In the line of chawls near Lilavati Hospital in the Bandra Reclamation area, where Kalim Jaffer lives with his wife and two children, Armaan and Fatima, it is 10pm by the time young boys return from their evening street cricket games, played, perhaps, in the light of streetlamps, or maybe even in the headlights of slow-moving cars. The sound of rats squeaking on the rooftops of small houses, clustered together on either side of a metre-long by-lane, does not seem to bother them. Mothers stand there and talk to neighbours peeking out of jagged-edged windows. No one seems in the least bit perturbed that children are still not home at this hour.

This is Mumbai. Where, at 1am on school days, on the rusting swings and slides of the famous Carter Road promenade, you will see children as young as 5 playing as their parents look seaward. On the Worli Seaface, toddlers trip over cracked tiles well past dark. On Marine Drive, families, with members as old as 70 and as young as 4, have midnight picnics on the broad wall overlooking the man-made tetrapod rocks that have replaced the beach. The city is overflowing, to the point where people are no longer fighting just for space, but for time too. They take turns to have their 5 minutes of fresh air, with some having to wait till well after their children’s bedtime.

Back in the collection of shanties in Bandra Reclamation, in a cramped room reached by a steep metal ladder, 17-year-old Armaan, one of Mumbai’s most promising young batsmen, takes a seat on one of the two beds—his family of four sleeps in this one room. His sister Fatima, who at 13 is the youngest player in the Mumbai women’s senior cricket team, is bathing in the house’s only bathroom even as their mother serves cold drinks from the makeshift kitchen and one of Armaan’s teammates waits patiently to talk to Kalim, a respected cricket coach—all of them fighting for space, fighting for time in a city with too little of it.

Then, Armaan says it. Something that lifts itself above the clutter that pervades the room. In this tightest of tight corners in Mumbai, gasping more than any other for space, time and hope, a startling declaration is made.

What is Armaan Jaffer’s aim?

He speaks softly, but surely: “To dominate world cricket."

Armaan moves languidly around his small home. There is a striking ease in his body language, suggestive of the quiet inner confidence champions tend to have. He has just scored three double centuries for the Mumbai Under-19 team, the latest in a list of achievements that stretches back to 2010, when, at the age of 12, he broke the record for the highest score in Indian school cricket by smashing 498 for the Rizvi Springfield High School. This record, which has since been broken in spectacular fashion, was once held by his uncle, Wasim Jaffer, who scored 400 not out in a school game in the early 1990s. Young batsmen from Mumbai who break school records have been taken very seriously ever since a certain curly haired 14-year-old named Sachin Tendulkar was involved in a record-breaking 664-run partnership back in 1988.

Still, a proclamation of such proportions seems surreal in this setting. “Dominate world cricket." It defies every sight and sound around. Could this room, with its faded curtains and creaking metal trapdoor on the floor, be the cradle of a future hero? Will the children on Carter Road and on Worli Seaface and on Marine Drive one day be chanting “AJ"—what Armaan’s friends call him—the way they now do “AB", the initials of Armaan’s favourite batsman, A.B. de Villiers?

But this room is exactly where a global cricketing great should come from. For in Mumbai, cricket has always been a leveller. For more than 100 years, it has taken the city’s powerful and its underdogs and made them look upon each other from a distance of 22 yards.

In the late 19th century, the Parsis and Hindus of Mumbai, then Bombay, had to battle the ego of the British colonizers for a space to play cricket. By the early 20th century, a Hindu side, with a star player from a lower caste no less, had beaten a side of “Europeans" at a game they had brought to these shores. Since then, boys from all backgrounds walk out on to maidans such as Shivaji Park and Azad Maidan knowing they all have an equal chance to join the pantheon of Mumbai batting greats, from Vijay Merchant to Sunil Gavaskar.

What greater purpose can cricket serve than to be a wormhole out of the constricted space and time of a city that loves the game so? Cricket owes Mumbai what it desperately needs: dreams.

*****

Around five decades ago, in another chawl, just 5 minutes away from the one with the steep metal ladder, Armaan’s paternal grandfather, Abdul Kader Jaffer, too had a dream.

Abdul was an inconspicuous character in a rapidly expanding city. A BEST bus driver, he lived a simple life, showing little interest in doing anything outside his daily routine of going to work and then returning to help with the chores at home. He had a relaxed demeanour and few strong desires. With one exception: He dreamt that one of his four sons would play cricket for India.

