Bowling Through India Read online

  While having a few throw-downs in the Windermere’s car park, we heard a loud bang, identical to a gunshot. The security guard, seeing the slightly worried looks on our faces, said, ‘It’s fireworks.’ Yeah right, we thought, fireworks in a place with a strong military presence and recent assassinations.

  Apart from getting down the mountain and catching an overnight train to Varanasi, this morning was all about Darjeeling’s infamous toy train. Three members of the group showed no excitement; two could barely contain it. The Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, nicknamed the ‘Toy Train’, is a two-foot narrow-gauge railway from Siliguri to Darjeeling. Run by the Indian Railways, it was built between 1879 and 1881 and is about eighty-six kilometres long. What gets most folk excited is the fact that the train is still powered by a steam engine. Since 1999, the railway has been a World Heritage Site as listed by Unesco.

  Our train spotters couldn’t stop clicking, and the good news was that when the train puffed, John could too. Both snappers were in seventh heaven, unlike the rest of us. OK, it was an old train and it still had steam. Whoop-dee-doo. It hardly spun my wheels or, it seemed, Stew’s or Reece’s.

  As we left Darjeeling, we drove past school kids, spick and span in their pristine uniforms; between open-air stalls selling pots and pans, tape decks and packets of potato chips past their use-by date; and through precipitous alleyways traversed by stoic young and old for centuries. Tourist jeeps lined up, as if in a car yard, waiting for adventurous punters. And, once more, we hoofed it past a poor bugger on his bike, minding his own business, who got a horn in the ear because he deserved it.

  Before we made further strides, however, we wanted one final game in the Queen of the Hills. And it didn’t take long to find one. Little did the Black Craps know that we were about to make history — for all the wrong reasons. Set just above road level were eight youngsters playing in the ultimate backyard cricket arena: a fenced-off piece of dirt about the size of a tennis court with a view stretching all the way to the clouds. It was the sort of ground every backyard cricketer dreams of: an MCG (Miniature Cricket Ground) with high mesh fences to stop sixes, and a special little roadside entrance where you could march in when it was your turn to bat.

  We wondered why such a seemingly prime piece of real estate wasn’t being used for something more. Then we saw the reason: a power substation the size of Homer Simpson’s office hummed greedily by the long-on boundary. It was protected by a flimsy barbed wire fence, but had live wires all over the show. This patch of land was probably fine to risk one’s young life playing sport on, but not to inhabit. Indeed, thoughts of the boy from the paper who lost both arms and legs retrieving a cricket ball made us a little sceptical.

  But not for long. ‘Have a bowl, shall we?’ said Stew opening the van door.

  We entered the pocket-sized stadium to be greeted by a fine young boy named Pramay. ‘What is your name please?’ he asked.

  ‘Justin,’ I replied, a dirty hand placed in mine.

  ‘You are welcome here, Justin. Are you happy?’

  Pramay took us on a short tour of his playing square, like a real estate agent showing off an open home. He could barely wait to start the match, and we were heartened to discover, for the first time on the trip, a local who wanted to be on our side. The ball, however, was to be our main obstacle. Filled with rocks, and wound with a variety of rubber bands, it wasn’t the easiest thing to smash for six — not least because of the spa pool-sized crater in front of the popping crease. (This pitch was clearly used every day of the year.)

  In a perfect amphitheatre, with mums and dads watching from the roadside, this match had all the makings of being a cracker. Sadly, it was to be the lowest score in the history of cricket. Stew and I could only watch — by a buzzing, prehistoric transformer — as our batsmen, set a grand total of four, failed to hit the rock/string/rubber/globe thing they called a ball. As we ran out of overs, our players ran out of options.

  Sunbam, the captain of Nepal, bowled beautifully, taking wickets with ease, mums and dads clapping from the sideline. Despite being by far the easiest game Reece had to record, he failed to write down who scored what. He had, however, taken to writing down their ages, which would be useful for Wisden but not for the Black Craps. These were bright and wonderfully happy kids. And they loved their cricket.

