The Zoya Factor Read Online Free Page B

sponsor) hoardings with the Bangladesh team looking all resolute and focused. We even saw one for 7-Up, a still our agency had shot five years ago. Yana Gupta sizzling in a green qawaali outfit. Only, while ours had her in just a teeny-weeny kurti and juttis, flashing smooth bare legs at the grateful public, this version wore a demure green churidar. Well, this was an Islamic country.
    'Imagine the poor choot who must have sat and painted on that churidar, man,' Neelo cackled. 'Must've taken him three whole days at least!' He sounded a little wistful, though. Ever since he'd heard about this guy who actually held a highly paid job as Hollywood's official nipple-tweaker (apparently, he pinches famous pairs with just the correct amount of pressure before every shot to make them look all perky), Neelo had been fantasizing about a similar job, one that 'would totally fulfil my creative soul'.
    When we arrived at the Sonargaon we discovered that the Indian, Sri Lankan and Australian teams were staying there as well. Of course, lots of teams had already packed up and gone home. My client Ranjeet, brand manager of Zing! Cricket and Promos was checked in there too, which was pretty painful. (He got in on the Idiot Quota; everybody else at Zing! Co. is pretty savvy.) The commentators and umpires were lodged there as well, which meant we would be running into them in the elevators. The hotel was totally buzzing. OB vans from practically every news channel were parked outside. The guy in the coffee shop (called Coffee Shoppee) confided that this was the biggest thing to happen in Dhaka for like, forever.
    Well, I guess it was pretty cool. Unfortunately, I know next to nothing about cricket and knew I wouldn't be able to make any intelligent conversation with the sports-celeb types we were sure to meet. Anyway, we were going to be there only for two days. I figured we'd just herd the cricketers together and get our shots and grab the next plane out - I to Bombay for the Shah Rukh shoot and the boys to Delhi, to develop all the stuff we'd got. Posters and shop signage had to roll out within the week. The only catch was, in case our team made the final, we three would have to careen back to Dhaka to shoot them with the trophy, slap on the rah rah song we'd already recorded, and send it out via satellite just before the awards ceremony on TV.
    Uh, that's if they won the final.
    Not much chance of that happening, I thought, though Vishaal and Neelo felt this was the best India team we'd had after a long, long time.
    We walked into the Coffee Shoppee and I took in the decor bemusedly. It was a peculiar blend of Mediterranean and Shantiniketan.
    'That dude's cool,' Vishaal declared, still thinking of Khoda as we pored over the menu. 'He's only been captain for six months but he's the best this country has ever seen.'
    'How can you say that, Vishaal?' I asked. 'We lost the last four finals we played! The papers say this team can snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory any time, anywhere! Your Nikhil Khoda's hoardings were smeared with gobar from Rajkot to Calcutta!' (This is a sacred Indian ritual. People gather in hoards to chant bitter breast-beating slogans and smear fresh, still-warm cow droppings on the faces of cricket players on advertising billboards all over the country. It happens every time the headline 'INDIAN CHALLENGE ENDS' appears in the sports page, which is often.)
    Vishaal shook his head in a sage manner I found really irritating. 'Keep the faith, Zoya,' he said. 'It's a team in transition. Khoda has made it shed all its baggage, like a snake sheds its skin. Now,' he said, cupping both hands and waving them in front of me, Sridevi-style, 'he's going to strike like a cobra!'
    I am so surrounded by weirdos.
    'The Board seems to be behind him,' Neelo said matter-of-factly. 'Or else they're giving him a long rope hoping he'll hang himself.'
    Vishaal snorted: 'He won't. He's too damn smart. I'm telling you, agar Khoda can't bring