He’s on the pitch. The lofted ball is misplaced. It’s falling to Lokhande. Floyd screams, ‘On you!’ Lokhande panics and doesn’t wait to control the ball. He side-foots a volley in Rishabh’s direction. The ball doesn’t slow down. It’s bounding towards him. Rishabh instinctively runs to meet it halfway. He’s just trapped the ball, when Eklavya, unwilling to lose another battle, charges into him with cruel intent.
He leaps with his knee raised and smashes into the small of Rishabh’s back. The force curves Rishabh into the shape of the letter C before he is ground into the mud with Eklavya landing on top of him. Dirt enters his mouth. His spectacles dig into the bridge of his nose. His back burns from the impact. But he doesn’t register any of these sensations, because his mind is filled with spikes. His mouth is full of barbed wire. He pulls back his lips and, before he can stop himself, lashes out with his right foot, spinning it backward like a scorpion’s sting. His heel misses Eklavya but, on its return, the stud grazes his face.
Now, Eklavya, the beacon of toughness and manliness, feels the prick of the boot and falls to the ground dramatically. He clutches at his face and rolls around like he’s been shot. He’s screaming like a woman giving birth. Rishabh is seething. He struggles to his feet. The KKPS players have swarmed around the referee, buzzing for him to show a card. Rahul rushes forward and elbows Nagesh away from the referee. The referee glares at Rahul. Floyd is cordoning the referee off from the malicious hounding of the KKPS players.
Rishabh stands over the thrashing Eklavya. He’s disgusted by his cowardice. ‘Get up, motherfucker.’ He grabs his arm and tries to yank him up.
‘Back off!’ yells the referee. He tumbles to the spot, flicking his index finger in Rishabh’s face. ‘Don’t touch the boy.’
Rishabh takes a few steps back. He rests his hands on his hips. The darkness is subsiding. He’s feeling light-headed now. He watches serenely as the referee checks on Eklavya. Tamanna has her cheeks cupped in her hands.
‘You, boy, number 7,’ calls the referee, snapping his fingers, ‘come forward.’
Rishabh ambles towards the referee. He sees the floodlight bouncing off his sweaty bald head. The wispy remnants of his hair perfectly outline his scalp. The swarthy referee plods two steps forward. He takes out the cards from his back pocket. He consults them. Then he picks a card and brandishes it in the air. Rishabh follows his pudgy arm, carpeted with matted curly hair, all the way to his Jenga-block fingers. Clutched in them is a card that’s burning red.
Rishabh immediately spins away. His heart drops from his chest to his ball sack with a piercing pain. His mouth twists in despondency. ‘No, ref!’ he turns and says. ‘I didn’t do anything!’
‘Move,’ commands the referee.
‘You’re making a mistake. HE fouled ME!’
‘Get out!’ screams the referee.
‘You’re fucking blind!’
The referee takes two menacing steps forward. His eyes are straining in his sockets. He’s biting his lower lip fiercely.
Floyd wraps a hand around Rishabh and shoves him back. ‘Go, just go. We’ll take care of this,’ he says.
Rishabh begins walking off in a daze. He can hear Rahul’s loud protests. They come to an abrupt stop when the referee pushes a yellow card in his face. Rishabh staggers across the pitch. It’s the longest, quietest walk of his life.
‘Sit down,’ said the coach before he could speak. He jerked a thumb towards the bench. Rishabh stumbled to it. All eyes were on him. They averted, embarrassed, when he looked at them. Further up the hushed stand, three places were empty. The girls were gone. He swallowed, shook his head and sat down some distance away from the subs.
A hand fell on his shoulder.
‘Why did you do it? What was the need?’ interrogated Puro. He had cast aside the blanket and now sat down beside him.
‘I don’t know . . . It just happened . . . I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t say that. Forget it. I don’t think it’ll make a difference. There’s only two minutes left, bey. They’ll hold on.’
