The Zoya Factor Read Online Free Page A

vaccinate us against it when we're born, I thought gloomily as I queued up behind the long line of Dhaka-bound cricket freaks. One shot at birth, a couple of boosters over the years and you're immune to cricket for life. No heartache, no ulcers, no plunge in productivity during the cricket season and no stupid bets that make you lose money and lead you to commit suicide.
    The queue was over forty people long, but luckily we spotted the still photographer on the project, Vishaal Sequiera, more than halfway up the line. He waved to us and we strutted up to join him, moving up some twenty places in the process.
    Vishaal was all excited about the trip. His artily untidy hair (in which orange gulmohar petals were scattered like confetti) stood up like it was electrically charged and his eyes had the manic gleam of a cameraman-with-a-plan. ' Kaafi intense type ke shots lenge ,' he told Neelo, puffing on a Navy Cut. 'You know, Reebok, Nike types...sweaty, focused, looking right into camera. Attitude, you know? Besides, we'll get to see some matches, it'll be cool.'
    As cool as clandestine glimpses of Shah Rukh Khan's chest? I don't think so. But that reminded me.... 'What's the captain's name again, Neelo?'
    'Nikhil Khoda,' Neelo said, rolling his eyes. 'Really, Zoya, you're pathetic. Please do read up on all these guys or you will fully cut off our noses in Dhaka.'
    Vishaal said, 'How can you not know Khoda? He's a God , dude, he's a King !'
    'Plays that well, huh?' I asked as we all moved up a place in the line.
    Vishaal shook his head impatiently. 'Never mind that! Do you know who he's dating?'
    'Some Bollywood heroine?' I hazarded, not very interested.
    'No, no.' Vishaal shook his head again. 'Nothing so mundane! He's dating' - he clasped his hands together, lowered his voice and breathed reverentially - 'the girl in the yeh toh bada toinnngg hai ad!'
    Both Neelo and he let out a long low moan.
    Oh, please.
    The ad in question is an extremely raunchy spot for men's underpants. It features this ripe-'n'-tight village babe in a choli-sari who sashays really proudly down to the river panghat to wash her husband's chaddis. All the village women gather around to watch as she soaks, scrubs and rinses the garment in the sudsy river water, getting more and more turned on in the process. There's a one-line song-track that sighs steamily, ' Yeh toh bada toinnngg hai ' right through the ad, seeking to inform us that the wearer of the underpants, which the proud village babe is washing so slavishly, is very toinnngg, whatever toinnngg may mean. It is seriously the most sexist piece of advertising I've seen in my life. But no one can deny that the babe is a scorcher....
    'Big deal,' I muttered. 'What does toinnngg mean anyway?'
    Neelo cleared his throat. 'I think it means' - he held up his hand with his index finger hanging downwards limply and then slowly raised it till it stood fully erect - ' TOINNNGG , you know?'
    I choked, but was saved from having to answer because we'd finally reached the check-in counter. I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder, handed our tickets over and resigned myself to a really educational trip.
    We got into Dhaka by six in the evening. The airport had this air of smug self-importance and a big banner over the arrival gate. 'WELCOME ALL THE CRICKET PLAYING NATIONS FOR THE ZING! MINI WORLD CUP!'
    A chubby boyish type was standing holding a placard with our names on it when we finally staggered out. He smiled and grabbed the trolley and bundled us into an Ambassador car with 'Sonargaon' emblazoned across the door. Apparently, all the teams were shacked up in either the Sonargaon or the Sheraton.
    As we drove through the city I saw all these awesome trees ('What are they called,' I asked Neelo and he answered, 'Uh, Bong trees?') strung up with banners and buntings and stuff. It was very festive. Neelo was busy commenting on the hoardings along the road. There were lots of Zing! and Niceday Biscuits (the other big