Red Card

by Kautuk Srivastava

  Finally, Rahul said, ‘Last one.’ He thumped his chest and held up a fist. ‘Champions!’

  Rishabh curled his fists in front of his face and growled the anxiety out. The trophy. Tamanna. Eklavya. There was a lot he was fighting for, but there was more he was fighting against.

  Going into the warm-up, Rishabh had felt that it was impossible for his heart to break any further. But that was before he heard the coach announce the team: ‘Rakshit, Bhupinder, Dutta, Saurabh Rana, Arnav Vade, Tejas, Abel, Lokhande, Pinal Oza, Paras, Rahul.’

  ‘Sir, me?’ asked Oza.

  ‘Yes.’

  The coach had dropped Rishabh for many reasons. The chief among them was his feeling that Rishabh’s mind wasn’t on football. In fact, Rishabh was paying such little attention that he’d wandered on to the pitch despite the coach not calling out his name. He only realized this when Rahul sheepishly told him to leave.

  ‘Sir . . . am I not playing?’ he blurted.

  ‘No. Now, sit down,’ said the coach.

  The news was jarring to say the least. From getting ready to play the biggest match of your career (thus far) to being told you were to watch the said match from the bench was a steep drop, and Rishabh was flung down it without preparation. Yes, he had angered the coach in the last match, but he had been sure the coach would play his best players in the final. Pinal Oza was a good friend, but as a player, Rishabh knew he was slow, unimaginative and borderline non-competitive. He had never told anyone this, but he felt that the only reason Oza had even made the team was because he’d stuck around diligently, obeyed the coach’s orders and didn’t complain about sitting on the bench. And that’s why, thought Rishabh bitterly, he’s now on the pitch.

  Rishabh opened and shut his mouth rapidly as many thoughts and many words flitted through his mind. But in the end, he chose not to aggravate the situation and angrily sat down next to Sumit at the foot of the giant steps. He tried to angle himself away from Tamanna and the girls, but there was no escaping their view. They knew he had been benched.

  Dark thoughts occupied Rishabh as he sat on the concrete. The sight of the coach rooted to the spot with his arms crossed burnt him up. He wanted to push him. He wanted to lunge at him. Force him to put him on the field. Rishabh’s mouth had gone dry. He couldn’t swallow. And he didn’t move.

  The players took their positions. Sanghvi lost the toss. Eklavya elected to shoot towards the basketball court end. As he jogged back to his position, he waved at Tamanna. Preetha and Krupa burst into giggles. Then he looked straight at Rishabh and winked. It was a loaded, knowing wink, which, coupled with that cheeky, confident smile, humiliated Rishabh. He felt weak and powerless. His legs shook with impotent anger.

  Floyd and Rahul stood in the centre circle, with the latter’s foot on the ball. The whistle was blown.

  ‘Go, Abby!’ hollered Krupa. She clapped her hands.

  Rahul rolled the ball out. Floyd passed to Tejas, who was immediately closed down. Tejas panicked and fumbled the ball back to Lokhande. The pass was poor; the ball moved slower than a case pending in the Indian judiciary and then it got stuck in the mud. A KKPS player promptly swooped in and retrieved it. Then they launched an assault on the Sanghvi defence that ended in Nagesh’s shot going wide. From a Sanghvi perspective, the scariest aspect of that attack was the way Nagesh shrugged off Dutta. At six feet, Dutta was by no means a pushover, but Nagesh had pushed him aside like an empty grocery cart.

  They were overrun. They missed the creative force and endless energy of Purohit. Lokhande was putting in an honest, noble effort, but his head spun in all directions as the KKPS players passed at dizzying speed. The Sanghvi boys appeared directionless. All their energy was concentrated on not conceding.

  Before the match, Mehfouz Noorani had given them one of those inspiring talks that coaches give before big games. He had mentioned the usual give-it-your-all stuff. He had bolstered their confidence with a rousing speech that seemed contrived and unoriginal to Rishabh. He had said many things, but, as Rishabh acidly noted, none of them seemed to be working.

