'Sure, as long as he pays. He can't play beyond four balls. You could help him,'
I told Ish.
'What? You will teach that mullah kid?' Omi's face turned worrisome.
'I will teach the best player in Belrampur. That kid has serious potential. You
know like...' 'Team India?' I suggested.
'Shh, don't tempt fate, but yes. I want to teach him. They'll ruin him in that
school. They can barely teach the course there, forget sports.'
'We are not teaching a Muslim kid,' Omi vetoed. 'Bittoo Mama will kill me.'
'Don't overreact. He won't know. We just teach him at the bank,' Ish said. For
the rest of the argument, Ish and Omi just exchanged stares. Ultimately, like
always, Omi gave in to Ish.
'Your choice. Make sure he never comes near the temple. If! Bittoo Mama finds
out, he will kick us out of the shop.'
'Omi is right. We need the shop for a few more months,' I said.
'We also need to go to the doctor,' Ish said. 'Doctor?' I said.
'His head was hurting after four balls. I want a doctor to see him before we
begin practicing.'
'You'll have to talk to his parents if you want him to pay,' I said.
'I'll teach him for free,' Ish said. 'But still, for Indian parents cricket equals time
waste.' 'Then we'll go to his house,' Ish said. 'I am not going to any Muslim
house,' Omi said almost hysterically. 'I am not going.'
'Let's go open the shop first. It's business time,' I said.
★
No cricket, I like marbles,' Ali protested for the fifth time. Ish took four
chocolates (at the shop's expense, idiot) for him, a reward for every sixer. Ali
accepted the chocolates but said no to cricket coaching, and a foot-stomping no
to meeting the doctor.
'Our shop has marbles,' I cajoled. 'Special blue ones from Jaipur. One dozen for
you if you come to the doctor. He is just across the street.'
Ali looked at me with his two green marbles.
'Two dozen if you come for one cricket coaching class in the morning,' I said.
'Doctor is fine. For coaching class, ask abba.'
'Give me abba's name and address,' I said.
'Naseer Alam, seventh pol, third house on the ground floor.'
'What name did you say?' Omi said.
'Naseer Alam,' Ali repeated.
'I have heard the name somewhere. But I can't recall...' Omi murmured, but
Ish ignored him.
'Dr Verma's clinic is in the next pol. Let's go,' Ish said.
'Welcome, nice to have someone young in my clinic for a change.' Dr Verma
removed his spectacles. He rubbed his fifty-year-old eyes.
His wrinkles had multiplied since I last met him three years ago. His once
black hair had turned white. Old age sucks.
'And who is this little tiger? Open your mouth, baba,' Dr Verma said and
switched on his torch out of habit. 'What happened?'