‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he chanted to Puro.
Puro didn’t know how to react. His crying average was even lower than Rishabh’s and, what was more, he hadn’t encountered many weepy people. He remembered that when someone erupted in sadness in the movies, the characters around them put an arm around their shoulder or patted them on the back. So he attempted this. The execution was awkward. His arm rested on Rishabh’s shoulder like a wooden log and his attempts at back-patting came across as violence against an already crying person. He stopped doing whatever he was doing when Rishabh picked up the wailing a notch. He was now in full widow mode.
Rishabh tried stopping himself, but the more he tried the harder he cried. He felt an acute pain in his chest, as if it were his heart that was pumping out the bodily brine. He cried for all the horrible things that had happened to him: the results, the rejection, the red card. And then, to his horror, he found himself crying about things long past: having to leave his friends behind when his dad got transferred, seeing both his goldfish floating belly-up in their bowl one afternoon, the ending of Rang De Basanti. It was like his tear ducts had been building up a reserve over the last seven years, waiting to let it all out at once one day.
Finally, at long last, Rishabh was able to compose himself enough to give Puro an explanation. He told his friend about the showdown he had had with his father. It was a miracle Puro managed to understand him through the juddering sobs that rocked him every few seconds, but that’s what best friends were for.
After hearing the tale, Puro laughed. It was insensitive and, frankly, a bit insulting, but before Rishabh could feel bad, Puro patted him on the head. ‘You fucking idiot. You let out that waterfall for this?’
Rishabh glowered.
‘Don’t be angry, re. I’m only asking why you are taking your dad so seriously. Dads are supposed to say rubbish. That’s their job. You know how grannies tell stories and mothers tell you to wear sweaters? Just like that, fathers say mean things. You are supposed to hear it from here . . .’ He pointed to his left ear. ‘And take it out from here.’ He pointed to his right ear.
Rishabh remained sceptical.
‘Arre, compared to my father, your father wrote you a love letter. My dad once told me, “You will amount to nothing.”’
‘You didn’t feel bad?’
‘No, he’s probably right.’
Puro flashed a grin and, before he could stop himself, Rishabh laughed.
‘Jokes aside, my dad is doubly frustrated. He can’t criticize me because I am his fault.’
‘You mean he should have worn a condom?’
‘You want to cry again or what?’
‘I’m joking.’
‘I know. So truth is, my father was a footballer. In his time, he was a forward for a local team, Tembhi Naka Tigers. He had long hair, sunglasses, earring, rode a Bullet.’ Puro saw the incredulity on Rishabh’s face. ‘I only believed it because I saw photos.’
Puro went on. ‘He played for a long time, but he didn’t get very far. I think they won the Thane District league, but that was it. Then he had to take up a job. He keeps saying that he wasted all that time. Says he could have put those five–six years in his job and earned a better salary.
‘Then he says his second mistake was teaching me football. He says that he got carried away because he had a son. He used to take me to the ground when I was four years old and make me run. Trust me, he doesn’t put as much pressure on my studies as he used to put on my running. Full evening he used to make me run. Then we would play pass-pass with the ball. Back then I hated it, but I have stamina and skill now only thanks to that.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Rishabh.
‘Yeah . . . Problem is that at first he only encouraged me and now he’s only saying that I spend all my time playing football. That I should study. What is his line? Haan . . . “You are not playing football, you are playing with your future.”’
‘Wah, wah!’ Rishabh clapped.
‘I let him say what he wants. As long as he isn’t whacking me, it’s okay.’
‘He hits you?’
‘Yeah, sometimes. Just the belt. Nothing crazy.’
Mr Bala had never hit him, though he had come close. Put in perspective, Rishabh’s problems did seem trifling.
‘I do agree with one point your dad made,’ said Puro.
‘Which point?’
‘That you shouldn’t quit.’
‘But I haven’t even chosen science. How can I quit something I am not even doing yet? I just want—’
‘No, you have quit something you were doing.’
