A Surge Of Time (Chapter 10)

Author:
Ram Ramakrishnan
Feb 17, 2018 11:25 PM EST

Dwarakadas stood halfway down the stairway to the hill top temple surveying the sea of humanity gathered below in the village square. He had completed the evening ritual at the temple sanctum a few moments before and carried a brass plate in his hand with lighted camphor to the people waiting below.

The crowd was larger than usual because many people from other villages had camped at Champaner to be able to go to Raigadh each day to witness the cricket match.

Despite the huge numbers, there was hardly any clamor or noise, the general mood being extremely somber. The village team was in a perilous position in the match and the prospect of a threefold tax to be paid loomed ominously.

All eyes were riveted on the flames fed by the disintegrating camphor in the plate held by the priest, hoping to see by its divine light some obscure path to redemption, while the priest himself was pondering over the stupidity of humans in making very little – if at all any, use of the reasoning power granted to them. They invariably came to god as the last refuge. If they truly believed in His existence, then they should never be sliding into dejection and despair – as by definition, every happening should be His handiwork. But then, he said to himself, that humans are stupid, was also His handiwork.

From the midst of the waiting crowd, rose a figure clad in white and moved towards the descending priest. It was Bhuvan’s mother Yashoda. She had been weighed down by this very fact. As the mother of the man who had challenged the whites and brought the entire population of the kingdom of Raigadh to such a cross roads, she felt she was more responsible for it than Bhuvan himself.

There was no doubt in her mind about the correctness of what her son had done. It is the possible consequential plight of the people that tormented her. Saluting the flame in the priest’s hand and raising her arms heavenwards, she sang in a beseeching voice -

Gauri, who had been by Yashoda’s side constantly over the last two days, was alarmed and anxious about the debilitating effect that such agony would have on her health.

As Yashoda staggered from the effort of singing aloud, Gauri held her and in an endeavor to maintain the mood that the elder lady’s words had produced, continued with the espousal -

The solemnity already pervading the air, was infused with an additional sense of entreaty that provoked a universal chorus from all those camping in the square –

It was the first time in three months that Bhuvan’s confidence had ebbed. All these days, he would turn to his mother for encouragement whenever he felt despondency raise its head, and would find ready assistance and comfort in those calm eyes and gentle smile to reinvigorate him.

Today, that fountainhead of reassurance and support, itself appeared to be looking for succor elsewhere. He too added his pleadings to those of his mother –

The loss of resolution on the part of the flag-bearer of their unparalleled endeavor, made the anguished onlookers sing the opening verses of Yashoda again in chorus -

Lakha with his head swathed in a bandage, had been trying to get over his sense of culpability by openly and repeatedly admitting his misconduct. It made him feel miserable once again, when he remembered how he initially let his people down, by aligning with the enemy.

His distress overflowed in the form of yet another confession –

Though it was only the previous evening that the crowd had bayed for his blood, the fast moving developments and Lakha’s subsequent efforts at making amends, had secured for the reformed man the villagers pardon.

His words now erased all traces of ill will against him and the crowd chorused once again –

The pace of events and its twists and turns made the Mukhiya realize the hollowness of his pride. Many ideas and explanations of Shambhu kaka and Dwarakadas, to which he had paid scant attention earlier, seemed to expose their meaningful depths. He felt that if blame were to be apportioned for their current quandary, he too would have a right to a fair share. His penitence was vocalized thus –

True remorse certainly lightens the burden of guilt and the villagers saw its manifestation in the countenance of their leader, as peace spread across his face and tension eased from his manner. In relief, the crowd chorused their prayer to the almighty –

It made Dwarakadas sadly happy to see everyone in such a reflective mood. He had always had the advantage of his philosophy, his equanimity, and his disinterestedness in material possessions to ride through the turbulences in life.

He also believed that everyone had these attributes in some degree and this conviction appeared to be in the process of being proved. He gave vent to his thoughts aloud –

In the context of the present situation, all seemed to understand the substance and connotation of his words and expressed their appreciation by singing the chorus –

Having poured forth their woe to the Omnipotent, the assembly felt the mood transform from one of hopeless depression to one of expectant anticipation for what the ‘morrow had in store for them.

With this transformation came sleep like an unseen mist - peaceful, serene, and soothing, that swept over the village and rocked its exhausted inhabitants and their guests in its comforting cradle.