  Bad tackles mushroomed all over the pitch. When Eklavya ploughed into Lokhande, it became apparent to everyone except the referee that this was not coincidence. Sanghvi’s greatest weakness was their physicality. They were like a romp of otters: fast and dexterous but rather small. The KKPS boys were all much bigger, even discounting the fact that two of them were fully grown men. They bossed around and bullied their opponents. They routinely barged into the Sanghvi players, sending them caroming into the dirt. At one point, Nagesh rammed his elbow into Bhupi’s jaw and then shrugged his shoulders and beat his fake angel wings. And Eka unleashed a sordid tackle on Floyd. The sound of the contact was so thunderous that it confused the clouds. It even drizzled for a short stint before they cleared up the mistake.

  ‘Tell him not to attack my poor baby,’ squealed Krupa in the stands.

  ‘So mean of him, na,’ said Tamanna.

  ‘If anything happens to my Abby, you see what I do to your fellow!’ threatened Krupa.

  ‘You aren’t even dating him,’ reminded Preetha.

  ‘So what? I don’t want anything to happen to that handsome face,’ said Krupa.

  Rishabh wished he could temporarily lose hearing. It sickened him to hear these conversations from two rows behind him. He was disgusted by how callous Tamanna was being. It hadn’t even crossed her mind that the boy she had just turned down was sitting immediately in front of her. Couldn’t she have the sensitivity to take her traitorous support and her delusional friends a little further away from him? By the time the half came to a close, he wondered if she was doing it on purpose, to rub her rejection in his face—or rather, to be accurate, the back of his head. He wondered whether she was being cruel or ignorant.

  Rishabh could read the story of the first half from the way the two teams were walking off the pitch. The KKPS boys walked huddled together, cracking jokes and guffawing amid mutual backslapping. The Sanghvi boys limped off the pitch. They cursed with every step. Their eyes never left the ground. When they spoke among themselves, it was with accusations and finger-pointing. Their only consolation was that the scores were still level: 0–0.

  The coach didn’t wait for them to catch their breath before spouting a torrent of criticism. For the first time, Rishabh heard a note of fear in the coach’s gruff voice. Mehfouz Noorani had seen his team cut down to size, his plans fizzle out and loss nearly averted. It had been a good while since he had competed for anything more than possession of the remote control, but his instincts hadn’t disappeared. That rabid obsession that had driven him as a player, that had kept him running even in the ninetieth minute of the most forlorn matches, that stubborn something that journalists had called the ‘killer instinct’ still glowed bright in him. And it roared now, fuelled by the prospect of another trophy slipping away from him.

  ‘Fucking worst half I have seen you men play,’ he bellowed. ‘Not one shot on the goal. Haan, Rahul? You want me to remind you how to kick the ball?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Rahul. He avoided eye contact.

  ‘Bloody hell kind of game you all are playing. You want to give them the trophy, then do it now only. Don’t waste everyone’s time like this. Simple, basic things you are not getting right. Aye, where is that Oza?’

  Oza raised his hand. He had been hidden behind Rana and Dutta. They parted, and he peeked through. His post-puberty moustache was caked in brown. He looked like a sneaky ferret to Rishabh.

  ‘Not one bloody cross. What I told you before the game? You are playing like you are scared. Arre, don’t be scared, yaar. Just play your natural game,’ instructed the coach.

  Rishabh wanted to tell him that Oza was playing his natural game. It was just that his natural game was rubbish. Nothing poor Oza could do about it. Seeing the coach rip into his replacement gave Rishabh the cold satisfaction of revenge. He felt vindicated. He knew this was the closest the coach would come to admitting a mistake. Of course R
ishabh wanted his team to triumph . . . eventually. He just didn’t want them winning it with ease without him. He wanted them to miss him like they missed Puro. He wanted them to sigh and say, ‘If only Rishabh had played.’

  The second half, too, was brutal on Sanghvi. They struggled to keep possession of the ball. They scrambled in defence and were impotent in attack. Rahul was stranded in the opponent’s half like Robinson Crusoe, without communication or supply. He paced the turf more and more sullenly. He threaded intricate runs through defenders, only to be let down by a wayward pass. He began giving an earful to the culprits—particularly Tejas. Fatigue and a few aggressive challenges had caused Tejas to lose his fizz.

  The KKPS boys could sense it. Every time Tejas got the ball, they would charge at him in a pack. They tackled him on a whim. It was sad to watch. The referee never once thought it was unfair. Mehfouz Noorani began complaining about the partiality of the official. Rahul bemoaned the lack of fouls. They were both dismissed by a wave.