Rishabh understood the implication. But in his opinion, he hadn’t quit football; he had been forced out.
As if reading his mind, Puro said, ‘I know you shouldn’t be playing with the juniors, but that is no reason to give up. The coach doesn’t hate you. If he didn’t want you to play, he would have told you to leave right away. He just wanted you to learn a lesson. I’m sure that in just a few days he would have brought you back to the team.’ He paused. ‘Where you belong.’
‘Yeah, but would you stay if this was done to you?’
‘Yes. I love playing. He could have made me train alone and I still would have come. I just want to be on the pitch with a ball. Everything else is a bonus.’
The words swam around in Rishabh’s head.
‘You don’t want to study because you don’t like it, so don’t do it. I support you. In fact, if you want, we can drop out of school tomorrow. To be honest, I’m just waiting for one person to leave so I can join them. We waste at least eight hours every day on this rubbish. When will I ever use algorithms?’
Puro looked off into the distance, playing out his school-leaving fantasy. After a few seconds, he snapped out of it.
‘Listen, thing is, when you leave something you love, you are doing yourself the most harm. We will hate passing to Pinal Oza, but we’ll do it. The team will suffer. That is true. But we won’t suffer as much as you are suffering. I see you in class, yaar. Without football, you are like a plant without water. You sit around like this, see.’ He mimed a drooping, wilting flower. ‘Do it for yourself. Don’t be a quitter. Because, think about it, by not trying, you’re just proving your old man right,’ Puro finished dramatically.
Rishabh darted his eyes up and down the stretch of the road. He had been reluctant to admit it, but he had run away from the Mongoose’s challenge. At the first sign of difficulty, he had bolted and, in doing so, had proved the coach right. He hadn’t shown any spine, any character, any real repentance. And if he kept walking away, he would be a quitter. No matter what his ego told him.
‘Hey,’ he heard Puro say, ‘screw all this serious stuff. Take these. They’ll cheer you up.’
Rishabh looked up to see Puro brandishing two blue film CDs. The girls on the covers had breasts that were bigger than the CDs they were on.
‘Got them from the guy at Thane station. They’re new, and very, very good. Last one is the best. Watch it till the end.’
‘Of course I will,’ said Rishabh. ‘You think I’m a quitter or what?’
After that clearly inspiring tête-à-tête, Puro expected Rishabh to bounce into training the following morning. However, the next day, too, saw the school ground free of Rishabh Bala. In fact, even 10 F didn’t have the pleasure of Rishabh’s company. It would be two whole days before Purohit would see his best friend again. On the first evening, more curious than concerned, he rang up the Bala landline and was met with the voice of Mrs Bala. When asked if he could speak with Rishabh, she said, ‘Sorry, Abhay. He’s fallen ill. He’s actually resting at the moment. I’ll tell him to call you when he feels better.’ The call was not returned, and by the second day, Puro was more concerned than ever.
The truth was that Rishabh wasn’t ill. He’d just wanted some quiet time to think things through. He knew that voluntarily bunking school was not an option. He would have to manufacture a reason. So he had sneak
ed into the bathroom and, shoving two fingers so far down his throat that they almost reached his lungs, had probed around in his oesophagus until he’d hurled up the previous night’s dinner. He had then shown the mess to his mother, who’d immediately told him to get into bed and not get up the whole day.
Another bout of self-induced morning sickness meant that he had secured another day’s reprieve, as well as his father’s head-shaking disapproval. ‘The last thing he needs is to miss school,’ said Mr Bala.
‘Leave him alone. He’s sick, poor thing,’ protested Mrs Bala.
‘How long will he just lie there? At least make him read a textbook.’
‘He needs rest.’
‘Am I asking him to run a half-marathon? Reading doesn’t take effort.’
‘He’ll do it once he’s better.’
‘Bullshit. You wait and see, the first thing he’ll do is go play football again.’
‘Shhhh, don’t make a commotion! You go do your work. Let him rest.’
