Red Card

by Kautuk Srivastava

  The only blip that remained was the coach’s lack of forgiveness. Mehfouz Noorani wasn’t warm with any player. However, if the rest of the players were in the fridge of his affection, then Rishabh had been shoved into the freezer. For the entire first week, the coach had refused to even call Rishabh by his name. Instead he used various epithets, like ‘Boy!’ and ‘Aye! You there’.

  That changed one Tuesday morning because of a series of extraordinary events that began with Mehfouz Noorani forgetting to buy a pair of double A batteries. The batteries had been needed for the alarm clock that sat beside the coach’s bed and had stopped in the middle of the previous night—at 3.16 a.m. to be precise. Stopped clocks may be right at least twice, but they don’t sound alarms even once. As a result, Mehfouz Noorani groggily opened his eyes and realized that he was running behind by half an hour.

  He whirled through his routine and rushed downstairs, where he patted his pocket and realized he had forgotten the keys to his bike. He cursed his forgetfulness as he glanced at his watch. There was no time to run up the four floors to retrieve his keys. He simply couldn’t afford to be late. Thanks to his self-righteousness, he now had a reputation to maintain.

  So he hailed a rickshaw. He made good time, and at the end of the bumpy, back-breaking ride, he had managed to arrive at the school gate five minutes earlier than he usually did. The rickshaw-wallah stopped the meter, which displayed Rs 35. The coach reached for his wallet and, for the second time that morning, patted a pocket and found its contents to be missing. In a panic, he massaged every inch of his clothing, right down to his socks, but the wallet remained elusive. This was bound to happen because wallets forgotten in the cupboard in haste do not appear on your person merely by patting.

  Mehfouz Noorani got out of the rickshaw. He explained the situation to the rickshaw-wallah, a man of broad Maharashtrian build, who impassively stared back at him with puffy eyes and a slack lower lip. After hearing Mehfouz’s story, the rickshaw-wallah said, ‘I don’t care. Thirty-five rupees.’

  The coach now pondered his next course of action. It was clear he would have to borrow the money, but from whom? And just then, he saw a figure bouncing down the road. It was Rishabh Bala. The coach cringed. Why him? he thought. Why couldn’t it have been anybody else?

  Rishabh Bala was indeed sauntering to school with a sunny disposition. A chocolate sandwich for breakfast was fuelling his upbeat outlook. Upon seeing the Mongoose, though, he immediately switched off the spring in his step. He wondered why the coach was standing beside a rickshaw, glowering at him.

  He approached the coach cautiously. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. The coach uttered a churlish grunt of acknowledgement. The rickshaw-wallah looked at Rishabh, then looked at the coach and then wagged his head in Rishabh’s direction. The coach violently shook his.

  ‘Look here, I have things to do, places to be,’ said the rickshaw-wallah.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ mumbled the coach. Then Mehfouz Noorani took a deep breath and said, ‘Rishabh.’

  Rishabh, who had walked ahead, heard the voice and froze. He wondered if he had imagined it. Then he heard it again.

  ‘Don’t just stand there wasting time, come here FAST!’ said the voice. Rishabh had definitely not imagined that.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, whipping around.

  ‘I need some . . . help,’ said the coach, the word hardly getting past his moustache. ‘You see, I forgot my wallet . . . The rickshaw . . . Would you have any . . .’

  ‘How much do you need, sir?’

  ‘Thirty-five rupees.’

  Rishabh fished out a hundred-rupee note from his school bag and handed it to the rickshaw-wallah, who flicked his head in annoyance, grumpily returned the change and sped off—but not before throwing the coach an ugly look.

  The coach was studying Rishabh with hangdog eyes. ‘Sorry about that. I’ll pay you back tomorrow without fail.’

  ‘It’s all right, sir.’

  ‘And . . . thank you.’

  Rishabh nodded. They entered the school together. Rishabh continued to train with the junior squad, but the coach started calling him by his name again.

  It was 9.47 a.m. The short break was about to end, so Rishabh hurried to the loo. He was busy at the urinal, when Bhargav Chigulur and Gagan Gowda walked in and took up the stalls on either side of him.

  ‘She’s cute, man. I’m telling you,’ said Chigulur.

  ‘What! No!’ retorted Gowda.