  After the match I interviewed Pramay, as if we were on TV. ‘Favourite player?’

  ‘Stephen Fleming.’

  ‘Favourite subject?’

  ‘History.’

  ‘What do you want to be when you’re older?’

  ‘A doctor, so I can help people.’

  ‘Do you have a family?’

  ‘Yes, my dad drives a truck — and my mum is at home.’

  As was invariably the case on this trip, most of the kids wanted to keep playing. But we had places to see and games to lose. Stew and I didn’t get a bat today, but did have the pride of knowing that we had set a world record: the lowest-ever total in the backyard form of the game. The kids couldn’t stop waving as we left.

  SCORECARD

  Darjeeling, West Bengal

  INDIA

  Monish (12) no scores, no squiggles, no nothing.

  Subam (10)

  Chiring (12)

  Brijesh (11)

  Monish (11)

  Subam (10)

  Pryash (11)

  Extras - 0

  Total - 4

  Bowling: 1-1 (that’s all that Reece wrote down.)

  BLACK CRAPS

  Abishek (10)

  Pranay (12)

  Chogel (11)

  Extras - 0

  Total - 3

  India wins. Black Craps lead the series 3-2.

  Whenever I go for a beer with my dad, I notice that he swears a lot more than usual, as if the words have been wrestling and building up inside his mouth and need to make a m*therf&cking getaway. His logic is sound: Mum doesn’t need to hear it; his son can cope. Those in the Goldfish Bowl couldn’t help but notice the same phenomenon happening to Stew. Every second word was ‘fuck’.

  ‘Geez, we’ve gone through some fucking butter.’

  ‘Did you fucking see the fucking steam coming out of that fucking train?’

  ‘Fuck me, do they have to fucking piss everywhere?’

  ‘Are you still reading that fucking book, Justin?’

  We could have started a swear jar, but where’s the fun in that? The Goldfish Bowl was, after all, a no-holds barred, no topic out of bounds, piss-taking portable juggernaut of filth and non-decorum.

  That’s right — it was home.

  As the temperature rose, the altitude dropped and the outlook changed from inhospitable living to one where you could make one off the land. I wondered why it was that returns trip always seemed quicker. Maybe because you knew what you were in for. Crawling down the mountain was no different. And it forced us to relax. Even John, who I’m sure can’t sit still on the toilet, learnt the chords C, F and G on my daughter’s ukulele. Stew was just happy if there were horns, Brendon sucked in and recorded the scenery, and Reece did his best to become his digestive system’s number-one arch rival.

  ‘What the hell are those?’ Stew asked as Blanket Boy opened a steaming bag of street food from a nearby stop.

  ‘Momos!’ he said. ‘Beef dumplings,’ he continued, when faced by blank looks. He stuck one in his mouth. ‘Momos . . . with an inedible chilli sauce. Yikes!’

  ‘Why the hell are you eating them?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re beautiful!’ he said, passing the bag. ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘You’ll pay for it tomorrow.’

  ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’ asked Reece, finishing the bag in record time. Each momo, near boiling point, ping-ponged around inside his gob. ‘You’re right though,’ he muttered, rummaging around the van floor for something to wash it down with. ‘I’ll probably pay for it tomorrow.’

  Half an hour later we stopped to join a TV shop worker watch the curren
t India-Pakistan series. Stretched out on his shop mattress — with his six-month-old son in his arms — the most relaxed-looking man in the universe must have wondered why the gods had chosen him to have a job where he could mix business with pleasure. In between overs, we asked for some local Hindi tunes for the Goldfish Bowl.

  ‘Sugam Pokhrel?’ Reece asked, looking at the CD cover. ‘Nepalese artist?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the owner, eyes not leaving the TV.

  ‘Pirate?’ Reece asked.

  ‘Course he’s not a pirate,’ I said. ‘He’s a singer.’