In any conversation with Kalim or Wasim, Abdul’s second and fourth sons, respectively, this dream figures prominently. Kalim, now 53, remembers that his father had played for his school team in the 1960s before joining the family paan business and then, when it folded, working for BEST.

“He was a diehard cricket fan his whole life," Kalim says. “He would put the radio on in our home during matches and the family would listen to commentary."

Abdul would become particularly excited during India-Pakistan games, his favourite players being Ramakant Desai, the diminutive Indian seam bowler, and Hanif Mohammed, the Pakistani opening batsman.

This dream of a BEST bus driver was merely a wish, sent gently out into the world and grasped firmly by two sons who, living in a household that crammed seven people into two rooms connected by a passageway, needed something to dream of.

But before Wasim became a legend of Mumbai batsmanship and the holder of numerous records in Indian domestic cricket, including being the all-time highest run-getter in four different domestic competitions—the Ranji Trophy, Duleep Trophy, Irani Cup and Vijay Hazare Trophy—before he made his debut for India in where else but Mumbai, Abdul’s dream had to trudge through what all dreams must: a struggle.

At the beginning of this struggle was Kalim, who impressed many in Mumbai’s feted cricketing circles with his performances in school and college cricket.

“My father first thought I may fulfil his dream," he says, sitting in a bustling restaurant on one of Mumbai’s most crowded suburban roads, betraying only the slightest hint of regret that he was not, as it turns out, the son the dream chose.

So fierce was Abdul’s passion for the game that in 1978, he invested an entire month’s salary, ₹ 450, in a bat for Kalim. Coaches, including the reputed Ramakant Achrekar, began to see potential in Kalim. But the Jaffers’ poor financial situation meant Kalim had to give up playing cricket at 17 or 18 and find himself a job. He drove a chicken-carrier truck, then an autorickshaw. Then he sold vada pao, among other things. But he kept thinking about cricket.

Kalim had never read a cricket coaching manual, but he was convinced that he knew how to mould a professional cricketer. After work, he began to spend time writing a cricket coaching manual.

It had the stamp of a city with no space: It contained several drills to be done at home, away from the cricket field, and also placed an emphasis on building a batsman’s patience through other activities. When Armaan was in his early teens, for example, Kalim would make him drive a car on an empty highway, never letting him go above 40 kmph. “That teaches you self-control," Kalim says. “My methods are totally different from any other."

He did not have to market his methods to his first student. Ten-year-old Wasim had, in fact, no say in the matter.

“He was not that interested in cricket, but I used to drag him to practice," Kalim says. He would put his younger brother on his shoulders and take him to Azad Maidan, far from their home in Bandra. Once there, Wasim had no idea how to get home, so he had no option but to bow to Kalim’s will.

So stern was Kalim as a mentor that he once even slapped Wasim during an inter-school match, when he threw his wicket away with a loose shot. Wasim went out and scored 400 in the second innings, a knock Kalim reckons was a turning point.

Two decades on, Kalim had to be similarly persistent in motivating his son, Armaan.

“It was the same story with both Wasim and Armaan. Both had to be pushed into playing, but managed early success in school cricket. When they saw their name in the papers, then they began to take an interest in the game," Kalim says.

Armaan was so young when he began playing competitive school cricket that even Kalim was slightly apprehensive he might find himself out of his depth. Raju Pathak, the coach at Rizvi Springfield and a long-time friend of Kalim’s, wanted to play Armaan in a match against much older boys when he was just 10. Kalim protested, afraid his boy might get hurt, but Armaan played and scored a century.

Armaan’s and Wasim’s stories might have remarkable similarities, but they are also separated by a great divide.

In the past 20 years, India has grown bold—in its self-belief and “aspirations", to use a worn-out word—and in no field has this boldness been more apparent than in cricket. For Armaan and Fatima, cricket was not so much a desperate grasp at a better life than a sensible career choice. “I knew that with my coaching methods I could at least ensure both my children would make a living out of cricket," Kalim explains.

Such was his trust in his own methods that even when members of his conservative family and community objected to his daughter playing cricket, he disregarded them and began training Fatima, who became interested in the sport after watching Kalim and Armaan train together.