  Then came a tackle that the referee could not ignore. Tejas received the ball and cut inside the midfield to avoid getting smashed into by his nemesis, the KKPS right back. Little did he know that worse challenges awaited him in the middle of the pitch. Tejas was driving in, looking for an option, when he overhit the ball. It trundled ahead, landing between him and Eklavya. Both of them charged at it, and Eklavya flew into a challenge. As a football tackle, it left a lot to be desired; but as a kung fu kick, it was a resounding success. It caught Tejas square in the chest. He let out a howl so hellish that even the coach turned away.

  The referee ambled to the spot and fumbled around for a card. He brandished a yellow. He held it above Eklavya’s head. Eklavya complained about the decision even as Tejas roiled in pain on the ground. The referee then inquired about Tejas’s well-being. He was answered by a series of screeches that led him to believe that the boy could carry on no longer. He looked at Mehfouz and signalled for a substitute.

  ‘Sumit, go help that boy,’ said Mehfouz. Then he chewed on his moustache thoughtfully. Finally, he heaved a heavy sigh and said, ‘Rishabh, get ready. I’m sending you in.’

  Rishabh knew it. He had known it the minute Tejas had fallen. He didn’t acknowledge the coach. He didn’t nod, he didn’t smile, he didn’t say a word. He leapt up and began stretching. He felt powerful. His muscles strained and reared to go. He knew he was being watched, and he was ready to put on a show. He touched his toes, and when he straightened himself, electricity coursed through his body. Tejas had made it to the touchline, propped up by Sumit.

  ‘Go to the right. Tell Pinal to go to the left wing. I want you to help in the defence. That Bhupinder needs help. Give crosses to Rahul. Their left centre back is weak. Attack from there. Understood?’ said the coach.

  Rishabh nodded. He knew all of this. He didn’t want to listen to things any more. He had goals to score, scores to settle.

  ‘And listen,’ added Mehfouz Noorani, ‘focus.’

  Rishabh blinked. The referee called him on to the pitch. It was in the thirteenth minute that Rishabh Bala entered the final between Kamani Krida Public School and Shri Sunderlal Sanghvi School.

  Usually when a player enters a match midway, it takes a few minutes for him to acclimatize to the pace of the match. It takes a while before his legs warm up to the running and he can read the patterns of the game. But within the first thirty seconds of his introduction, Rishabh’s entry has a positive effect on Sanghvi’s game. His first run brings the subs to their feet. Rishabh is running like an escaped convict. Like he’s playing the last seven minutes of his life. Football may be a team sport, but in this moment, he will personally beat KKPS if he has to. His radiance on the wing causes major problems to Kamani Krida. He makes two more threatening runs and pings the ball into the centre. They get headed out before Rahul can get to them. But Rahul applauds his attempts.

  The momentum swings in Sanghvi’s favour. They are emboldened upon seeing the KKPS players scramble to protect their goal. They can sense it: the fear, the opportunity. Eklavya realizes what’s happening. He remonstrates with his left-winger and left back.

  ‘Hold on to him!’ he says within earshot of Rishabh. ‘How can you let this slow chut get away?’

  ‘Why don’t you mark me, asshole?’ Rishabh goads.

  ‘You’re saying something or what?’ says Eklavya, walking towards Rishabh. He comes to a stop inches from Rishabh’s face. He’s taller and broader. Rishabh can see his big white teeth by way of his snarl. The KKPS goalkeeper is waiting to take the goal kick. Rishabh doesn’t flinch.

  ‘Mark me if you have the balls.’

  Eklavya gestures for the keeper to wait. He tells the left-winger to switch positions. He gives the referee a thumbs up. The goalkeeper takes the kick. Eklavya jogs alongside Rishabh.

  ‘You’re going to get such a beating. I feel bad for you already. That too in front of Tanna,’ he whispers.

  Tanna. The word pains Rishabh. It angers him. It’s too intimate for him to hear. He tries concentrating on the passage of play, but his senses are shutting down. Eklavya slams into him while running. It throws Rishabh off balance. He swerves back into position with a growl. He glances towards the stands. She’s watching.

