It was a picture perfect summer morning, in conditions as close to English weather as could be possible in dusty little Shivajinagar. A day tailormade for cricket, cricketer and photographer’s dream simultaneously come true. Fluffy cotton white clouds against deep azure blue skies and a sea of lush dew-soaked bright green carpeting the earth within the dilapidated ramshackle confines of Nehru Stadium.
Ramu and Somu were looking forward to this great day with as much anticipation as a bride looking forward to her wedding day. It was the big final of the inter-school cricket tournament. Their school, Veermata Jijabai High School (formerly the pompous sounding Victoria Jubilee High School, popularly known as VJHS, brazenly renamed by political elements more concerned with distracting the populace from issues of a more pressing nature, to the eternal chagrin of alumnus who felt suddenly relegated to provincial status) against their fiercest cutthroat rivals, those abominable show-offs from Morarji High School (popularly known as “morons”). Duffers. Good for nothing but cricket. Had just happened to thump VJHS to a pulp on every occasion in living memory. The mortification of these lopsided encounters had grown too much to bear for Ramu Somu, devoted and loyal fans of VJHS as they were, yet it kept growing year after year, with not a glimmer of hope or redemption on the horizon.
Pundits, soothsayers and punters were unanimous in their odds for a VJHS victory - one in a trillion (numbers beyond Ramu Somu’s admittedly meager comprehension - yet they instinctively knew that the probability of Shivajinagar’s rancid gutters not overflowing following a monsoon downpour was far greater than their chances of wrapping their sorry fingers around the coveted trophy).
All this while, a deviously diabolical idea had been taking shape in Ramu’s head. He confided his masterstroke to Somu, not so much for a second opinion as much as to inform him about his exact role in the operation. Ramu was used to giving orders, Somu to their pusillanimous acceptance. Qamar and Amar were the star fast bowlers for the “morons”, frighteningly quick and able to swing the ball very late, a provincial Wasim and Waqar, a peerless partnership who struck terror in adolescent hearts full of innocence. Qamar was a left-arm fast bowler with variations as cunning as a fox, Amar bowled right-arm fast, brutishly quick and devoid of mercy, notorious for cracking many a callow arm, leg and rib with deliveries speared into the body at searing pace, with not even the cursory posthoc inquiry as to the victim’s wellbeing. Seldom did he bowl in a game where leather didn’t thud into reinforced plastic with a crack that echoed around usually empty stands (and empty heads too, according to some uncharitable observers).
So impossibly unplayable had they become that foul tactics were often suspected by pulverised opposition teams- ball tampering, performance enhancing drugs, age restriction infringements were some of the wildly unsubstantiated insinuations tossed about in hushed tones of righteous indignation, as if by way of justifying their almost shockingly pedestrian mediocrity in the face of the fearsome twosome.
Ramu’s plan was as ingenious as it was insidious. He had befriended the drinks boy for the morons, Bhola. Now Bhola had a deep-rooted grievance against Qamar and Amar. They treated him like a personal servant, an errand boy, and forced him to carry out their menial chores, like ferrying their laundry to and fro, getting vada pav and chai for them every now and then, carrying their kits, cleaning chairs for them before their highnesses condescended to warm them, and so on and so forth. Bhola, although he was the drinks boy, harbored fond hopes of one day playing in the main eleven. He possessed a legbreak sharper than Cleopatra’s much admired nose. Ramu didn’t have to poison Bhola too much, he was ripe for the taking. A paper chit containing mysterious powder clandestinely exchanged hands. Bottles containing laxative labels and warnings were disposed off in discreet dust bins.
The hour of reckoning arrived. VJHS won the toss, and elected to bat. Ramu Somu rubbed their hands in gleeful anticipation of the imminent drama to unfold. They looked in vain for Qamar and Amar to take the field. They never did. Their plan had worked to perfection. Smug smiles were exchanged. Qamar and Amar were busy with sudden unexpected business in dressing room lavatories from where loud cries, volleys of curses, and continuous flushing noises were heard by bewildered bystanders.
Shyam and Ghanshyam, an off-spinner and wrist-spinner respectively, were selected as replacements for the indisposed quicks. To Ramu Somu’s confounded perplexity, the wicket started taking turn from the 1st over. Shyam and Ghanshyam sliced through the VJHS lineup like hot knife through melted Amul butter. VJHS were skittled out for an embarassingly paltry 15 runs, all 11 of them. A spineless, inept and incompetent performance that filled Ramu Somu’s hearts with a mixture of shame, rage, bewilderment and confusion. The morons knocked off the runs in a single over, to make the humiliation and decimation utterly complete and devastatingly bitter. Ramu Somu could not bear to watch as the morons celebrated wildly, bar two of them who were still busy with unexpected business.
Ashen faced, Ramu Somu dejectedly trooped off the ground resolving for the umpteenth time to eschew such evil tactics, having experienced firsthand the truth in the old idiom “Evil be to him who evil thinks.”