Hero meets Hero Today

I remember writing this long back. But lost it somewhere. I have tried my best to retain how I wrote what i wrote. Let me also confess that the original piece too was not a real original. Either someone had related this to me, or I had dreamt about it, or maybe (just maybe) I had read something similar to it. If it is somebody else's story I wish to be forgiven. Or thanked, for having dug it out after so many years!!!


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Abdul stepped out of the Irani restauarant into the sun-drenched outdoors. He was in a real dilemma this morning. Two thoughts flooded his mind and had been bothering him for quite some time. And both thoughts were somehow interminably intertwined and related to each other.

For the twenty-two year old Abdul, life had presented many opportunities in the form of job options, but he had chosen to take the easy (by his own admission) route. Picking the pockets of people in the crowded lanes and bylanes of Bombay appeared to attract him the most, and he seemed to be making enough to be able to afford the rent for his shack and the two odd meals that he wolfed down at the neighbourhood eateries that he frequented. He didn’t drink but ended up spending over thirty rupees a day over those stylish cigarettes that he thought added to his personality and made him look rather more mature than his looks actually did.

The clothes Abdul wore were influenced by the latest trends the Bollywood movies exhibited, and he made sure his haircut was in line with those of the in-form leading men on the silver screen.
Ritesh, the friendly neighbourhood tailor would often make Abdul’s wallet a bit lighter to enhance his sartorial grandeur but the latter didn’t mind that. Ranchhod’s hair styling too was never criticized by Adbul. After all, both these friends of his made him look so much like Rajesh Khanna, the current Matinee Idol.

This morning’s dilemma was something that the normally unfazed and cavalier Abdul hadn’t bargained for. It was the 26th of the month, and for once his wallet (hardly his own, really. It had been pinched from the backside of a bank officer two weeks back) had hardly anything in it. Well, ok, that was only one part of the problem. The second part was the one that had him worried, and thinking, and truly in crisis.

The Test Match was to begin today. A Cricket Test Match, after many years, in his own city. And one in which his idol was going to play. And apart from his idol, he could get to watch so many others that he had grown up reading about, or hearing about on Shyaam Paan House owner Raghu’s radio. The names were those that he could reel off without taking a breath. Pataudi, Wadekar, Solkar, Surti, Engineer, apart from the rival team’s players like Hall, Griffith, Gibbs, Sobers, Kanhai, Butcher, Nurse. But the reverence with which he took the name of his idol was something else.

Abdul was always in awe of Salim Durrani. How did God ever create such a fine-looking cricketer! What height, what looks! What an elegant,lazy, languorous walk, and almost studied indifference towards things. Abdul had an entire album, a scrap-book collected over many years of tearing up pictures and articles from newspapers and magazines in Hindi, Gujarati, Marathi and even English.
And today, the morning papers had announced clearly, his idol was going to play. He had been selected to play for India since Borde wasn’t fit and was nursing a shoulder injury. Abdul wanted to have a good, close look at the left-handed all rounder. He wanted to watch him demolish the opponents’ bowling and then produce a couple of magical deliveries that would get some leading batsmen back into the dressing room.

But the terrible start to his day had been the discovery that his wallet had only fourteen rupees in it. Enough to get him his lunch for the day but not enough to get him into the Brabourne Stadium. Forget the Pavilion Class, he could not even afford to get into the “Royal Stand”, as the lowest –priced enclosure was fondly called.

Getting out into the open seemed to do some good to his imagination. All he needed to do was get hold of a good Gujjubhai’s “paakit”. And he set out in search of one. Joshiwadi in Kalbadevi was a good option. Full of small-time merchants and commission agents, all eager to make an early morning killing, this was the perfect place for his handiwork, thought Abdul.

It didn’t take him too long. The catch of the day was an aritificial snake skin purse, but nice and full, and it was an easy one. Out came the purse, and off went Abdul. To the nearest bus stand and he quickly boarded on the run. Out of sight of the recently-relieved Kutchhi businessman.

Abdul got into the queue for the daily ticket at the Stadium. He now had enough money for the ticket, meals for the next four days, and maybe a brand new shirt that he could pick up from the roadside stall near Flora Fountain. There wasn’t enough time for a bite now. He decided that he would find his seat in the Stadium, watch the proceedings till lunch time and then go and grab a Keema Pav nearby during the lunch break. He got his ticket- Pavilion Class!

Ah, now for a good look at his heroes. And his special hero. The match was about to begin. The entrance to the pavilion was already dotted with youngsters. College students from rich families, members of the local cricket association, officials from the representative missions maybe, and of course the Press.

The game began. India had won the toss and decided to bat. This was good news for Abdul. He would soon get to watch his hero come out to bat. He normally batted two or three down, and knowing the West Indies bowling he was quite sure that it would not be long before he got to watch Durrani walk out with his bat. He was looking forward to see his idol swagger out, his shirt collar up, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and the silk scarf billowing around his neck.

The game had got underway now and India were off to a sedate start. The pre-lunch session of the first day went its typical way with both sides wanting to settle down. Four day matches were always like this. There was enough time for theatrics later. Only Durrani reveled in it from the first ball, thought Abdul.
Suddenly a thought flashed in his mind when he saw a pretty young lady in dark glasses walk past him towards the pavilion and the dressing room entrance. She held a note book in her hand. Oh, an autograph seeker!!!

Why didn’t I ever think about it, rued Abdul. I should have got one too. My dream would have been fully realized. Not only meeting my hero, getting his autograph today so that I could treasure it, show it off to Naseer and Bilkis and all the others. Must get an autograph book. Today. During the lunch break. Finish off lunch fast and run across to the stationery shop next door. Yes, that’s it. I can get it almost filled up today. There are so many players and ex-players also here today. I can spot Umrigar, Nadkarni, and is that Gupte?


With this thought in his mind, Abdul almost forgot what was happening on the field. India had lost a wicket but the batmsan at the crease grafted away. Abdul knew from the stories told by his friends that the batsmen who waited their turn to bat would normally come out and sit near the dressing room window, to get used to the conditions outside, and adjust themselves to the glare of the daylight. He was sure his idol would come out., if not now then surely after lunch. Abdul’s own thoughts did not travel beyond lunch. All he wanted to do now was to go out, grab a quick lunch and get that autograph book.

The rush during lunch break was even more than that before the game began. Pushing and jostling around, people ran to get food packets, bottles of soft drinks, almost as if a new set of people would rush into the Stadium to occupy somebody else’s seat!

Paramount Hotel beckoned with its aromatic aura, and Abdul settled down to have his favourite meal. He took not more than ten minutes, coaxing and cajoling the young boy serving his table and reminding the boy that he needed to get back to the stadium fast.

What would the autograph book cost? How does it matter? Let it cost even 50 rupees, who cares!! I can afford it today, Abdul smiled at the thought.

He got up, walked to the wash-basin, and made sure his hand and face had got a good cleansing. He combed his hair twice, ignoring the board above the basin which clearly forbade young men from comparing themselves with cinema heroes in the mirror. He smiled into the dirty mirror. Hero meets hero today, he thought to himself.

Heading for the counter to make his payment, he ruffled the hair on the boy’s head, telling him that he was happy with the quick service.

Abdul put his hand into his hip pocket to pull out his wallet and make the payment.

There was none.

One of his own ilk had done him in.

And with the wallet had also gone the ticket to enter the Stadium.