There was something in the air that morning, as sunlight ushered in dawn on the final day of the cricket match between the Raigadh cantonment eleven and the Champaner eleven. Something indescribable, something amiably ominous. It would have been preposterous to assume that nature having divined the outcome of the match had set in motion its preparatory measures for a suitable heraldry.

Divine the outcome, nature indeed could have, but human affairs - that too of a minuscule horde cramped in a field of irrelevant proportions - would have been of too little significance for any such groundwork. Nature’s outlook would have been all encompassing, its interests universal, its actions being of consequence to all things alive – not just humans.

Shambhu kaka felt it but could not discern.

Dwarakadas sensed it but was unable to distinguish.

Boyer detected it, clarity failing him in his endeavor at identification.

Every man, woman and child present there experienced it, lacking recognition.

Even if one of them could, it would have negated the charm of uncertainties in life, the allure of being alive. It was with this strange yet exhilarating awareness that all gathered around the field to witness the continuing conflict between misconception and determination, the arrogance of the whites and the resolve of the natives, between the willow and leather.

Play resumed with the overnight score at 99 for 4, Bhuvan and Ishwar in the middle with their individual scores at 20 and 0 respectively, their opponents keen to wrap up the match quickly and believing that they could do so.

The captain’s strategy was to keep the older man from facing the bowling to the extent possible and do the bulk of the scoring himself. He also felt that the run gathering would have to be preferably in fours and sixes in view of the lack of stamina in Ishwar and his aging body.

He was able to enact this proposition to a fair degree and in the process, completed his half-century, which was received with applause from all.

“This boy has verve!” exclaimed Boyer.

“And to think that I strongly dissuaded him…” Puran Singh stopped in mid-sentence, casting a furtive look at the man seated next to him.

The pair of batsmen had carried the score to 151 for 4, having added 52 runs to the overnight tally.

The strain began to tell upon Ishwar. He was perspiring profusely, breathing painstakingly.

A single became an ordeal, a two a torment. Bhuvan’s hit of the last ball of a Flynn over was running away towards the boundary with Brooks after it. There was time for two runs, which they completed - Ishwar gritting his teeth to bear the excruciating pain in his sides.

It was then that the younger man realized that he would remain at the bowler’s end during the next over. Wanting to avoid this situation and seeing that there was still time for a third run, he urged the struggling man for one more and himself darted across the pitch.

Ishwar tried to run and had to abandon it after a couple of steps; made an effort to walk and was forced to give up this too after a couple of more steps; attempted to stand but found his legs go blubbery as he collapsed, the safety of the crease – as it seemed to him, an infinite distance away.

Brooks smartly fielded the ball a yard inside the boundary after a long chase and threw it back to Burton who broke the stumps, with Ishwar still staggering far away.

Up went umpire Doherty’s finger followed by the mood in the fielding camp and down plummeted the spirits of the villagers.

The two completed runs were awarded to the batting team and their score went up to 153 for 5. Bhuvan ran across to Ishwar and helped him to his feet.

“Are you alright, kaka?” The older man was a picture of wretched despair.

“I let you down, my son!” he wailed, as he slowly walked away from the field. At its edge stood Gauri, terribly concerned. She conducted her father to a makeshift cot to minister to his overwhelming exhaustion.

“Our sinews we urge, we go, we surge,” thundered Gurran as he issued forth from the tent, bat held like a mace, shoulder-length hair and chest-length beard waving in the gentle wind, reinvigorating the subdued atmosphere.

“Doesn’t he look like a forest?” commented a middle-aged foreigner seated around a table under a sunshade in the vicinity of the pavilion.

“And there is a lion roaring from inside it!” added his female partner seated across.

Gurran’s figure and mannerisms elicited general mirth among all those in the elite enclosure. The fielders too were having a good joke at his expense, as he assumed his familiar horse-riding stance.

He threw conventions to the wind as he belted the ball in every direction, facilitated by his exceptional posture. It was a swashbuckling innings of 33 runs that he played reducing Bhuvan to a junior partner.

There were uncommon drives, atypical sweeps, abnormal hooks, aberrant pulls, unusual cuts, and uncharacteristic glances.

On the whole, an extraordinarily bizarre innings that enthralled the audience and punched the score up to 192.

Any explosive action lacks the potential of sustenance and so it was with Gurran’s tenure at the crease, which was cut short by the wily Willis who got a slower one to beat the batsman’s pad, as it stood rooted in front of the stumps.