And so Rishabh lay on one side of his double bed, a heap of rumpled blankets beside him, and stared at the ceiling fan. Since his breakdown in front of Puro, he’d been feeling numb. All emotion seemed to have escaped his body with the tears. He felt lonely and broken. I’ve hit rock bottom, he thought. I’ve messed up everything I loved and pissed off everyone who loved me. Now what? He contemplated the question as the planet turned away from the sun. His attention was fixed upon the fan and his mind spun faster than its blades.
At night, he tossed and turned like he was being roasted on a spit. He sweated through his sheets. He woke up with anxiety hanging around his neck like a millstone. His only comfort was the hypnotic spinning of the fan. He thought and thought, and when he got tired of thinking, he remembered. Every forlorn moment from the past four months was replayed on the white expanse of his damp ceiling. He forced himself to look at them till he cringed with disgust. When he had run through all the thoughts and memories his mind could conjure up, finally there was silence. His eyes were open, but all he saw was a black ocean of infinite nothingness and then a flash of light and then, once again, the spinning of the fan.
On the morning of the third day, Mrs Bala woke up at 6 a.m. as she always did. She received the milk, brought it to a boil and made herself tea. She had scarcely settled into her chair and unfolded the paper, when out came her son, freshly bathed, wearing his football clothes, school bag on his back and kitbag in his hand. And just like that, Mrs Bala’s face lost all colour. She wondered if she was looking at an apparition. As she may well have been. If you’d tucked in someone at night who’d looked like they were in need of a saline drip and the very next morning, they sprang out of their room, ready to play football, you’d be well within your rights to question their corporeal existence.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Mrs Bala in a daze.
‘For training and then school.’
‘But . . . your health?’
‘I’m feeling much better now.’
‘No! Don’t go for football.’
‘I have to. I know I haven’t had breakfast, but there’s no time. Here,’ he picked up an apple from the table, ‘I’ll have this on the way.’
The morning drowsiness all but left Mrs Bala, and she grasped that this was reality and that her recently bedridden son was going off to exert himself by playing an exhausting contact sport. ‘WE HAVE A CODE RED SITUATION!’ went her maternal instincts. Without further thought, she leapt from the dining table and latched a vice-like talon on to Rishabh’s arm.
‘You are not going anywhere. HARI! HARIIIIII!’ screamed his mother.
Rishabh knew this was bad, because his mother only called his father by his first name in the direst of emergencies. The last time he had heard her do so was when the city had been hit by an earthquake. Mr Bala now came rushing out of the bedroom, eyes half-open, hair standing up and an expression that said, ‘This better be worth it.’
‘He says he wants to go play football.’
Mr Bala blinked. Questions—many questions—were forming inside his sleepy head. Firstly, who wanted to play football? And secondly, and more importantly, why was that his problem? And then he spotted his squirming son and his confusion gave way to rage that petered into exasperation. He couldn’t deal with his son’s shenanigans in the middle of the day; there was no way he was going to be able to handle them this early in the morning.
‘Just let him go,’ he said.
‘WHAT!’ squawked Mrs Bala.
Mr Bala turned to his son. ‘Will you take responsibility if you faint or collapse?’
‘Yes, Papa.’
‘Okay. Chitra, let him go. There’s no use stopping him.’
Mrs Bala let go of her son while Mr Bala shook his head and groggily blinked at the floor. Rishabh stood rooted to the spot. It hurt him to see his parents this distraught, but he was getting late. He hurried towards them.
‘Papa, Mumma, I know what I’m doing. Trust me.’
Then he scuttled to the door and let himself out. Before shutting the door behind him, he shoved his face in and said the words he had really been meaning to say. He said them fast to reduce his embarrassment.
‘I love you both, and I’m sorry.’
And then he shut the door behind him just as quickly, before the words could escape the house and follow him. Apologizing first thing in the morning could set the tone for the rest of the day.