  ‘Have you seen how pretty her face is?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I only see her hand because it’s always raised.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘Of all the girls in our standard, I can’t believe you find Barkha hot,’ said Gowda with a sorrowful shake of his big blocky head.

  Rishabh’s pee abruptly stopped flowing. His eyes widened.

  ‘Who has a crush on Barkha, yaar?’ continued Gowda.

  Rishabh cleared his throat.

  Chigu and Gowda looked at him.

  ‘Rishabh, what do you think? Is Barkha cute?’ asked Gowda.

  ‘She’s all right,’ said Rishabh. ‘Why?’

  ‘Chigu loves her.’

  ‘Is that right?’ The words came out in a low gurgle.

  ‘NO . . . I just find her cute, that’s all. She has a very pretty face.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ sighed Rishabh. He had a vision of grabbing Chigu by the neck and hurling him to the floor in a thunderous chokeslam.

  Chigu and Gowda finished emptying their bladders and washed their hands at the sink. Rishabh remained rooted to the spot.

  ‘You know what I’m going to do?’ said Chigu.

  ‘Get your eyes checked?’ said Gowda.

  ‘No, fat-ass.’

  ‘Watch it,’ said Gowda, waving a fist the size of a bowling ball in Chigu’s face.

  ‘Arre, you know I was joking.’

  ‘Make better jokes next time.’

  Rishabh sighed again. He wanted to find out what Chigu was going to do.

  ‘Right. So, anywayyy . . . I’m going to ask her for her notes,’ said Chigu, unveiling his master plan as he washed the soap from his hands.

  ‘Smart,’ said Gowda.

  ‘I know, right. It’s the perfect excuse.’

  ‘No, she’s smart. Her notes will be really helpful,’ said Gowda.

  Chigu sucked his teeth.

  Gowda flashed a shark-toothed smile in the mirror. ‘I’m just joking,’ he said.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Chigu.

  ‘Yeah, do whatever. She’s too nerdy to fall for you, though. Raman should date her. Mr and Mrs Genius. Their kids will come out solving equations,’ said Gowda, running his hand through his already thinning hair.

  Rishabh now had a vivid vision of grabbing Gowda by his considerable girth and giving him a body slam. Chigu, who was patting his hair into place, interrupted his fantasy.

  ‘It’s worth a shot,’ he insisted.

  ‘Just admit it, you have a crush on her.’

  ‘Okay, fine. Maybe I do.’

  Rishabh felt a tremor of jealousy run up his spine. He rocked in his place, in front of the porcelain urinal. By now he wanted to deliver a running clothes line on both these chumps. He caught himself enjoying this imaginary violence and was surprised by his emotions. His relationship with Chigu, up to that point, had been pleasant. He couldn’t explain why he suddenly felt like administering WWE finishing moves to his classmate. All for what? thought Rishabh. No, the real question was, all for whom?

  ‘Rishabh?’ said Gowda.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’ asked Rishabh defensively. He wondered if they could sense his resentment.

  ‘You’ve been peeing for a very long time.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rishabh, relieved. ‘Yeah, had a lot of water.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gowda with an unconvinced shrug and ambled out with Chigu.

  In the long break, Rishabh spotted Bhargav Chigulur awkwardly tryin
g to make his move. He sidled up to Barkha’s desk and asked her for her maths notes. Barkha politely refused, saying she didn’t share her study material with anyone. Chigu nodded in false understanding and slunk away to the sound of Gowda’s booming laughter that bounced off the walls of the classroom.

  And witnessing the squashing of Chigu’s hopes and dreams made giddy with joy the boy who sat next to Barkha.

  Ghadge Sir’s face was scrunched up and his tongue lolled over his lower lip like a Labrador’s. This was the face of a man concentrating. He had a sheet of paper in one hand, which he carefully positioned on the board, and with the pin in the other, he honed in towards the top-centre of the sheet. As the pin got closer, so did the huddle of boys crowding around Ghadge Sir. It so happened that, in his excitement, Bhupinder leaned too close and jogged Ghadge Sir’s arm. The pin jerked over its mark, and Ghadge Sir let out a roar.

  ‘ERRYBODY, SHTAND BACK! Iph you want me to put phixtures on board, THEN SHTAND BACK!’

