaisey judai ki ghaRee
Ya shab-e-furqat, teri tajseem ki soorath khaRee

So she likes to watch football. I wondered what it would take for me to watch the darn game. Perhaps an Oryaa’s girl! Or better yet, 22 of them; in tights; or make those swimsuits; throwing themselves at each other. What if it was raining and the field was swamped? Maybe that will do the trick.

It does rain cats and dogs in Atlanta. Romance in Barsaat, is such a prevalent theme in the East that almost every time I find myself in a silly mood. Yeah! I don’t have to get through the rain; it’s the scorching sun that’s my enemy. The Lipton girl sings in my ears, “Chai chahiye! Kon si jinaab? ...” as I am lost in her ghatta-geysoo on an island of Pakouras and Samousa s. One such evening, leaving work, I stopped by at the security desk. Jenny, the desk clerk, knows me. I had seen Haseena-e-Alam visit there quite a few times, as she would make small talk on her way out. In fact, she had just left. “Your friend there is very cute,” My admiration was genuine, Jenny frowned. “I thought you guys have arranged marriages.” She was being sarcastic. I didn’t care. My mind was racing: Hindu, Muslim, communal riots.....Uus key Maa Baap kabhi naheiN maneiN gey….This is 2003 for God sake….Pandit, Qaazi, Baraati….Dulhey ka visa naheiN laga.

“What’s wrong” She was showing concern now.

“Visa problems” I mumbled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Well she is married.” Ruthlessly, I was pushed in a sea of thought again.

Kitni achi hai. apney patee ki lambi umer key liye Karva-Chauth ka vrat rakhti hogi…..En Goriyoun ka bas chaley tou mera bhi khana khaa jaeiN…

“Dissappointed?” Jenny was at it.

“Naah” My voice changed as I smiled. It was raining and not much could have ruined my mood. “What are you doing Saturday night?” I winked.