Rishabh dropped his head into his hands. He couldn’t watch the match. The shame was overwhelming. He stared at a blade of grass that swayed gently as the wind whipped across the ground. He didn’t see Rahul dropping out of an attack and into the midfield as Sanghvi reconciled with getting to the penalty shoot-outs. He didn’t see the ferocity of KKPS’s assault as they gunned for a winner against a depleted side. He didn’t hear Mehfouz frantically trying to orchestrate the shape of the squad from the sideline. He didn’t hear the referee’s whistle ending the game. All he saw and felt and knew was the fatal flourish of that flaming card.
The team, panting and drained, ringed around the coach. He picked the players who’d take the penalty kicks. Rahul and Floyd were the only ones who stepped forward to select their spots. The rest hung back and nervously accepted their position when the coach declared it. Rishabh stayed far away, just in case his bad luck was contagious.
‘Shoot-out’s starting,’ said Puro eventually.
The kicks were to be taken at the bus stop end, the side that was further from where the substitutes sat. So the coach and the subs had coagulated together on the touchline, craning to catch the action and praying for victory.
KKPS won the toss and elected to kick first. Eklavya walked up with the ball. It was agonizing to watch his tormentor coolly place the ball on the spot and then perfectly dispatch it into the top-left corner. Dave didn’t stand a chance. But Rahul quickly made the scores level with a finish that sneaked past the keeper’s left glove.
Nagesh confidently fired the ball into the goal, and then Floyd made the long walk to the penalty spot. He took a deep breath. His shoulders settled when he exhaled. But he blasted the shot over the bar. It was hit so powerfully and went so high that it’s a miracle it didn’t damage a satellite before making its way back down.
The Kamani Krida keeper roared. Their players hollered. Mehfouz’s jaw worked angrily.
‘It’s okay, Floyd, no problem,’ screamed Sumit.
The next two kicks were successes for both sides. The keeper dived in the wrong direction for Paras’s attempt and Bhupinder’s effort trickled in despite him almost tumbling over in the run-up. Puro jumped and screamed with vicarious triumph after every kick.
For their last kick, KKPS sent their keeper. He had a vile smirk on his face, his chest was puffed out and his chin all but pointed at the Pole Star. He stood with his hands on his hips and took a few seconds to start after the referee’s whistle. He took a caricaturally long run-up, almost the length of a fast bowler, as he charged down the ground and poked the ball with his toe. It was hit hard, fast and directly at Dave’s face. In part to fulfil his duty as keeper, though mostly to prevent his face from becoming a chapatti, Dave jerked his hands up, and the ball bounced off them and out of harm’s way.
The Sanghvi team launched themselves from the ground like fountains. They were back in the game! Puro clasped Rishabh in a side hug. Rishabh fist-pumped the air. The excitement had overpowered his shame. He selfishly wanted them to win so that his sins would be forgiven, or at least forgotten, in the celebration. It was all in Dutta’s hands. Or, to be more accurate, in his right foot. If he scored, it would go to sudden death. If he missed, it would be sudden death. It was a lot of pressure for the bovine ninth-grader. His face was frozen in an odd expression. His left eyebrow stooped so low that it was almost a moustache, and his right eyebrow arched so high that it joined his hairline. It was what happened when both fear and determination contested for the soul.
‘Come on, Dutta!’ screamed Tejas.
Puro whacked him on the arm. ‘Don’t distract him.’
The moment finally arrived. Dutta strode forward in his loping run and side-footed the ball. It went to the left but not too much, it rose above the ground but not too much and it troubled the keeper but not too much. He parried it away with a conquering cry. Sanghvi had been defeated. The KKPS players burst out of their line in th
e middle of the ground and mobbed the keeper. They danced and whooped and took off their shirts and celebrated bare-chested.
On the pitch, the Sanghvi players collapsed where they stood. Bhupinder was flat on his back in the mud. Dave sat near the edge of the D with his knees wrapped in his arms. Dutta was clutching a post and sobbing. Rahul stared at the ground. Floyd was openly weeping. Puro made his way to his teammates and started helping them to their feet.
‘Stop crying like widows. Stop it! Dutta, you’re chipping the paint off the post,’ he said.
