‘Sir, we have a tournament in a few days,’ explained Rishabh.
‘And we’ve come here to eat papdi chaat, no?’ sneered Govind Sir. ‘Get off the pitch. Come on, fast, fast!’
The team followed Puro as he led them to the minuscule ground in front of the canteen. It was a bald, muddy patch, but at least they had it all to themselves. Once they had finally finished stretching, Puro ordered them to run ten rounds.
By the third round, most of the boys began to pant. Gone were the jokes and banter of the first lap. The smiles of the second round had disappeared too. By the fourth, the group splintered, and the fifth and sixth saw Aurobindo and Bhupinder Chatwal slow to a walk. Puro, Rishabh, Rahul and Khodu still jogged steadily and by the eighth circuit, had overtaken Aurobindo and Bhupinder, who were as close to crawling as two boys can be while still walking upright.
At the end of the final round, Puro turned and said, ‘Okay! Now, shooting practice?’ He got no reply, because people close to fainting aren’t usually a vocal lot.
For the next few days, the boys were sore and achy in places they didn’t know were capable of being sore and achy. They hobbled into training, bent and wincing, but Puro showed no mercy. They circled the ground with ragged motion and laid themselves flat on the muddy earth when it was over. They practised through rain and dirt. To make the best of their collective knowledge, different leaders were assigned to each drill, depending on their talents. Puro took the passing drills, Rishabh dictated crossing, Rahul taught them to move the ball quickly despite the sinking mud, Floyd led the heading exercises. The defenders were getting better, as they were finally managing to keep their eyes open when making contact. Vipul Dutta, the tall ninth-standard central defender had been struggling until Puro told him that heading the ball didn’t lead to hair loss. The only one to not join in was Khodu. On the third day, he sulked through training and then stopped coming altogether. He was the best defender in the team and knew the only way his name would be omitted from the team sheet would be if Puro decided they wanted to concede half a dozen goals or so.
Soon their legs found strength and the stitches in their sides disappeared. They passed quicker and ran faster. They remembered the rhythms and patterns of their teammates and anticipated each other’s movements. But the most marked change in them wasn’t their physical fitness, it was the laughs. Puro and Rishabh observed happily as the ground buzzed with chatter. The jokes increased more steadily than the stamina. Floyd’s hyuk-hyuk guffaw became the soundtrack of their training sessions.
As the days ticked by, they grew more obsessed. No amount of play was ever enough. Puro and Rishabh trained in the evenings, then ran for tutorials—restlessly sitting through the class with mud-caked ears—after which they played some more in the small court in Rishabh’s apartment complex. Mrs Bala watched anxiously as Rishabh started packing his football kit with more care than his school bag.
Each day they would pick up the balls from the gymnasium and ask Ghadge Sir when the coach would arrive, and each day Ghadge Sir supplied the same reply: ‘I wheel get you coach bephore tournament.’ It was a question that had lost meaning fairly quickly, but they continued asking out of habit.
On the second last day of practice, they had split into teams and were playing a match when Tamanna came to the canteen. Rahul spotted her first and yelled across the pitch, ‘Rishabh, time to score!’ Soon everyone had eyes on the girl in the brown pinafore asking for a vada pav at the counter. Wolf whistles rang out, and Tamanna’s face turned scarlet. Rishabh tried to silence them with as menacing a look as he could muster, but his embarrassment only fuelled the rabble.
After that, it was less a game of football and more a game of who could kick the ball towards the canteen so Rishabh could get it back. Tejas Thackeray, a left-winger, seemed to be comfortably winning at this new game with a total of five kicks, all of them landing the ball just inches away from Tamanna. By the end of lunch break, Rishabh had run from the ground to the canteen at least a dozen times. He would hoof the ball back, run on to the pitch and then watch the ball sail over his head towards Tamanna again. He would run up the three steps again, half-smiling, half-shrugging at Tamanna, before kicking the ball back. Once she even returned his smile. It made him inhale sharply and when he kicked the ball, it rocketed to the far end of the pitch.
When they met at Prasad’s Hindi tutorial that evening, Rishabh asked Puro, ‘Why’d you guys have to do that?’
Puro’s eyes shone as he said, ‘The question, my boy, is, why did she stay?’
