The pathan walked to the line, across it and kept going. Enumerator A wondered whether his instructions had been unclear. The pathan stopped when he was twice as far as Enumerator A expected. He looked towards the sky, then at the six-inch hole in the ground. He inhaled the urban air; humid, salty, fishy. His eyes closed. Moments later his lips parted and his spittle rippled through the air. As it approached its destination it curved at a right angle and like a slithering eel, entered the now seemingly large hole, in the centre. The poise, the rhythm, the grace, defied the urgency of the city and its people. Enumerator A, the paanwala and three bystanders held their breaths in awe. Tears filled the paanwala’s eyes; Enumerator A’s eyes followed suit. Dara Kosh Pathan, in his white garb, appeared transcendental. The paanwala and Enumerator A felt honoured. They wanted to hoist him on to their shoulders but feared that they would stain the moment or transgress upon something sacred. The gulf between them became impassable. How was one to account for it? the enumerator wondered. He measured the distance with his tape. It was two and a quarter times the previous record. He measured the spread. It would have been a perfect score even if the hole had been smaller. What about all that could not be measured? They added the pathan’s name on the top of the list. It was to remain unchallenged and those who followed never quite aimed to reach it. As the word went around, the game attracted participants, journalists and fans from across the oceans. It had become an annual event, a festival, a pilgrimage. People arrived on steamers, on trains, some walked for days.

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