Mehfouz didn’t say a word. He was more angry than sad. He went over to the Kamani Krida coach and shook his hand. He applauded their players, who were now writhing around like dance bar patrons after their fourth drink. It was a celebration so ostentatious that the Sanghvi boys felt it was clearly being done for them to look at and feel bad.
But the ordeal wasn’t over yet. As further punishment, they were made to wait for the prize distribution ceremony. Ghadge Sir handed KKPS the trophy to an even more animated, cringe-inducing round of revelry. Rahul had been shaping a ball of mud in his palms; Dave urged him to hurl it. At the conclusion of the ceremony, Rahul smashed it on the ground with vehemence.
‘I want to see you all in the dressing room before you leave,’ said the coach when the indignities were over.
They trudged across the brightly lit ground, recalling the glint of the trophy and the happy faces reflected in it. More painful than defeat were the mundane details of your life that persisted even after you’d lost. There were studs to clean, bags to pack and rickshaws to be hailed. To do these tasks normally was a chore, to do them as a loser was even more excruciating. They were reminders of your loss and the fact that the day was not done. They seemed endless because of how much you wanted to disappear and forget.
The coach arrived when they had nearly finished their laboured packing. He briskly reached the centre of the room and paced around while they stopped fidgeting. When he had their attention, he began softly, ‘Team, good game. I mean it. I don’t care about outcome. I care about effort. You gave a hundred per cent on that pitch. Don’t let this result hurt you. Sometimes things don’t work out. It is a part of life. Handle defeat like men because you played like men. Yes, there were moments of immaturity, but mistakes happen. Rest of you showed character—’
Rishabh blurted out, ‘Sir, what mistake? You know I didn’t deserve it!’ He’d intended it to sound like a statement but it came out as an accusation.
‘Did I say anything to you?’ said the coach.
‘Then why did you look at me while saying it? You don’t even know what happened because you won’t fucking talk to me for one fucking second. You can shove all these grand words up—’ Rishabh didn’t realize how loudly he had been screaming until the silence rushed back in when he stopped.
A chilly silence filled the room. It was biting enough to make Puro wish for his discarded blanket again. The coach looked straight at Rishabh with dead eyes. There was not a single emotion in them; just cold, cold indifference. Everyone knew that a line had been crossed. In all his years as a professional, Mehfouz Noorani had never been spoken to with such disrespect. The tone, the content, the face of the person saying it—all of it stung Mehfouz. He hadn’t become a coach to be cursed at by a boy, especially not one who had let his team down when they’d needed him the most.
The coach’s face twitched. It was the angriest anyone had ever seen him. His eyes looked past Rishabh’s right ear. His moustache quivered with indignation. Seeing him so furious, Rishabh’s shame and guilt resurfaced like a foul-tasting burp.
‘I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again,’ he said curtly.
Almost at once the coach cut in, ‘I know it won’t. You’ll need to play another match to get another card, no?’
What a terrible thing for a boy to hear.
SECOND HALF
October 2006
THE MONSOONS HAD moved southward, just as Pinto Miss had taught the class they would. Yet there hung a dense mustiness in the air. It was as if the clouds had departed but left the humidity behind. The change was welcome, though. On the first morning of clear sunshine, Mrs Bala wrung her hands heavenward and shrieked, ‘FINALLY! The clothes will dry!’
Rishabh didn’t share her enthusiasm as he sat in class one October morning, observing the bustle before the day began. Ratiksh Palkar’s massive head was blocking the light from streaming in through the large windows. It cast a cool shadow across Rishabh’s desk, who marvelled at the largeness of Ratiksh’s head. It was at least the size of a melon. Ratiksh was smiling—he was always smiling in a dull, amused way. He wiped snot from his nose with the back of a meaty palm. Interestingly, Ratiksh’s nose was always leaking. That’s what must make his head so big, thought Rishabh. It’s filled to bursting point with snot.