The night before the tournament, Rishabh’s breath quickened as he packed his bag. His hands and feet trembled, and he had a fleeting vision of victory. He had already slipped his studs into their olive-green nylon shoe-bag and, along with it, had tossed in a face towel, a roll of crêpe bandage, a can of Relispray (you never knew when you would need it during a match) and a can of deodorant (you always knew when you would need it after a match).
Their first draw was tomorrow. Rishabh had been wondering whom they would be up against. Suddenly he swung his foot in mid-air, and commentary crackled to life in his head: ‘He’s smashed it . . . and it’s a gooooooooal!’ Rishabh wheeled away in celebration but stopped short when he saw his father at the door.
‘All okay?’ asked Mr Bala.
‘Yes, Papa,’ said Rishabh, sheepishly getting back to his bag.
Mr Bala hmm-ed—as he always did when he was unconvinced—nodded and left. Had he probed further, he would have found that things were a little more than okay for his son. Shri Sunderlal Sanghvi School’s football team had successfully managed to confuse excitement for confidence. They were so eager to play that they believed they were ready to play.
Rishabh carefully zipped up his bag, switched off the lights and neatly pulled the blanket over himself. From beyond his darkened window came the soothing patter of raindrops hitting the concrete. When he opened his eyes again, he found the blanket twisted around him. The bed sheet had undergone a thorough kneading. It was like he had played an entire match in his sleep. Outside his window, the sky was a light grey and a drizzle persisted. He shook his head and turned off his alarm before it went off.
At school, everyone turned to look when the football team walked through the corridor wearing jeans and bright T-shirts.
‘Why are you dressed like that?’ was the standard question.
‘We’re going for a tournament,’ each said with pride.
When the bell rang, Krupa Iyer—a stringy girl with wild, wiry hair, whose thick black frames were trumped only by her huge crush on Floyd—cornered the object of her affection outside class. She ran across the corridor, screaming, ‘Abel! Abel!’ Unfortunately for her, Floyd didn’t reciprocate her sentiments, and when he saw her bounding towards him, he bolted for the safety of the classroom. But he was too slow. She put an arm around his shoulder and held him in place as if he were a Barbie doll.
‘Abby—do you mind if I call you that?’
‘I do.’
‘Great! Abby, I made something for your big day. Here . . .’ She thrust a small card made of chart paper into his hand. It was covered in glitter and gleamed so bright that even the people who hadn’t noticed Krupa and Abel now stopped and stared.
‘Can I tell you something?’ said Krupa, her dish antenna–sized eyes blinking dreamily behind her spectacles.
‘No,’ said Abel, cringing.
‘Great, come here, no. I’ll whisper it in your ear.’
She pulled a reluctant Floyd close to her. But instead of whispering a secret, she passed the border of his ear, entered the land of his cheek and, in an act of romantic terrorism, planted a thunderous kiss upon it. The smack reverberated down the corridor. Doors rattled, windows shook. Then the corridor erupted in cheers.
Krupa bit her lower lip and, giddy with excitement, dashed off to her classroom. Abel stood still. His face turned an angry red, as if a wasp had stung him, as he stalked into class.
The second the morni
ng assembly ended, Puro and Rishabh hoisted their bags, sauntered down the aisle and stopped at Kaul Miss’s table. She glanced up at them from the attendance sheet and raised an eyebrow.
‘On duty, ma’am,’ they said in unison and watched as Kaul Miss’s face dissolved into grudging acceptance. They exited the classroom, leaving a murmur of jealousy behind them. Turning into the corridor, they joined the stream of players as they trickled out of each class. The boys walked to the parking area, where bus no. 11 waited for them. Ghadge Sir stood beside it, scowling.
‘Come on, phasht, phasht! We are getting late,’ he barked.
Puro, Rishabh, Rahul, Floyd and Paras Apte, the diminutive striker, took up residence at the back of the bus.
‘Look at Floyd, all glowing and all,’ said Rahul.
‘Fuck off, yaar,’ groaned Floyd.
‘What did she give you?’ asked Puro.
‘A kiss . . . Didn’t you see?’ said Rishabh.
‘No, no, she gave him some paper also, no,’ said Puro.