Gurran walked back to the tent as he had come, a walking forest with the lion in it roaring.

The score had reached 192 for 6.

Bhuvan mulled over their chances. With their main batsmen gone, it was only the tail that remained. Goli who was walking in was the first of them.

Effectively the score was 192 for 7, Ismail having sustained a serious enough injury to render him immobile. He wished fate had not been so cruel with Ismail, so cruel with them all.

But time was a one-way street. He could only look forwards and do what ever he could. Brooding over what was done wasn’t going to help in any way.

“Do your best, Goli. Let’s see how far we go,” Bhuvan tried to pep up the man at the other end.

Willis ran in, fresh with his success in the previous delivery and bowled to Goli, who though being fresh at the wicket was weighed down by pessimism and diffidence. The ball preferred the stumps to the bat, knocking one off. The beaten man started his walk back.

The bowler was on a hat-trick and his mates gathered around him imparting advice and conferring confidence to help him achieve it.

“The villain couldn’t last a single ball. I will show you how to bat,” said Bhura, casting a withering look at the returning man as he prepared to replace him.

When he made to go, a firm hand at his shoulder held him back and a gritty voice said, “Wait, Bhura, I will go first.”

All present there looked around.

It was Ismail.

“But, how can you...” began several other voices that were silenced by a hand held up.

“Bhuvan needs me now. Our team and the village need me and I have to go!” he exclaimed, starting to swiftly limp his way to the middle.

The captain was both a worried and happy man. Looking at this personification of confidence limping up, his hope was granted a new lease of life. But would it not mean an aggravation of the already serious injury?

“Ismail, how can you run with this foot?”

The umpires too had been monitoring the developments. They got together for a quick conference that made them decide in favor of allowing the injured man a runner. Failing to covey their verdict to Bhuvan, they did so through a reluctant Russell.

The relieved and overjoyed batting team captain sprinted across to the tent and brought along Tipu for the purpose. The boy was all excitement. He had been sore at being left out of the team but here he was playing the match at last.

“Listen carefully, Tipu. You will always stay inside the crease when not taking a run. Never stray from it or you will get Ismail out. Go for a run only when I call,” instructed Bhuvan.

The boy nodded vigorously.

Thus began a saga of batting display powered by steely tenacity, earthy obstinacy, and airy abandon, that was to be long remembered and retold in Champaner and its surrounding villages and was to find a prominent place in their folklore for generations to come.

Initially, Ismail did find his injury cramping his style of play. There were close shaves of the run-out kind when both the batsman and his runner would involuntarily start for a run before the wounded man would realize his mistake and retract.

Soon, all three involved in the endeavor adapted to the roles required of them and functioned as a well-oiled run-making machine. The exhibition of cricketing fire works provided by Gurran during the brief time that he was at the crease, was continued by his successor, and enthusiastically replicated at the other end of the wicket by his captain.

While Gurran essayed raw power, this pair presented an exhibition of finesse.

The first was thrilling; this was scintillating.

The one earlier was an expression of harsh authority; this was inspired poetry.

“Incredibly entertaining! I am glad that I am here to watch it,” commented Boyer and turning to Elizabeth seated beside said, “I believe you too have had a hand in this.”

The girl beamed. She was proud of Bhuvan. Her Bhuvan. He would certainly win the match.

He would be the uncrowned king of Champaner and she his …

The sun had begun its descent and the umpires began looking at their watches after every over. When it was exactly an hour to the scheduled close of play, they quickly conferred among themselves and then signaled to the two captains and the scorer. Ram Singh too noticed the indication and made the appropriate announcement over the megaphone.

“The last hour of play commences now. The bowling team has to send down twenty mandatory overs in this hour. The game will conclude under any of these three possibilities, whichever is the first to occur. The first possibility is that twenty overs are bowled even if the elapsed time goes beyond the hour and the batting team is unable to make the required number of runs in them. The second is that the bowling team gets all batsmen of the opposing team out and the third is that the batting team scores the required runs. The score of the batting team now stands at 228 for 7 and it requires 95 runs more to win this match with three wickets in hand.”

The announcement was received with loud cheering and chants of “Bhuvan! Ismail!”

“What chances do you accord to the home team, Major Cotton?” enquired Boyer.

“One in four, Sir!” responded Cotton and gave his reasons.