The players were already kitting up by the time Rishabh arrived. He heard the gasps, he heard the hoots and cheers, and he felt every eyeball ping-ponging between the coach and him. He didn’t acknowledge any of it, homing in on the coach instead. The ground grew still. Each ear strained to hear what was going to be said next. The coach’s moustache moved furiously, his eyes were narrowed in scepticism.
‘Sir, I’m sorry. I was a stupid boy, and I’m sorry.’
The coach opened his mouth to say something but Rishabh continued.
‘I know what you’re thinking. This is just the beginning of my apology. The main part is where I come to training every day, work really hard and hope that, one day, I win my place back on the team. May I please train with you?’
The coach scanned Rishabh’s face. He detected remorse but, more satisfyingly, he detected determination. Finally, the lad was repenting. The coach nodded, let out a gruff sound that could be interpreted as a yes and pointed to where the junior team was kitting up.
Rishabh made his way to them.
‘Rishabh!’ he heard Puro scream.
He looked towards the senior team, who jumped to attention in synchrony and saluted him, and just when the emotion was going to overpower him, they brought their hands down, crossed their arms over their crotches and shouted in unison, ‘Suck it!’
‘Aye!’ roared the coach, but Rishabh didn’t hear it over his own laughter. It was the perfect welcome.
It was heavy weather, returning to practice after a gap of two weeks. His sides began burning while warming up, and he heaved and wheezed through the session. The smiling mid-October sun had replaced the cool shade of the clouds. It made Rishabh’s throat dry and his skin itched as it was gently toasted. At the end of the hour, he almost regretted his decision to return.
Somehow he dragged himself to class, and his legs throbbed out of mercy when he finally sat down. Next to him, Barkha smiled.
‘Are you okay? Where were you?’
‘Wasn’t feeling well for a while, but I’m finally better.’
Looking at his grimy, haggard face, Barkha couldn’t believe he was feeling better, but she said she was glad.
Rishabh turned to Puro, who had been staring at him with a pen between his teeth.
‘Puro, I just wanted to say—’
Puro took the pen out of his mouth and said, ‘Shut up. Just shut up.’
‘Fuck you, man.’
‘That’s much better.’
Though he had reconciled to training with the junior team, it still took some effort for Rishabh
to treat the pipsqueaks around him with respect. As a senior, he was used to ordering them around and making them work like valets. Within the first few days of his return, he asked Ranganathan, the tiny centre back, to clean his studs and put them in his bag. It was only when a chorus of protests went up that he realized he had made a mistake. He apologized immediately and made a mental note to keep his sense of superiority under control.
On the pitch, however, his superiority was unquestioned. He routinely scored three–four goals in five-a-side games. His strength and speed were no match for the striplings. He swatted them aside like they were gnats. The junior team keeper, Aalap Tople, couldn’t handle his fierce senior-team-level shots and got into the habit of curling up into a ball of cowardice every time Rishabh even entered his half.
He didn’t think it would happen, but gradually Rishabh got used to the little fellas. They weren’t too bad once he got to know them. They fretted about their marks, liked girls, hated teachers, watched football and dreamed of playing with their idols—just like the seniors. The only difference was that the seniors did these things in longer pants. Sometimes, though, they would rail about a particularly sixth-standard problem, like when Sudhanshu, the forward, was worried sick because his name had appeared on the board for talking in class for three consecutive days.
‘What will happen now?’ he bleated.
‘Nothing. Purohit and I are on the board all the time. They don’t rub out our names only!’ Rishabh laughed.
‘But miss said she’ll take strict action.’
‘Arre, what’s the worst that will happen? She’ll give you a remark. So what?’
The juniors gasped. It amused Rishabh to see that remarks still had this kind of hold over them.
‘I’ll tell you a secret? Girls love guys with remarks.’
Soon more and more of them started coming to Rishabh with their problems, which he solved with his wisdom, experience and bullshitting prowess. He enjoyed helping them on and off the pitch, and before he knew it, he was simply enjoying himself. Of course, if you had asked him if he liked training with the kids, he would have huffed and puffed in denial.
Red Card Page 17