Jaimin kaka has just been wheeled out of emergency. In the polka-dotted hospital gown, he looks prettier than I have ever seen him. Ever, in this context, means one week, since that is all I have known him for. The doctor informs us there is nothing to worry about, but there is plenty to be curious about. “I’ll never understand how he managed to have his posterior branded,” says the doctor, to which Jaimin kaka responds with a feeble grimace. “But the shards of glass from his foot have been taken off.” Kaka’s wife, Gargi (she forbids us from calling her kaki), is more annoyed and embarrassed than worried. “Any precautions to be taken?” she asks.
“Yeah, maybe he shouldn’t get drunk again,” I want to say. As we prepare to leave the hallway, a neon signage on the wall flashes a news headline: India beat arch rivals Pakistan in a lacklustre World Cup league game. “8-0!” Jaimin kaka pumps his fists weakly, before adding: “Jai Hind!”
The meekness with which Jaimin kaka submits himself to be carried into the car waiting for him is a poor reflection of the boisterous bag of energy he was the previous night. Or even the Sunday prior, when I had met him for the first time upon discovering I have an uncle nearly my own age in Melbourne.
India versus Pakistan at ‘Dinner With Jimmy & Gigz’
“Bhadresh dikra! We found out only today that your Jaimin kaka is in Melbourne, too,” my parents had called from India. “Who would’ve thought?!”
“Who is Jaimin kaka?”
“Arre, don’t you remember you met him at your cousin Chandni’s wedding?”
“She got married in 2003.”
“Yes. He was the uncle who looked like Vivek Oberoi.”
And then I remembered. I did meet this uncle at the wedding. He was the one who had presided over the function in a short linen kurta a la Saathiya and a radiant smile. A regular bloke like me who took no prisoners while exuding style, but had otherwise little vision about his future. I was just beginning to indulge in my favourite pastime about judging a person who had no role to play in my life, when my parents threw in the punch: “He’s now one of Melbourne’s finest real estate agents. Takes five international holidays a year and drives a Jaguar. He’s hosting a dinner and an India-Pakistan match screening at his newly built third home and wants you over. He has your number and will call you.”
My judgmentalism is instantly replaced by an intense inferiority complex. I want to take a raincheck on the offer but my parents tell me that word about my boorish attitude will become an unnecessary story in the extended family circle. I have no option but to oblige. It starts with getting added to a Whatsapp group titled “Dinner With Jimmy & Gigz”. It has 41 members. The list brings my social awkwardness to the yard. Jaimin kaka rings me and tells me not to worry. Hardly anyone knows the others. I would not have imagined this was the case, looking at the arguments between the liberals and the e-patriots that explode on the group. When my phone storage runs out of space with all the memes and fact-check videos of why the blue and green can never be friends, Jaimin kaka has an idea for a ceasefire: “Friends, join us and our co-trustees at a pre-match puja at our community temple on matchday, starting 4pm. Let us pray together for an Indian victory. Dress code: BLUE. The game starts at 7.30pm AEST, so we will all head to my place straight after. Remember drinks and canapes are all on me, but dinner is PPP.” “What is PPP?” I ask awkwardly, because everyone else seems to know. “Pot-potana paisa” comes the reply, meaning each person foots their share of the bill.
A shot every time Rohit Sharma dispatches one over the boundary
Rohit Sharma en route to a dazzling 86 against Pakistan Getty Images
Gigz kaki and her friends are miffed that it is a dinner plan rather than a brunch, for it will mess with their intermittent fasting cycles. “Sadly, we couldn’t convince the ICC to change the timings,” Jaimin kaka and his friends laugh in response, which is followed by jokes about how the ladies have collectively lost no weight after all the fads they are fussing about. The sexist humour is forgiven, but not Jaimin kaka’s daring initiative to organise a bartender one night before Navratri starts.
“Just because you’ve coloured your hair orange doesn’t mean you’ll start disrespecting our tradition,” barks kaka’s mother, the family’s elderly matriarch, admonishing him even as he ushers a confused bartender into the sprawling backyard of his massive property. Jaimin kaka argues that it is also in their tradition to not disrespect the value of money, and now that he is paying the bartender by the hour, there is no backing down now from the crowd getting sloshed. And yes, the empty bottles of liquor will be put out before the dawn of the first Navratra.
Jaimin kaka is bullish about a high-scoring game where tempers will fly and alcohol must flow to soothe everyone’s nerves. But two hours in, he is holding his head in despair over the steady tumble of Pakistani wickets that foretell a snooze-fest of a night. This is a crowd of 41 over-forties who need a solid reason to dehydrate themselves with too much vodka. By the time the Indian batters walk out to the middle, half of the guests have dozed off in kaka’s living room. A few have taken his leave, much to his chagrin, politely declining his requests for “one last drink”. That is when Jaimin kaka throws his final salvo: “Let’s play a game of shots!”
“What’s the game?” we ask him. He thinks on his tottering feet, as on his giant home theatre screen, Rohit Sharma heaves another of his flicks over midwicket.
“A shot every time Rooohiiiit dispatches one over the boundary!”
All of us oblige. Thank you, Rohit Sharma, for giving Jaimin kaka his value for money. But there is little that even the Indian captain can do to prevent this crisis waiting to unfold.
“My feet hurt. Gigz, get me a chair!” says kaka. He staggers towards the barbeque, from which the last batch of chicken skewers has just been lifted. “Oh, never mind darling, found it!”
The rest, as they say, is blistery.
The above is a semi-fictionalised account as part of a series that documents the experience of Bhadresh (a character drawn from the life of the author) watching the 2023 ICC Men’s Cricket World Cup in Australia.
Nishant Kaushik is the author of eight novels. His latest, Bhadresh Mhatre’s Slam Book, released in September 2022. He lives in Melbourne with his wife and two sons.