‘I’ll give all of you anything to shut up,’ pleaded Floyd.
‘Where is it?’ asked Paras. ‘Where’s that paper? Let’s see it.’
‘I threw it out the window,’ declared Floyd.
Rahul sneaked up behind Floyd and yanked his bag from beside him. Floyd swore in Malayalam and lunged to retrieve it. But the boys were too quick and passed it among each other until it landed in the lap of the tiny left back Arnav Vade, who managed to extricate the letter and fling it to Rishabh before Floyd pounced on him. In the scuffle, Vade’s hand hit Khodu with a soft thud. He slowly turned around and pointed a stern finger at Vade, who shrank back in his seat.
Dave, now swaying down the aisle, patted Khodu on the head and said, ‘Calm down, Khodu. You know we love you.’ He swung towards the back. He didn’t like being left out when mischief was being made.
‘Okay, okay! Just finish this,’ said Floyd, defeated.
Rishabh carefully opened the card so as to not contaminate himself with glitter, cleared his throat and boomed, ‘“Abby! You are my star! You are the most talented footballer I ever saw. You run like a horse.” A horse! Is it just the running, Abby?’
‘Shut up, na, fucker.’
‘“You kick with lotsa power. You play with lotsa passion.” This is getting very personal, guys!’
‘Give it back,’ demanded Floyd.
‘Okay, okay. Wait, it’s almost over. “You are so happy with the football that I know I will always be second best in your eye. But I am OK with that. Best of luck and keep shining, my star.”’
Rahul pretended to throw up.
‘I think you should ask her out,’ said Rishabh.
‘If you liked the note so much, you ask her out,’ said Floyd.
‘I already have Tamanna.’
‘You have Tamanna as much as Puro has height.’
‘What the fuck! Floyd, you son of a bitch, I would have punched you, but I can’t make that face any uglier,’ retorted Puro.
‘Calm down, everyone,’ said Tejas. ‘Let’s not forget we have a tournament to win. Especially you, Floyd.’ He continued. ‘Do you want to be Krupa’s shining star or not?’
So the clamour rose again, and only when the bus rounded the final bend, and the sprawling ground could be seen through the grilles on the windows, did they finally fall silent.
Stepping off the bus, they were met with a chilly wind that made them shiver. It wasn’t raining just then, but the road was wet and pocked with puddles. They could hear intermittent shouts from the ongoing match.
‘Boys, I wheel be back. Jusht you shtay here,’ said Ghadge Sir.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Puro. Then he turned to Rishabh, nodded and said, ‘Okay, everyone, shut up. Rishabh, take them through the Final Strategy.’
The Final Strategy was a plan of action that Rishabh and Puro had devised across many periods, tutorials and phone calls. It combined Rishabh’s academic knowledge of football tactics and Purohit’s deep-seated belief that their team wouldn’t be able to execute any of them, till they finally arrived at a system they felt would be clever yet simple enough to pull off.
‘Here’s the plan,’ began Rishabh. ‘Be quick with your passing. Treat the ball like a virus; and always pass forward. It’s simple: get the ball to Rahul. If you have to kick it, throw it, head it, shoulder it, liver it, kidney it—doesn’t matter. Just get the ball to Rahul. Got it?’
‘And then what?’ quizzed Rahul.
‘And then you figure out a way to not fuck it up,’ said Rishabh.
Everyone agreed this was a great plan. Rishabh now went on to the finer details of the Final Strategy. ‘Defence, I need you to be in formation. A straight line at all times, got it?’
‘Are you sure? Shouldn’t the defence line be a curve?’ asked Sumit from behind him.
Rishabh furrowed his brow. ‘Good joke, Sumo. Keep to a straight line, okay? Now, this is for everybody. Make sure you stay in your positions. And mark your players.’
‘What if the mark goes out of position? Do we stay in position or do we mark him?’ asked Sumit over Rishabh’s shoulder again.
‘Shut the fuck up, Sumo! You’re on the fucking bench anyway. That’s your position, stay there and—’
It was then that Rishabh saw Sumit’s hulking frame in front of him, a wide grin on his face. Rishabh, though not a genius, was smart enough to grasp that if a boy was standing in front of him, grinning, then he couldn’t also be behind him.
