It’s 9th March, 1996. She is an 11-year-old, bright-eyed but naïve kid living (temporarily) in the suburbs of Calcutta with her aunt. She hates living away from her family but circumstances have made her accept this arrangement for the time being. Along with that, she has also accepted the fact that every day, 6 days a week, she would have to take the same path home from her after-school classes and get bullied by the gang of neighborhood boys playing cricket in front of her block. Never before had she hung her head so low but in this acceptance spree, she accepted this too.
Everyday she counts down to the time when her stint in Calcutta would be over. Today is different – today is India – Pakistan World Cup Quarter Finals which means that the boys will not be hanging out in the playground. Lately, cricket has become the center of the universe and all daily activities including school, mealtimes, etc have to meander around its significance. And since everyone’s rooting for the same team, unity and brotherhood has taken over the daily tiffs and fights on the playground. Suddenly the place seems not too bad, she thinks muses.
The match begins and everyone in the house is watching intently. It’s an exciting match – the doors have been left open and the echo of cheers at every four and six can be heard down the hall and from the floors above. India makes a respectable near – 300 score and they break before the Pakistan inning. A simple hasty dinner is on the stove since no one has the time to cook or eat.
People step out of the house and into the road outside, catching up, replaying the game again in again in theirs heads and conversations – the voices are loud, the mood, festive as if we’ve already won. Some of the abovementioned boys find leftover sparklers from the New Year and light up in a pre-emptive celebration. She joins the fun too; some of the boys are her classmates. Slowly the crowd starts to move (with the celebration et al) towards a block behind. She wonders why they are moving towards the other block but joins them nonetheless, thinking it’s to collect more people. The boys who bullied her join the crowd too, dancing along and even exchanging high fives with her. She’s relieved - thinking this may be the end of the daily hung-head-stinging-eyes-hidden tears before entering home ordeal. She has another reason to celebrate - she’s free.
The crowd comes to a halt and become louder as if it’s jeering something. Someone. Why has the tone changed, oh so slightly, she wonders. She’s not imagining it because the crowd is not moving any more. There is nothing special about this block, is there. Why then are we here, she’s about to ask when she hears parts of a conversation – where all she catches is the name Aslam and more laughter. Not the pleasant type. It all becomes clear. Aslam and his family – the only Muslim family in that entire community live in that block, just above the spot where the crowd is.
A few hours later, India won the match.
But did he – I don’t know.
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