Part 2 (1/2)

With her head tilted, Mary smiles shyly at me, and says, *She has got viral infection, Payal memsahib. I will work here till she gets better.'

I unwrap the new Gucci dress I'd gone shopping for and do a quick calculation. Mary has been at my home since eight in the morning and will clean, wash, iron, dust and cook till five in the evening. After a nine-hour workday how will she have the energy to play a gruelling forty-minute match?

I shrug aside the concern, for I've seen the poor face worse dilemmas. I instruct her: *My shoes need to be cleaned. And keep my protein shake ready.'

My coach, Lee Wales, an ex-Cornell player who married an Indian woman and moved to Mumbai to teach the elite Malabar Hill Basketball Club, has instructed me to increase my fluid intake, saying it will help my sluggishness during the match.

I go to my room and am gelling my hair-so that it doesn't get in my face during the game-when the doorbell rings. Sara is at the door. I haven't seen her in two years and she's paler than I remember, thinner too. I leave aside the squeals and tight hugs that I usually give my visitors and shake her hand.

*Sorry I couldn't come to the airport,' I say. *I have an important match this evening.'

She reciprocates by giving me a long hug and I pull away, realizing that she hasn't changed.

*Dad told me-' she starts, and I glare at her. I don't understand why she's come to Mumbai for two weeks when Papa is not even here. She takes a visible gulp before finis.h.i.+ng her sentence: *Your father told me you were meeting his friend for a job interview today.'

She's making polite conversation-how typical.

*I'm obviously not, right?' I reply, and plunk down on the leather couch in the living room. I know Sara sees me as loud-mouthed, slightly wild, and irresponsible, a child who'll transition into old age without experiencing adulthood. From her middle-cla.s.s American perspective, it's appalling that I refuse to work for a living, have never lit a stove in my life, and haven't seen the inside of a bus or train.

*Mary, get Sara memsahib some Tang. What flavour do you want?'

*I'd prefer coconut water, please,' Sara says. She really hasn't changed.

I holler to Mary to bring a gla.s.s of chilled coconut water.

*So which team are you playing against, Payal?' Sara asks as my driver Lalit comes through the front door and goes into the guest room to set down Sara's suitcase.

*This ridiculous team, from the slums,' I say, lowering my voice.

*Why are you whispering?' Sara asks me, leaning over, also whispering.

*Well, one of them is here and she knows English.'

*Who?' Sara asks, surveying the room suspiciously.

*The maid.'

*The maid?'

*Yes.'

*You have a maid who speaks English and enters sports compet.i.tions with you?' Sara asks incredulously. There is a wilful stupidity in the things Sara says and does, like calling my father *Dad' and visiting me without an invitation. This never fails to annoy me. I'm about to tell her so when I hear the jingle of Mary's gla.s.s bangles. I look up to see her walking towards us. The bangles will be gone in another three hours when I meet her on court.

She sets down two gla.s.ses in front of us-one filled with coconut water and the other with a protein shake-and leaves.

Sara turns to me and says, *She's wearing a chain with a cross on it. Is she Christian?'

*I guess so,' I say. I've never understood Sara's obsession with Indian religions, which I'm more indifferent to in the metropolis of Mumbai than she is in her hometown of Memphis. *Why? Do you feel for her because she's Christian?'

*That's not what I ... never mind. I guess I don't understand these things.'

I want to tell Sara that there are a lot of things she doesn't understand. Like my anger towards Papa who married Sara's mother, while my mother was still alive, and got away with it because he was a man, a very rich man. How my anger turned to resentment when he moved to Memphis five months before my mother pa.s.sed away. That I don't work so I can return the disappointment that he slapped on my face. More than anything else, Sara doesn't understand my anger at myself, when-in those dark confusing days after my mother's death-I had needed her support, held on to her, a half-sister I'd never met, as if she was a life jacket in a tumultuous sea.

Sara is still looking at me. There's a sense of purpose in her eyes that I can't ignore as she says, *Can I come and watch the game?'

*Come, don't come,' I reply, not caring. *But don't expect the NBA.'

Lalit drives Sara and me to The Bombay Club where the match is to start at seven. We walk to the court where there are already two dozen players, two coaches, a referee, three of my team members' boyfriends, and a handful of casual onlookers, mainly middle-aged men checking out the girls.

Sara looks dismayed. *How do I tell one team from the other? No one's wearing uniforms.'