“I knew from the beginning that I wanted to make cricket my career and not just play it for fun," Fatima says. Quite incredibly, Fatima started off as a right-hand batswoman and left-arm spinner, but for the past two years has been bowling fast with her right arm. Early into her training, she learnt how to throw and bowl with both arms.

Today, Fatima is just one step away from playing for the Indian women’s cricket team, and Armaan has been selected to play for India in the Under-19 World Cup, a tournament that ignited the careers of players such as Yuvraj Singh and Virat Kohli.

A generation ago, Kalim could not make the leap himself. He gave up the dream of cricket for something more stable. There were objections, again, when Wasim began training, from the men’s mother and their two other brothers, Salim and Naeem, who thought the game would be too expensive.

*****

In the coach’s room at the old Vidarbha Cricket Association Stadium, Wasim, who now plays for Vidarbha in India’s domestic competitions, has an unhurried and poised body language, much like his young nephew’s. His expressions and gestures do not convey the bristling self-belief that Armaan’s do, but rather a deep humility and a meekness that he says has been with him since he was a child.

“Honestly, coming from a poor background, I never thought I would play for Mumbai, let alone for India," he says. “The guys I played with in school and junior cricket were better than me. It was fortunate that while they slipped up somewhere along the way, I kept getting better."

Wasim, Armaan and Fatima have all grown up glued to their cricket kits. After practising all day, they return home to do more drills. “The making of a cricketer is not only on the ground," Kalim, their mentor, says.

In a room filled with pads and gloves below their living space, Kalim and Armaan display the drills they do every evening. Kalim throws the ball on the wall, and Armaan, standing barely 6ft from it, plays a cover drive, over and over. Then, the ball is jettisoned altogether, and Armaan simply plays shots in the air, concentrating on the position of his head, the direction his left elbow is pointing in, and the part of the arm he is exerting power from. Outside, Mumbai teems, closing in on them all the time, pushing them to fight harder.

Wasim had done the same when he was growing up. Back then, to even get a pitch to practise on was a struggle.

Every morning at Azad Maidan, Kalim and Wasim had to hop from one pitch to another. Each pitch is maintained by a particular cricket club, but known faces are allowed to use them when the club is not. Kalim’s and Wasim’s faces were not known, and the maalis (gardeners) of the clubs would eye them suspiciously and tell them to leave. They would then move to the next pitch. Sometimes, they would cover all of Azad Maidan’s 22 pitches in a single day. On some days, they would not find any pitches.

By the time Wasim hit his teens, he had broken the record for the highest score in Indian school cricket and it was clear he had a genuine shot at fulfilling his father’s dream. A concerted effort to get him there began. He shifted from the Bandra Urdu High School to the Anjuman-I-Islam High School, which had a strong cricket team, and began travelling alone by train from the suburbs to the city. At a Mumbai Under-16 camp, Sudhir Naik, a former India cricketer and coach of the National Cricket Club, saw the potential in him and asked him to join the club.

Wasim grew up in awe of what was happening in Mumbai cricket. The city that had produced so many great cricketers was poised to make its greatest contribution yet. Sachin Tendulkar, five years Wasim’s senior, was creating a buzz louder than all Mumbai’s crowds and traffic could manage combined.

“Growing up watching people like Sachin Tendulkar, Vinod Kambli and Amol Muzumdar batting was just inspirational," Wasim says. Soon, Wasim was shining for his club and Mumbai’s youth teams, and word began to spread that another young Mumbai batsman was about to break on to the national stage.

Abdul watched his dream swell into a roar.

“He would watch Wasim’s games standing quietly on the boundary lines," Naik remembers. “He would never come into the dressing room." When Wasim’s name appeared in the papers, Abdul would buy a copy and take it to the bus depot to show his colleagues.

On 24 February 2000, on a winter morning in Mumbai, in a side captained by his hero, Tendulkar, Wasim made his India debut. It had come three years after he burst on to the domestic cricket scene by scoring a triple-hundred in only his second Ranji Trophy match. That was a bit longer than Tendulkar took to make it to team India, but at 22, Wasim was still young and big things were expected of him. Abdul’s dream had come true.

But is there really such a thing as a dream coming true? Dreams grow, morph, change direction. And this is where the story of the Jaffers becomes complicated.