He whipped around to see a tall, lanky man with a bright orange, mehendi-stained moustache and floppy black hair. He wore a blue tracksuit, a black T-shirt and a blue windcheater, and stood with his legs wide apart and his arms casually crossed across his chest. An amused smile shaped his lips.
‘Aye, Ghadge, why you got me here? You already have such a good coach,’ he said.
‘Boys, this is Mehphouz Noorani, new phootball coach. What you are waiting for, say good morning!’
The team sang good morning, but Mehfouz Noorani dismissed them with a wave.
‘What I had sed?’ said Ghadge Sir emphatically, waggling his eyebrows. ‘I wheel get you coach bephore tournament. And look, tournament is not shtart and coach is here.’
Now, for most people, it’s always a little awkward coaching a bunch of boys fifteen minutes after you’ve met them, but Mehfouz Noorani was not most people. The boys didn’t know it, but they were in the presence of a legend.
Mehfouz Noorani had played five seasons with the legendary Kolkata football club Mohun Bagan AC. As a spry, mousy-faced, floppy-haired striker, he had been so effective that Bagan fans had nicknamed him The Mongoose. He had made his international debut at the mere age of twenty-one. Spectators who had watched the Mongoose in his prime recalled not his goals as much as his constant screaming at teammates to stop strolling on the field like they were in a garden. He had been on course to become India’s youngest captain when Shabbibur Rahman, East Bengal FC’s bullish centre back, took out his knee and the rest of his career. Every time he thought of that incident, the only thing the Mongoose really lamented was that Shabbibur didn’t even get carded.
Once he had been forced off the pitch, he was bumped around a string of sports quota jobs, but his feet always twitched under his desk and his colleagues didn’t appreciate him constantly yelling at them for sitting around like they were in a garden. So one night, he assessed his savings and found they’d be enough for the education of his three children as well as one family vacation to Manali. The next morning, he set down his ID card on his superior’s desk and said he was resigning. That day, Mehfouz took his wife out to lunch. They ordered rice and fish, and Nazneen asked him why he kept staring at her. Mehfouz said she looked just as beautiful as the day they were wed, and Nazneen asked him what he had done this time. He told her he had resigned, and she laughed and said he was still as mature as the day they were wed.
His first few weeks at home had been happy—Mehfouz took over the television and inspecte
d his children’s homework. But soon he’d begun drifting like a ghoul from the living room to the bedroom, from the kitchen to the bathroom, looking for something to do. Every time he’d try helping around the house, Nazneen intercepted him and told him to relax. He was tired of relaxing and had no one to yell at.
That’s when Ghadge had called about a coaching position at Shri Sunderlal Sanghvi School and would Mehfouz know anyone who could do the job. It had been hard for Mehfouz to keep the eagerness out of his voice when he’d said he was interested himself. Ghadge had been stunned. He couldn’t believe the Mongoose would coach his boys. How incredible! It would be an honour, Ghadge had said.
When Mehfouz had asked when he could begin, Ghadge told him the team was going for a tournament the next day and, if he wanted, he would be more than welcome to join them in Ambarnath. And the Mongoose had said a tournament was as good a time to start as any.
The boys had changed into their kit: black shorts and a black jersey with an orange ‘S4’ emblazoned on the chest. They were forced to wear this kit from two years ago because, in their excitement, they had all forgotten that a new jersey needed to be made. Now they stood around awkwardly, their studs squelching in the muck, wearing jerseys so tight they constricted most of their blood vessels. In fact, Sumit had grown so rapidly that his jersey was now a crop top. Mehfouz winced just looking at them. Then he herded them together, introduced himself and asked them to do the same. The boys blinked at each other, wondering who would go first.
‘You start. Name and position,’ said Mehfouz, pointing at Rahul.
‘Rahul, sir.’
‘You don’t have a last name?’
‘Rahul Rawat, striker, sir,’ said Rahul.
He focused on each boy with his flinty stare until he reached the last one. Then he clapped his hands and said, ‘Okay, boys, very good. Now, as soon as that match ends, we have to get on the pitch. We have—’ he consulted his watch, ‘ten minutes to do that. I need you to warm up by then, got it?’
Red Card Page 3