  The elastic throng pulled back. Ghadge Sir took aim once more and managed to pin the sheet without incident. He then turned around with an accomplished, avuncular smile and said, ‘Now you can see.’ He stepped aside, and the crowd flocked back to the board.

  The sheet was titled ‘Inter-House Sports’. The football team had been looking forward to these fixtures for a long while. The race for the house cup was tight this year. Though Yamuna was on top, a galloping Vindhya had cut down their lead. The remaining two houses, Himachal and Ganga, though at the rear, were still within striking distance. Now that they were approaching the business end of the competition, the race had begun to heat up. The footballers were particularly excited, because the football trophy contributed the maximum points among all the sports, and they were dying to help their respective houses win it.

  Sumit, who had muscled his way to the front of the mob, screamed out the football fixtures, ‘Football matches to be held on 20th October—Himachal vs Vindhya and Ganga vs Yamuna!’

  A groan went up from the assembly. It belonged to Yamuna voices. Calling the fixture a contest between David and Goliath would be an insult to David. The Ganga team was the strongest side that had ever played in a blue T-shirt. It boasted the likes of Purohit, Rishabh, Rahul, Pinal Oza, Khodu, Sumit and the speedy Joy Chakraborty. Meanwhile, Yamuna had Bhupinder. Any side in which Bhupi was the best player was a poor side indeed. Yamuna weren’t the underdogs, they were the dogs under the underdogs.

  ‘You people wheel be more happy with news coming tomorrow,’ said Ghadge Sir benignly.

  ‘Why, sir?’ asked Rahul.

  ‘You wheel see. It is surprise.’

  ‘What is it, sir?’ insisted Bhupi.

  ‘ARRE, BHUPINDER, IPH I TELL YOU SURPRISE THEN HOW IT WHEEL BE SURPRISE? USE BRAINS, NO, SOMETIME!’

  Bhupinder was having one of those days that couldn’t end soon enough. He shut up and thought dark thoughts while the rest of the teams discussed what surprise lay in store for them.

  It wasn’t hard to guess what the news could be. The options were narrow when a physical education teacher told a football team that hadn’t played in a while that there was good news around the corner. The football team wouldn’t go around guessing glad tidings, like ‘Good news? Oh! Is the coach pregnant?’

  Nevertheless, at the end of the next day’s training, when the coach announced that they were going to play in a tournament to be held in MES High School, the cheering was substantial. There were a bunch of ‘What did I tell you?’s, which were met by a bunch of ‘It was obvious!’es. The coach waited until the din had died down before continuing.

  ‘Collect your forms from Ghadge Sir and submit them by Friday latesht. The tournament will be held on the 28th and 29th of October.’

  The boys gasped. The collective positivity took a nosedive. The coach sensed something was amiss.

  ‘What is the matter?’ he probed.

  ‘Sir, that weekend we have tests at our coaching classes,’ said Floyd.

  Floyd was referring to the series of tests that was going to be held at Oswal’s. It was the first major round of assessments to be conducted in their tutorial groups, and the tutors had been emphasizing their importance for the last two weeks.

  ‘How many of you go for these classes?’ the coach asked.

  Nearly every hand went up. The coach was surprised. He chomped on his moustache meditatively.

  ‘This is bad timing. I understand it is an important year. Studies are important. I would put them before football. So I am asking you: how many players don’t want to play in this tournament? If you raise your hand, don’t worry; I understand. I will not hold it against you. How many don’t want to play?’

  Only three hands went up: one belonging to Rakshit Dave, Abel Floyd and Dhrupad Dalal each.

  ‘Don’t do this, re,’ urged Puro.

  The coach held up a hand and Puro fell silent.

  ‘You boys are sure?’ he asked softly.

  Dave gave a small, sad nod. Floyd followed, uneasily dragging his foot in the mud. Their shoulders had drooped. Their eyes didn’t meet those of their teammates’. Even Dhrupad, the substitute stopper, stood with his arms folded and his chin buried in his chest.

  ‘All right. We will respect the decision. If you like, you can train with us till then, you are more than welcome,’ said the coach before returning to the shed.

  It was a body blow. The team was losing two of its most vital players and Dhrupad. What Rishabh couldn’t fathom was how quickly Dave and Floyd had made up their minds. It was ominous. The boys surrounded them and demanded answers.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you two?’ interrogated Puro.