  Reece knew I was being an idiot. He was, of course, alluding to the fact that so much music in Asia — and around the world for that matter — is illegally copied and sold. He repeated the question. ‘Pirate?’ he asked the man with the easiest job in the world.

  ‘One hundred and fifty rupees,’ repeated the man.

  ‘Pirate?’

  ‘One hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Pirate?’

  ‘One hundred and fifty.’

  And so on.

  ‘He’s actually a singer,’ I reiterated, as we walked back to the van.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Reece.

  One thing was becoming certain on this odyssey: the more we saw what other balls were being used for cricket, the more we came to appreciate dirty old Vicky. A case in point was the shack we discovered on a main road, its young occupants using little more than a rock wrapped in a plastic bag. Their pitch was the driveway, their wicketkeeper a main highway. Granted, cars could do little more than fifty kilometres an hour on such a snake-like thoroughfare, but this was one of those situations — which occur a lot in India — where you want to suggest the toddlers get off the road and go inside to read a book. Back to your safe little lives, Cotton-Wool-Westerners. This was the sort of place you could shoot a movie, but not one where you could live. Remoteness and loneliness went hand in hand.

  I had begun to enjoy interviewing each game’s Man of the Match. Today’s, after a quick few hits into oncoming traffic, was Vivek Pradhan, an eleven-year-old whose favourite players were India’s Dhoni Singh, Sri Lanka’s Malinga the Slinger and, rather bizarrely, England’s Alistair Cook. His mates yelled, ‘Britney Spears!’ when I asked after his favourite artist. But he stuck to his guns, naming Himesh, an Indian pop star, instead. And although his preferred career choice was to be like Kris, a superhero gaming character, he’ll probably have to put up with career plan number two: the Indian Army.

  The Goldfish Bowl continued on its way, past more safety signs clearly written by government workers with too much time: ‘If married, divorce speed’ and ‘Hurry burry spoils the curry’. Soon we were in New Jalpaiguri and ready to jump on an Indian overnight train. As we sat in the first-class lounge — which consisted of one small table, a broken fan and a toilet which smelled as though you were inside someone’s arse — everyone seemed in equally agreeable moods. This was to be our sanctuary while we waited for the delayed Northeast Express to Varanasi. It was a hovel, but at least our bags were safe. Stew wrote in his diary, John paid the equivalent of a month’s Indian wages to get his shoes shined, and I attempted another of Shantaram. I had become obsessed with a bar in Mumbai the author described named Leopold’s, an open-air pub where expats smoked cigars, drank cocktails and committed dodgy deeds. It was the focal point of the novel and he described it brilliantly, but after 546 pages out of 817, reading was beginning to feel like homework. The others had started giving me grief for travelling with a book resembling a brick. I saw it differently: at least I had a weapon handy should Reece choose to snore again.

  This, however, wasn’t to be an issue once we eventually boarded the Northeast Express, an hour and a half late. With only four to a compartment (and there being five of us) we kindly let Reece loose among his own people. The same people who, despite Reece’s insistence, didn’t still wear blankets, and definitely didn’t still eat soup with their fingers. When food did arrive, shortly after we departed, we watched him slop and slurp his way through runny dhal and vegetable curry. We glanced around the carriage: not one Indian was using his fingers.

  ‘It’s the twenty-first century, Reece,’ said Stew, passing him a plastic knife and fork.

  ‘It’s called respect, Stew,’ fired back Reece.

  ‘Anyone want my chicken?’ asked Brendon, looking queasy.

  Being on a train is a bit like camping — you have a lot of evening to fill before it’s lights out. Luckily, once Reece completed licking his lumpy yoghurt-drenched fingers he had stories about our destination. ‘Back in 1993, when I lived in Varanasi,’ he said, ‘I was having a wash in the Ganges. . .’

  ‘You washed in the Ganges?’ John asked, looking up from his book.

  ‘Yeah. Every day.’

  ‘But isn’t it full of dead people?’ I asked.

