The previous day, both Mrs. Kapoor and Urmila Deshpande had had their hair done at the Hilton; Urmila had acquired the permanent curls she’d need for a film once she got back. Mrs. Kapoor had bought a portable CD player, with a three-CD changer, for her son. The camera now discovered a group of men in the cheaper stalls who were holding up a placard: HI URMILA YOU HAVE DONE JAADU TO OUR HEARTS. The moment they realised they were on television, the sign began to vibrate as if it were alive in their hands. The next minute Ijaz Ahmed was out to a catch at gully held by Azharuddin. The camera showed Mrs. Kapoor smiling and saying something to a beautiful woman next to her, as if exchanging a particularly unworthy piece of gossip; and then it showed a young man clapping, fair, with blond hair, colourless eyes, who could have passed for a European but for the fullness of his lips.

“They’re all there,” said Inspector Khatau, sucking in his stomach.

“Who’s he—never heard of him?” Yusuf asked with justifiable irritation.

Raghav Chopra had displayed his latest collection only two weeks ago at the Taj: cholis, twenty-first-century ghagras; “Clothes are a language that changes before other languages do,” he’d said in an interview. Mita Reddy had been one of the models. In her column, Mita Reddy had been christened “a dark Kate Moss” by Shobha De, a “will-o’-the-wisp.”

“Where is Sharjah?” asked Khatau finally.

“I don’t know,” said Yusuf, looking blank. “Near Du-Dubai.” He added, “That guy doesn’t look Indian, yaar!”

As far as everyone knew, though, Raghav Chopra was a real blond. How he’d come to be one was a mystery no one enquired into. The colour of the hair had changed probably as the universe had changed temperature; just as orange frogs were found recently in English gardens.

“Three hundred and five,” said Khatau, rising suddenly. “Phew!”

All out, 305 runs. Boycott proclaimed that defeat was at hand.

“It’s a known fact,” he said, “that Eendiuns are no good at chasing!” He shook his head and seemed to smile in bewilderment at his words. Floodlights had been switched on about an hour ago, night had come and brought with it a school of dragonflies cruising through the field. The saris were lit up, and the women moved uncomfortably. The desert sky was like a great, empty theatre.

Twenty minutes later, Tendulkar came out with his heavy bat in one hand, followed by the taller, shuffling Ganguly. The camera noted two people in deep conversation, but it was impossible to hear what they were saying.

“Sachin’s our secret weapon,” observed one of them, a gentlewoman who lived on Malabar Hill in a flat overlooking Kamala Nehru Park.