Part 3 (1/2)

She points to a soft muddy field in the distance and says, *Memsahib, this is where we practise every day. We have to fight with those boys who play cricket there. Sometimes we hide their ball so they can't play.' She grins and looks at me, waiting for me to say something.

My mind is focused on where my feet land, so I blurt out a question, *So, do all The Agnis live here?'

*Some yes, some no. The Agnis began here, in this slum. When we started to win, girls from nearby slums joined us and Amitji-best coach-heard of us so we also get free coach.'

That explains the team's recent wins. She then tells me that even in the slums there is a hierarchy of poverty: the higher the floor of the residence, the richer the tenant. One team member, Aarti, lives on the fifth floor of a chawl, the highest floor. Her kholi has a balcony. This also means that her family can afford to pay for an illegal electricity connection.

*Four hundred rupees a month just to see in the night,' Fatima quips cheekily.

She goes on to add that Rahima, the only Agnis player who can afford Bata sneakers, lives on the fourth floor of the same chawl. *Her father is lifting cement there,' Fatima says and points to the building coming up next to mine.

We reach Mary's ten-by-ten-foot kholi on the ground floor, which is divided into three rooms with the help of two curtains. Her sister sits on a small stool in the kitchen area. With a steel spoon, she is stirring a metal pot balanced on a domed clay oven. Her mother, my maid, is lying on a jute charpai with her hand over her head. When she sees us, she jumps out of bed, joy written all over her face. She touches my feet, a sign of respect for elders, which I don't deserve.

*I cannot believe that you are in my house. I thought Mary was playing a joke on me when she said you might come. I don't know what to offer you,' she says in Marathi.

*Nothing,' I reply in Marathi. My sn.o.bbery disappears on hearing her quavering voice.

Before I can say another word, Mary's sister plants a gla.s.s of tea into my hand and one into Sara's.

It's hot and there's no place to put it down.

I look at Mary's mother.

She takes the gla.s.s from my hand and rests it in hers.

Then she raises her eyes, weighed down and weary by illness. *Now that you're here I hope you can talk some sense into Mary. I have broken my back so my daughters can study in English-medium colleges and marry some nice railway clerk, but all Mary wants to do is play basketball. I don't like it when she plays against you, our mai-baap. And our chawl people talk about how she shows her legs while playing, as if we live in America. The boys are all scared of her. Who will marry her with this reputation?'

Mary interrupts her mother, something I have not seen her do before. *Aai, if we win the National match each of us will get a government job. I will have a career, status and a regular salary. You will not have to worry about what people say. All The Agnis need is to win two more games.'

Fatima turns to Sara and me, and says, *So much depends on these next two matches. My Aai and Baba also want me to leave basketball and get married. But if we win state and national matches, I get a little money. Then wedding plans cancel!'

*You girls are dreaming. If we win next game and enter National, where is the money to go to Delhi for National tournament? India Basketball a.s.sociation is sponsoring only the boys' team,' Rahima chimes in.

*Money, no money, we have to win the State match, we have to be the best girls' team in Maharashtra,' Fatima says, holding her head high.

Mary speaks again and I'm surprised at the fierceness in her voice. *If we enter the Nationals, I will do anything to go to Delhi. Anything.'

I look down at the cracked cement floor of Mary's kholi. These girls' unspoken stories-told by their torn s.h.i.+rts, their thin bodies-gather like screams around me. I feel like I'm shrinking under the weight of their ambition, their rebellion by making basketball-which I treat as a hobby, a joke-a career. It holds me by the scruff of my neck. There is no air in this windowless room.

*I have to go,' I say, and before anyone can stop me, I leave the kholi.

I hear Sara throw a confused apology to the girls, but she follows me as I quickly find my way back to our waiting car.

*What is wrong with you?' Sara shouts when I stop, waiting for Lalit to reverse the car.

*I don't want to talk about it,' I say with finality.

*You didn't have to be so rude. It isn't their fault that they're poor,' Sara says.

*It wasn't that,' I reply, suddenly too exhausted to explain myself.

Sara sees this, and says softly, *This place, these girls, really make you question what you believe in, don't they?'

I avoid looking at her.

*We could have at least finished the tea,' she adds.

As I am opening the door of the car Sara exclaims, *Look. A bird. I think she's injured.'

I look where she's pointing and see a sparrow lying on its side, its eyes open but vacant, as if it has lost all hope.

Sara bends to pick it up. *Maybe one of the dogs attacked it.'

*Don't touch it or the other sparrows will kill it,' I warn.

But Sara is in no mood to listen to me any more. She empties an Aldo s...o...b..x lying in the car and puts the sparrow inside it. The sparrow lies absolutely still as Sara softly coos to it.

When we reach home Sara asks me what to do with the sparrow. *Should we call a vet?'

I look inside the s...o...b..x where the sparrow has shat little yellow-grey droppings.

*Why do you try to rescue everyone and then expect me to bail you out?' I ask her. She doesn't reply so I add, *It's the heat. Give the sparrow some water and it'll be fine.'

Sara sets down the box carefully on the couch and goes into the kitchen. She starts boiling water, as she's seen Mary do.

*It's a bird, Sara, you can give it normal tap water,' I tell her.

*The bird is not an ”it” but a she,' Sara says, and continues boiling the water.

*By the time the water cools, the sparrow will die of dehydration.'

I fill some tap water in a small steel bowl and take out the dropper from Papa's bottle of eye drops. I make Sara open the sparrow's beak while I drip some water into her mouth. The sparrow blinks hard for a minute and then jumps to her feet.

Sara claps with excitement.

The sparrow looks curiously around the living room, blinking less furiously now. Before we realize it, she spreads her wings and starts flying around the room.

*Turn off the fan before she is hurt by the blades,' I shout to Sara, who is next to the switchboard.

I open the French windows and watch as the sparrow flutters furiously about, banging against the false ceiling, the embroidered curtains and the chandelier.

*When there is a way out, why is this bird not seeing it?' I say.

I run over to where the sparrow is and try to catch her.

*Don't be so rough,' Sara cries, when the sparrow, driven by my aggression, finds the way to an open window and flies out.