  ‘And dogs,’ said Reece. ‘And babies. Anyway, I was scrubbing away, and as I stood up, my foot went straight through someone’s body.’

  ‘A live body?’

  ‘A dead body! The upper torso floated to the surface and went downstream.’

  ‘Was it just a skeleton?’ I asked.

  ‘No, it was still fleshy.’

  Reece loved the look on our faces. And now he was on a roll. ‘It’s not as bad as the day a dog swam out and grabbed a dead baby and brought it back onto shore, and all other dogs came and ripped it pieces.’

  A collective ‘No.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Reece. ‘It was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. The baby was dismembered, and the dogs were all fighting over it. All I remember is the length of the poor thing’s intestines.’

  ‘Did people watch it?’

  ‘No,’ said Reece, ‘this is India. They just went about their daily business.’

  We sat in silence as the train rumbled alongside a setting sun.

  ‘You’re not making me want to visit this river,’ Brendon said.

  ‘Me neither!’ said Stew.

  ‘I want to go back to the Windermere,’ I added.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so silly,’ said Reece, staring out the train window, a wistful look in his eye. Varanasi’s great.’

  Every now and again, a mobile phone beeped. A text from home. An embarrassed smile from the recipient. Not once, even from the peaks of the Himalayas, did we fail to get a crystal-clear reception. It put the networks at home to shame, especially as some mobile phone companies were offering deals for one rupee (four US cents) a minute. Having such accessible means of communication in such a foreign environment was great comfort. Which was just as well really, as we were about to receive urgent news from home that would change the trip completely.

  AMONG THE DEAD IN THE CITY OF LIFE

  The night passed and no gear was stolen. Brendon was particularly anxious about his camera equipment, but our see-through, ripped curtain was clearly an extreme line of defence. Everyone claimed they slept well. One small mercy had been the lack of snoring, despite John sharing Reece’s affliction. (It must be a second-cousin thing.) Stew, however, who always roomed with John, was savvy when it came to counteracting the issue, having invested in state-of-the-art earplugs which blocked even the most fervent sleep thief. On more than one occasion, as Reece threatened to lift our ceiling at 3 am, I seriously considered borrowing them. But that would probably be pushing the bounds of friendship a little too far.

  Outside the window, a grey fog sat on dew-covered fields. Unimpressed buffalo glanced at the train with contempt. Tiny fires glowered, surely not achieving their aim, and, as always, people sat among the reeds performing their morning sabbatical.

  Only one thing crossed our minds as we watched: ‘Reece, what are the rules about pissing and shitting in this place?’

  ‘There are no rules,’ said Reece.

  ‘So you can go wherever you want?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Do people go in the same place everyday?’

  ‘Probably.’

  I
glanced at my watch: 7.41 am.

  ‘What about women? Do they squat in front of men?’

  ‘No, they probably get up at 4.30.’

  It was another example of how tough life must be for women in India. Take marriage: while it has always been immensely important, the institution has traditionally treated women as less than equals. Often dowries result in poor families struggling to make payments. In India’s largest cities, newspapers are full of stories of ‘dowry deaths’, in which new brides are murdered or driven to commit suicide as a result of bullying for a dowry payment by the groom or his family. Even now, prospective brides see female foeticide — the selective aborting of female babies — as an option to avoid such circumstances. And although dowries were made illegal in 1961 and prenatal gender testing in 1996, both are still commonplace.

  The prospect of a shower and a feed kept our spirits high as we dressed in our tiny compartment. Soon we were off the Northeast Express and inhaling coal, a smell I would never have associated with India.

  ‘The changes have been phenomenal, and slightly scary, since I was here twenty years ago,’ said Reece, watching a cow try to chew a plastic bag. ‘Those guys, for example,’ he said, pointing at the bony heifer. ‘They used to be the perfect natural vacuum cleaner, mopping up everything from food scraps to cigarette packets. But that all changed in ’94 with the advent of the plastic bag. The poor buggers can’t digest them. Add to that, the fact that India’s population has doubled and you have problems.’