  ‘Rish!’ screams Floyd just then, before launching the ball down the wing. It lands ten metres ahead of them. Rishabh is off. Eklavya starts a fraction of a second later. Rishabh’s legs are pumping furiously. He’s leaping and stretching, trying to swallow as much ground as he can with each stride. He senses Eklavya gaining on him. He’s fast. Rishabh’s eyesight narrows on the ball. He can hear ragged breathing behind him. Closer and closer. He needs to get there first. An arm thrashes against his side. It slams into him, setting off a sharp pain. He sidesteps into Eka’s lane and cuts him off. The ball’s within reach if he skids in. Just a few yards more. Rishabh wants oxygen. Just a little more. Through sheer force of will, he strains through the last few strides and gets to the ball. First. He nudges it ahead, looks up. Paras is to his left. He cuts the ball back to him. His body loses all intensity in that instant. He’s floating for a second, and then Eklavya slams into him. He stumbles miserably, flapping his arms to maintain his balance. He eventually comes to a stop.

  The move has broken down. The ball is dispatched back towards the Sanghvi end. Rishabh shakes his head and starts pelting down the ground to help out the defence. Eklavya is level with him again.

  ‘Madarchod, substitute,’ spits Eklavya, ‘you’re not good enough for a full game.’

  Rishabh’s shoulders tense up. His mouth goes dry. He turns red in the face. Eklavya can sense the effect he is having. He’s relishing it.

  ‘So cute you are, yaar. You thought you had a chance? I’m a captain. You’re not even on the team.’

  Rishabh shuts his eyes tight. Calm, stay calm. Focus. He’s messing with you.

  ‘You heard me, no?’ says Eklavya. He taps Rishabh on the shoulder. Rishabh slaps his hand away with the back of his palm.

  ‘Watch it, watch it,’ says Eklavya with a clinical malevolence that startles Rishabh.

  ‘Don’t fucking touch me,’ he says.

  The ball is pinging in the Sanghvi half. This time, Eklavya makes a sudden burst. Without warning, he takes off towards the centre of the pitch. He’s screaming for the ball. He’s going to get it and shoot, thinks Rishabh. He races in pursuit. He can see the orange jersey fluttering ahead of him. He can see every ripple. Eklavya’s black studs are spitting mud. The rest of the ground is a blur. There is no sound. He’s gaining on him. He can see the second KKPS striker laying off the ball. It’s bobbling towards Eklavya. He’s a yard away.

  Without a second thought, Rishabh goes for a tackle. He propels himself through the air, cutting through the dense humidity. He braces for impact. His right knee strikes the ground first and then skids forward. His left boot flicks out, and he connects cleanly with the ball. Eklavya swings his foot and slices viciously through thin air. Rishabh slides ahead. The fol
low-through scrapes him till his buttocks, but he doesn’t feel the burn. He’s bested Eklavya again! He looks in Tamanna’s direction and fist-pumps the air. She looks away.

  ‘Come on!’ he screams.

  ‘You’re fucked now. And don’t you dare look at my girl again,’ says Eklavya.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Face me like a man, na. Haan!’

  ‘Rishabh, attack! Attack!’ comes a voice from the touchline. It’s an unexpected voice. It’s Purohit’s voice!

  He’s standing at the touchline, wrapped in the sickroom’s blanket, which he’s struggling to keep from scraping the floor. He looks like a little white ghost. Despite his hypothermia, he manages to find his voice and yell at Rishabh to return to the match. The subs are on their feet, swaying nervously. The sight of Puro has literally lifted the team.

  Rishabh begins the long jog back to Kamani Krida’s half. After so many lung-bursting runs, he can feel the stitch in his side. He gulps in air. He wonders how much time is left. It can’t be much. He’s got to keep running. He makes it past the halfway line. Eklavya is tailing him like his shadow, constantly yapping insults. It’s like being tuned in to a radio station, whose RJ is not only annoying but also abusive. Then, after a raft of incoherent slander, Eklavya finally strings together a sentence that manages to hurt Rishabh.

  ‘I’ll kiss her again after I kiss the trophy,’ says Eklavya in a treacly sweet voice.

  It’s the detonator that causes something to explode within Rishabh. He sees them locked in an embrace. He sees the adoration in her eyes, the twining of his arm around her waist. She shuts her eyes as she leans forward. The bliss written on her face is killing him. He wants them to part. But they lean closer, and their lips meet. His flesh is being torn off him. He’s crumbling. It’s cold and dark, and he has no energy left. No will to motion. The contents of his head are swirling and swilling. The blackness is complete. He’s swallowed whole. And then, in a zap, his eyes fly open.