  ‘It’s not even school exams. Who cares about tutorial tests?’ huffed Rahul.

  ‘My father does,’ said Dave.

  ‘And my mom. You guys know my mom,’ said Floyd.

  They shuddered. They were well acquainted with the academic despot that was Floyd’s mother. She was a wild-eyed woman with messy hair that looked like a raven’s nest. While most mothers were polite if not reasonable, Floyd’s mother was loud and unwavering with her marks-mongering. Rishabh recalled the Christmas they had visited Floyd’s house. His mother had taken the opportunity to warn them about not taking their studies seriously. ‘If you don’t study hard, Jesus’s sacrifice will have been in vain!’ she had said, forcing them to put down their glasses of Pepsi and their plates of cake. Rishabh was sure that the last thing Jesus would have liked on his birthday was for his sacrifice to be brought up, but he’d kept quiet about his opinions lest he provoke Mrs Thottapalli into another sermon.

  Though they knew that Floyd and Dave were in a hopeless situation, they felt it was their duty to convince them to stay. And so they did. But the boys would not relent. Rishabh could see the pressure their parents exerted. There was no talking them out of it. That epiphany couldn’t be induced by football teammates, especially when they’d surrounded you and were squawking at you like seagulls. Rishabh knew that two months ago, he might not have had the courage to defy his parents either. Had he not spiralled to the bottom, he might never have charted an independent course up. Floyd and Dave would have their own journeys to make, but they would not begin now.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Rishabh. ‘ENOUGH!’

  The rabble quietened down.

  ‘Look, it’s already hard for them. We’re making it worse. Everyone’s situation is not the same. You know these two would never let the team down if they could help it . . .’

  ‘Hey, me also,’ piped up Dhrupad.

  ‘Shut up, Dhrupad,’ said Puro.

  ‘But if they have made up their minds, let’s respect it.’

  ‘Thanks, man,’ said Floyd.

  ‘I’m not saying it’s a good thing. Or the right thing. But you know what’s best for you. And at least come for practice as long as you can. Yes?’

  Rakshit Dave and Abel Floyd said they would.

  ‘I may not be able to come from next week,’ added
Dhrupad.

  ‘Okay, Dhrupad,’ said Puro.

  ‘But I’ll try and convince my parents—’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said everybody.

  The same time a week later, Rishabh Bala knotted his shoelaces, stood up and took three mighty gulps of air. He felt like his stomach had bloated with nervousness and risen to his chest. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time. Surrounding him was his pride of blue-clad Ganga teammates. As his eyes roved from face to face, he took heart. Ganga was solid. In the distance, Bhupinder Chatwal, the Yamuna captain, waddled around, trying to get his team to kit up. Most of the Yamuna team didn’t even have studs. They were lacing up their white Bata school shoes. Ganga was going to win. The question was by how much.

  ‘Good to go?’ asked Purohit, the Ganga team captain.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rishabh.

  ‘Show him a game so good that he has to have you back,’ added Puro with a wink.

  Puro was giving Rishabh this pep talk because the coach was in attendance. The position of senior team keeper had remained vacant ever since Dave had opted out. The coach had promoted Aalap Tople, the junior team goalkeeper, to reserve keeper and regretted it instantly. Tople had a habit of cowering pitifully whenever powerful shots came his way—a tendency that had become far worse once he was put between the senior sticks. Rahul, Puro and Sumit had even made a sport out of not shooting for the goal but aiming at Aalap Tople. He got thwacked so consistently that on the second day he’d clung to the post, with a slightly more crooked nose than before, and cried until he was relieved of his duties.

  ‘Who can bloody keep for you people?’ the coach had hollered, exasperated by Aalap Tople’s breakdown.

  That’s when Tej Jaykar’s name had come up. Tej, or TJ, as he was affectionately known, was Yamuna’s goalkeeper. He was an excellent keeper, with reflexes so quick that strikers who came up against him routinely complained that he shouldn’t be allowed to break the sound barrier in a bid to block shots. But there were no rules regarding that sort of thing, so referees never took any action. The only reason why Tej wasn’t on the school football team was because he was already gainfully employing his reflexes in table tennis. He was number three in the country’s junior table tennis rankings, leaving Dave to be number one in the school football team.