Elsewhere in the class, Swara Gokhale and Viti Goel chatted animatedly. They were talking about the results. The tenth standard was due to receive their first-term papers later that day. While the scholars were excited and the backbenchers were bracing for impact, the majority of the students would agree with Swara when she said to Viti, ‘I just want it to get over as fast as possible.’ She let out a tired sigh. As the years would pass by, Swara would use that trademark line and that patent sigh for her wedding ceremony, the birth of her children as well as the approach of her retirement as bank teller at the Naupada branch of Dhanlaxmi Bank. What she didn’t realize was that every time she made that wish, things never got over as fast as possible. In fact, they always went even slower. The third day of October 2006 was no exception. It was going to be a long, long day for all of them.
It began when Puro bounced into class. His hair was wet, and dirt caked his forehead. He looked flushed but was inwardly glowing. As had been the ritual the whole week, Puro entered the class with a wide, lingering smile that vanished abruptly when he saw Rishabh’s gloomy face. Then Puro would mournfully set his bag down to the right of his desk and his football kit on the left. This morning, he did just that but also proceeded to dolefully shake his head.
‘Training sucks, yaar,’ he said without conviction.
‘Puro . . .’ said Rishabh.
‘No, really. Mehfouz doesn’t know what he’s doing. Anything he makes us do,’ continued Puro. He added another rueful bob of the head to the act.
‘Really, you don’t have to.’
‘Plus it’s not the same without you. That Oza is fine, but the fun is missing,’ said Puro, this time with more sincerity.
‘Puro, stop!’ snapped Rishabh, ‘It’s all right. This is between me and Mehfouz. You don’t have to hate football for it.’
Puro remained silent. Relief was rippling across his face. Then he looked at Rishabh sharply. ‘But we do miss you, man. At least I do. You should come back.’
Rishabh laughed a hollow one. The reason he scoffed was because they both knew where things stood between Rishabh and the coach. To put it into perspective, India had a greater chance of winning the World Cup than Rishabh had of getting back into the Sanghvi football team.
Training had resumed the previous week, after a break of what felt like the longest fortnight in the boys’ lives. For two agonizing weeks the team had lived with the bitter aftertaste of the final. For fourteen straight days they had haunted the school with their heads bowed, failure flickering in their eyes. It had seemed odd when Puro went a whole week without getting hauled to the coordinator’s office. By the second week, it had become worrying. Kaul Miss had taken him aside and asked him if everything was all right.
‘Purohit,’ she had said, ‘why aren’t you interrupting any classes?’
‘We lost, miss. It’s over . . . and I couldn’t do anything . . .’ a glassy-eyed Puro had responded.
His reply had set alarm bells ringing in the staffroom. The teachers resolved to send all the boys on the team to the school counsellor. The day they’d decided this, the boys miraculously recovered. This had coincided with Ghadge Sir’s s
imple declaration: ‘Boys, coaching is phrom Monday morning, 6 a.m.’ Later that day, as Kaul Miss signed a remark in Puro’s calendar again, she realized how much she had missed doing it.
There had been no closure for Rishabh Bala. He hadn’t met the coach since the final with KKPS. He hadn’t spoken to Tamanna either. They had briefly ghosted past each other during a lunch break, and he had once spotted her online on Yahoo Messenger. He had even opened her chat window and typed a number of messages, each one more swiftly backspaced than the previous. The confusion had swirled from his head to his stomach.
He couldn’t really remember the days immediately following the final. It was as if the tumult of that day had forced his brain to take a vacation, as if it were saying, ‘I can’t do this any more. Hey, Stomach, why don’t you take over for a while?’ And so Rishabh had vacuously drifted through the days, preoccupying himself with stuffing his face. He had constantly been shovelling food into his mouth—the oilier the better, and the sugary the best. Coupled with seven–eight hours of TV-watching, Rishabh’s consumption patterns had managed to block the ebb and flow of all his feelings. He had been numb. The food had been giving him a semblance of emotion (it was mostly just energy and quite possibly gas), while the television subbed in for thought.
But despite his best efforts, the sadness had crept in. When he would shut his eyes, in that oppressive darkness before sleep, the card would flare into vision without warning: bright, red, searing. It would burn into his brain. He would flail helplessly. Mrs Bala wondered why the sheets were in such a tangle each morning, then remembered her son’s hormone-riddled age and regretted wondering about the sheets.
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