Ping-pong like the pros

by Gouri Prakash (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find USA

Young boys, twirl the basketball, between their legs. They cast me a cursory glance, as I make my way past the court. Am I at the right place? I draw close to a bluish-green door. It is worn at the edges and is slightly unhinged. Tak. Thak. Tak. Thak. The familiar sound of the pinging ball, which comes from behind the door, is enough to light a fire in my belly. I push at the iron bar studded to the weathered door with effort. Tube-lights and ping-pong tables are the only fixtures in the room. Men of various hues are swinging their paddles. Only one person turns to look at me. Sporting a mini-skirt over bottle green tights, her blond hair dyed pink and braided in two, she grins at me like a Cheshire cat, and that is when I notice the nose-ring. Like most women, who in the face of novelty, take anchorage in someone who has been there and done that, I look at my plain Jane attire with some concern. She is the only other woman in the room. Weakly, I smile back. At one of the tables, a boy, close to puberty, thrashes the ball, at a balding man with a paunch. In spite of the significant age difference, they are at it like equals. It is a tad disconcerting. I take a deep breath and wait in the shadows. A voice calls out, “Neckstt!” A salt-and-pepper, bespectacled, Chinese man, sporting a collared carbon grey t-shirt and black shorts, breathes heavily as he walks towards me. He frowns when he sees me. It takes him a minute to put two and two together, and then he motions for me to run along and grab my spot. The nasal voice belongs to a white haired man, covered in sweat. He casts me a cold look which is enough to curb the display of emotions that surges through me, when I hold up my paddle to serve. His full attention is on the game at hand. Me, I am here for fun. He plays with the focus and the ferocity of a shark. He wins the match. I feel quite dismissed, and take a minute to ponder at the creeping sense of anomaly. Cheering at every point earned, is part and parcel of the culture of playing table tennis in India, whether it is the players themselves or the people standing by – it provides for immediate judgement of the rally, no longer how short-lived, on the point lost or won and makes the game engaging and lively. Background music runs something like this - “Service!” “Shawt boy, shaawwt.” Clap. Clap. ”Keep it up!” “Focus man, focus!” “Beauty full.” Tak. Thak. Tak. Thak. He walks to my table and says, “You should cover the ball with your bat, when you send it over the net. Do not open the face of the bat.” I blink twice. I play another match with him. This time, I follow his advice and the points are easier to come by. He still wins. We give up our table for two other players waiting their turns. He points at one player - a man who appears to be in his early fifties, wearing a baseball cap. “That Frenchman, he holds his bat very weirdly.” I ask him, “But does he win points?” “Oh yes, he does, but he will swing his bat this way and that way”, he moves his hands as if he is making stir-fry. He looks at my knit eyebrows. “So, you are from India?” I stiffen. “I am”, I answer with deliberate nonchalance. “You see there – he used to play on the national team of Egypt, that guy there, he is from Latvia. The girl - she is Russian. 80% of the players at this club are from other countries. Over here we are like the United Nations of table-tennis.” I sign with relief as I realize that there is only one barrier to acceptance at this ping pong club. I ask him casually, “So anyone here, practicing for the Olympics?” Tak. Thak. Tak. Thak.