“We have had 17 hours of play so far and 550 runs scored. That makes an average of roughly 32 runs an hour. The requirement now is 95 runs an hour which appears to be a pretty uphill task to me.”

Boyer turned to Warren seated on his other side.

“And what say you, Major?”

There was a brief pause while the man reflected, slowly scratching his graying beard.

“I would give them an even chance, Sir. Statistics, unfortunately, provides us only an average of many possibilities, including the two extremes, which too have a fair probability, though certainly less than the prospect attributable to the average. But considering the grit of the two batsmen in the centre, I would enhance the odds for the home team to equal what could be supposed for the mean. So I give them two in four, Sir,” countered Major Warren.

Boyer had no personal preferences but Warren’s deduction seemed more acceptable to him.

‘I would put the odds at ten to one,’ thought Elizabeth to herself.

Over the next three quarters of an hour, Ismail and Bhuvan gave a sterling display of batsmanship, substantiating the inference of Major Warren. Fours and sixes flowed from their blades and were augmented by the singles and twos that continued to come in the wake of Bhuvan’s agility and Tipu’s fleet footedness.

But the long tenure at the wicket and the emotional tension began to tell on Bhuvan’s strength and alertness. Increasingly, possible twos were being restricted to singles and certain but sharp singles went abegging.

Russell quickly rotated his bowlers in the hope that variety in the bowling attack would destabilize their concentration, but it was not to be. The pair had put on 81 runs for the eighth wicket brought the score up to 303 for 7, with 16 balls to go.

At a little more than a run a ball, the target seemed achievable and the British captain was at his wit’s end. The next ball from Willis provided him with the means to be adopted to break this dangerous partnership.

Tipu, in his childish excitement, had begun to stray out of the bowling crease before the bowler had released the ball. The two batsmen in their preoccupation with the target and their tiredness had not noticed this to warn the boy against it.

Emboldened by the possibility of completing a run in a shorter time, Tipu took off for a run while Willis was still two strides away from the stumps. Willis bowled and the batting team added two more runs through a sweep from Bhuvan’s blade behind the wicket.

The tactic of Tipu was not however lost on Russell. He had noticed this earlier also but the boy had been more cautious and had waited almost up to the point of release of the ball. The captain quietly walked up to the bowler to give precise instructions in a whisper.

Willis began running in. The boy waited until he was a few strides away and buoyed by the success in the previous delivery, started his run a little earlier than the previous time.

The bowler ran up to the stumps and stopped.

Tipu was almost half way down the pitch and when the ball did not whiz past him as expected, stopped too.

All stood still for a moment.

Time itself appeared to do so, as everyone realized the impending consequence.

Horror clouded the faces of the two batsmen and froze their voices.

Smiles of relief spread across those of the fielders and the bowler and they had no such problems with their larynx.

Willis flicked a bail off the stumps, turned to the umpire and asked “How was that, Sir?”

Sympathy for the innocent boy sparkled in umpire Doherty’s eyes for a moment. He remembered his allegiance to his calling and summarily extinguishing emotions that had no place in such a situation, raised his index finger.

“Get along, you cur. Shoo!” said the bowler, derisively waving his hand at the stunned boy.

His mates guffawed, gathering around to congratulate him. Umpire Doherty, kept a straight face, suppressing the impulse to stop this unwarranted verbal abuse.

Tears welled up in the boys eyes. He ran to Bhuvan and began to wail loudly, hugging him. The sense of having let down the team with his stupidity coupled with the jeers of the white men made him feel miserable.

“Good work, Tipu”

“You have done a great job,” said the two batsmen by turn, in their attempt to console him.

“Go on, Ismail, and send Bhura in. We still have a chance,” said Bhuvan extricating himself from the inconsolable boy.

Ismail put a comforting arm around Tipu’s shoulders and hobbled back towards the pavilion. The happening had moved many among the spectators.

“The brutes,” said Puran Singh, under his breath.

“Oh! What a shame,” exclaimed Boyer.

“Perhaps the umpire should have let the boy off with a warning, but rules are rules,” opined Cotton.

Elizabeth’s streaming eyes said it all; she did not need further words to express her feeling.

There were many in the crowd who felt and reacted as she did.

The score read 305 for 8. The target was 18 runs from 14 balls. Gettable yet, if they could conserve their wickets.

Bhura joined Bhuvan, replacing Ismail.