Mention the name Wasim Jaffer to an Indian cricket fan today, and few will paint a portrait of a man who succeeded. What is more likely is a characterization of him as a tragic hero, a man who conquered all levels of his field but the one at the top. For Wasim, who as a child never thought he would even play for Mumbai, would eventually be spoken of, and speak of himself, as someone who did not live up to his potential. “I wanted to be an India great, playing 70-80 Tests, scoring runs in all conditions and against all oppositions. But it was not my destiny," Wasim says calmly, looking almost detached now from what was once a burning desire.

After a tough first spell in the Indian team, which culminated in him being dropped in 2002, Wasim realized he was not mentally prepared for the pressure of playing international cricket and went back to the domestic game to improve himself. When he returned, in 2006, he was far more confident. A period of success followed; it may surprise some that he was the highest run-scorer in Tests for India in 2007, a year in which he scored three centuries, including a double against Pakistan at Eden Gardens in Kolkata.

Wasim savoured those years. A cricket history and statistics buff, he would go out on to cricket grounds around the world and remember the great innings played on them. He would reflect on the improbability of a boy from a chawl in Mumbai scoring a double century on the ground at which Brian Lara got his 400—St John’s in Antigua.

But his time at the top was short-lived. There are many theories on why Wasim, dropped in 2008 after two poor series, was never given an opportunity again to play for India despite his continuing domination of the domestic game. Some say he had a flaw in his technique that was never fixed; some point to other good batsmen who denied him his place; some say he was a victim of a bias of the Indian selectors against Mumbai players; some think his meek nature was construed as lack of aggression at a time when Indian cricket was determined to gnash its teeth and thump its chest.

Wasim admits it was upsetting that despite leading Mumbai to two consecutive Ranji Trophy titles in 2008-09 and 2009-10, he was not considered for the India team.

“At that stage, one of the selectors said I was too old to make a comeback," he remembers. “I was 31. That is the age at which most batsmen mature and are at their best. So his statement was disappointing."

Wasim is destined to be forever caught between satisfaction and regret. “I don’t feel bitter because I know God has given me a lot, and it would be unfair to speak of things I haven’t got when I have got so much," he says, brooding.

*****

No story about dreams is complete without a warning that they come at a price. Sometime in the early 2000s, a disagreement between Kalim and Wasim, rumoured to be about managing Wasim’s income, led to a rift between teacher and pupil that was never bridged. The brothers do not speak to each other today.

Wasim went his own way, breaking records in domestic cricket but never quite achieving his larger aims. He had two children with his wife Ayesha, who left England, where she grew up, to come stay with him in India. The space in which he shadow-batted gradually increased. He was allotted a flat by Indian Oil Corp., which employed him, and lived there with his wife and his late father. Then, in 2009, after an Indian Premier League contract boosted his finances, he bought a flat in the Mumbai suburb of Andheri.

“It’s a big thing to buy a flat in Mumbai," he says.

Kalim had to start from scratch. In 2001, he began his own cricket academy, which, like his early practice sessions with Wasim, had to keep shifting addresses; from St Anne’s High School in Bandra to Rizvi Springfield school and then to the MIG Cricket Club ground near his home. He now coaches young cricketers at Azad Maidan, and older wards at the Islam Gymkhana on Marine Drive. More than 20 cricketers from the Jaffer Academy, which trains both boys and girls, have played for Mumbai at either the junior or senior levels. “Even Sanjay Bangar, the Indian team’s batting coach, sends his son to my academy," Kalim says.

For a while, he supplemented his income with a small-sized pickle business. When Armaan turned 9, Kalim saw an opportunity to take Abdul’s dream forward to another generation.

Today, the self-assured Armaan and the shy Fatima, who groans in reluctance when she is told she is going to be interviewed and mumbles one-word answers from behind an embarrassed smile, continue to live a dream dreamt before they were even born.

On Christmas eve, two days after Armaan was selected for the Under-19 World Cup squad, a photo-shoot with Kalim and his two children had to be cancelled for the umpteenth time. Armaan, whose schedule is already as hectic as a world-class athlete’s, had been called to meet “the master". Tendulkar wanted to meet this youngster from Mumbai who could be a future great. Did the great man ask Armaan about his grandfather? He probably didn’t know his name.

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