*Seriously? You can't tell the difference between the slum kids and us?' I say to her, before running on to the court. When the game begins with a jumpball I wonder if the distinctions I take for granted are obvious to others. The Agnis wear unbranded mono-colour tees and shorts with single-sole sneakers (though their best three-point shooter plays barefoot). Their skin is patchy, blemished. They have calloused hands and oily hair tied tightly into ponytails. In contrast to them, we wear sneakers and clothes branded with Nike's confident swoosh, headgear to maintain our expensively cut bangs, and skin with the plastic sheen of melamine, thanks to the Clinique and s.h.i.+seido products we're partial to. Everyone in my team has a French manicure (despite Lee's frustration), unlike The Agnis with their nails crusted with dirt or henna half-moons. My girls move their limbs, long, poised and precise, like those whose life is a blur of comforts, while The Agnis flail their shorter arms and legs, both of which are used to being physically active. There's something about our eyes too, soft but smug, as if the world belongs to us, as does this game and its victory, unlike the alert, bright eyes of our rivals. There's definitely no need for uniforms to tell the difference.

I expect a slow start from The Agnis since they're unaccustomed to playing on polished maple backboards. But Fatima, The Agnis' fastest shooting guard, scores in less than a minute.

*f.u.c.k,' one of The Hoopsters shouts. The Agnis look at each other and start giggling. I've never heard them swear or curse, even when they're losing.

The Hoopsters catch up, playing hard and running up a 12a20 score, but The Agnis team comes back with some fast dribbling and agile slam-dunks, none of which they've done earlier. It's a close game, fought to the end. With three seconds left, Mary hits two free throws and Agni wins 40a34. The girls swamp each other with backslaps and silent cheers, probably afraid to behave like winners around rich people. We concede with a few claps. There are no awards or medals to distribute; all The Agnis have gained is an entry into the semi-finals.

After the game the two teams hang around the court. I introduce The Hoopsters to Sara, my *cousin' from America. They've seen many cousins from America and show no interest in someone whose town they've never heard of-New York, San Francisco, even Boston, yes, but not howdoyousaythatagain? The Agnis feel differently; they stand near Sara, smiling at her, staring diffidently, till she goes up to them, compelled by her curiosity and flattered by their interest. They gather around her, touching her blonde hair, holding her white hands, asking her what fairness cream she uses.

Fatima-who's won the game for her team without breaking into a sweat-tells Sara breathlessly, *You are beautiful, yellow like the sun.'

To stand out among your own is beauty, I decide, and Sara is no beauty. Amidst Americans, Sara would blend in, be called unusual-looking at best, but not beautiful. Her limbs are long but spindly and she has no b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she slouches at the shoulders, and her wide-set eyes are sunk in a tight face. Her cheeks, still red from the mountain air of Vermont where she said she went skiing last weekend, will lose the girls' admiration once they recede into their pale and rubbery countenance. It's her earnestness they admire, I realize, for her face reflects a simplicity that they identify as their own.

On the way back home Sara says, *I'm sorry your team lost.'

I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly, meaning it. *No big deal. I still won my wager.'

Before she can saddle me with another why or what, I go on, *After every game we Hoopsters check each other's nails to see whose French manicure is still intact. I usually win because I go to the best nail salon. See-' I hold up my fingers *-as good as new.'

I look down at her fingernails, which I've seen her biting. They're chipped and short, raw and slightly red at the edges. She's looking at me when our eyes meet again and I know she can't miss my triumphant look, establis.h.i.+ng that my father still splurges on his real daughter.

I wake up late the next morning and enter the kitchen to see Sara sitting on the floor with Mary, sipping tea.

Mary looks in my direction, wide-eyed, and stands up.

Sara turns to me, smiling from ear to ear. *I asked Mary if we could come to her house and she said yes. We're going at six today.'

I tell Mary in Hindi to leave. She unties her dupatta from the waist and I notice how frail she looks in a salwar-kameez; her agility and strength from last night seem implausible. Sara looks surprised that Mary is leaving but I want her to know that I'm used to waving people away, that I'm the sort of person for whom things are done.

After Mary shuts the front door, I turn to Sara and say, *Look, you cannot sit with servants on the floor and visit their houses.'

Sara looks genuinely surprised. *I don't understand, Payal. Mary is such a nice person. She is funny, honest and smart. Do you know she's the first girl in her family to graduate?'

*Sara, who cares?'