“Just keep your end up. Do not let your wicket fall. I will get the runs,” said his captain to him, as they met at mid-pitch.

Bhuvan channeled his resentment at Ismail’s unsportsmanlike dismissal into his next shot. An alert Flynn stopped it a yard inside the boundary restricting what might have been a certain four to merely two runs. The score inched up to 307 for 8.

It was now the last ball of Willis’ over.

“We have to get a single, Bhura. Only a single! That will let me retain strike in the next over,” instructed Bhuvan to his partner who nodded his nervous assent.

His rival on the other hand exhorted his men to close in and prevent a single. The final delivery came up and the batsman swished his blade and immediately took off for a run. The ball raced towards Russell who realized that he would be unable to affect a run-out considering the head start that the batsmen had. His presence of mind made him do the next best thing to ensure that Bhuvan did not gain the striker’s end for the next over. He kicked the ball away towards and past the boundary achieving his objective at the cost of four runs and smiled at Bhuvan condescendingly, as they walked past each other to take their respective positions for the penultimate over of the match.

The score now stood at 311 for 8 and the target 12 runs from 12 balls. It looked far easier than before until one realized that it was Bhura, dismal with the bat, who faced Smith in charge of the bowling attack.

“Keep it tight, Smith, and fell this joker quickly,” commanded the captain.

Smith sent in his first delivery and Bhura jabbed the bat at it awkwardly. The ball went in a direction opposite to that intended. It caught the fielder on the wrong foot and provided sufficient time to scamper for a single.

Both batsmen were keenly following the ball as they ran and did not notice that they were headed for a collision. Bhura being more agile of the two swerved at the last moment and continued on his way. Bhuvan, already tired from the daylong effort and not familiar with Bhura’s fowl snaring maneuvers, attempted to mimic his partner’s tactic, only to slip and fall flat on his face on the pitch.

There were excited shouts of, “The ball, get the ball!”

Bhura turned back to survey the scene of disaster. The ball was being retrieved and was about to be thrown back at the end that he had just vacated and to which Bhuvan was headed. His captain too was on the verge of getting back to his feet and attempting to make his ground. Bhura realized that his partner would not be able to make it and with the captain gone, their hope of winning the match would also fade away.

His decision was quick and his reaction equally fast. In one movement, he swiveled around and raced ahead of Bhuvan, pushing him away as he went past. As he closed in towards the crease, the ball was thrown back to an eagerly waiting Burton who whipped of the bails with it. Being closer to the crease than Bhuvan, Bhura was adjudged run out. The two met yet again in mid-pitch.

“It was my fault, Bhura! I am sorry but you may have still won us the match with your quick thinking and action. I hope that your effort does not go in vain.”

The departing man was grateful to his captain to have taken the blame upon himself for that avoidable mix-up, but he knew that he was equally at fault. Russell was elated that his devious move of the previous over had paid off and was basking in the ego-boosting warmth of adulation with a smug expression on his face.

He believed that he had the opposition by the jugular. It was now only a matter of squeezing it tight and snuffing it out.

The score had changed only in terms of wickets lost no runs having been added since the pervious over. At 311 for 9, the task for the batting side looked very intimidating indeed.

Bhura returned to the makeshift pavilion in tears and surprisingly it was to Goli that he went first to seek solace. Goli was not found wanting in providing what was sought, as he took his redoubtable everyday adversary in a tight embrace saying softly in his ears, “You did well, my friend! You saved Bhuvan’s wicket!”

It was Kachra’s turn to walk to the wicket and he felt as if he was about to walk to the scaffold. The reminders from his teammates that the fate of the match and that of their own was dependent on the kind of support that he provided Bhuvan, only accentuated this impression.

He walked in wide-eyed, with fear showing in them unashamedly. Those in the elite enclosure who were not aware of the composition of the local team let out a gasp at this strange sight.

The first two deliveries to Kachra were aimed at the batsman’s body rather than on his stumps and each time, an inapt evasive action came in the way of certain injury. Familiarization to conditions does diminish unreasonable aversion and the last two balls had instilled in the quavering Kachra the seed of a thought that if he could survive two then he could survive more.

The next ball from Smith was aimed at the stumps but the batsman hung out a tentative bat at it. The ball glanced off the extended bat’s face between the wicket keeper and the slip fielder. It did not go far, but far enough for the two batsmen to scurry for a close run.

A Surge Of Time (Chapter 10)

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