As it turned out, Jaykar had readily agreed to help the team out for the tournament, but the coach decided he would wait till he had seen him play in the inter-house matches. That’s how the coach had landed up in the shed next to the ground and caused Rishabh to have a mini myocardial infarction. Suddenly, the game had changed from a routine drubbing of Yamuna to a make-or-break audition for his spot on the team.
‘Also, don’t look behind the goal,’ said Puro.
Such instructions were almost always futile. The minute you were told not to do something, instinct dictated that you attempt to do just that just then. Alongside imagination and empathy, it was something that made one human. So Rishabh’s head instantly snapped towards the goal near the basketball court. There he saw, camping on the grass, a group of Ganga house girls; and among them were the wavy tresses of the one girl who had crumpled up his heart and tossed it aside.
‘Oh, God,’ groaned Rishabh.
‘Why did you look, bey? I told you not to look,’ said Puro.
‘Why did she have to come?’
‘What difference does it make? Look here, listen to me,’ said Puro, grabbing Rishabh by the shoulders, who was vibrating like the hindquarters of a cow atop which was perched a fly. ‘She shouldn’t matter any more. All that matters is this match. Play hard. Show her what Rishabh Bala is capable of. Show her that Rishabh Bala doesn’t care if she’s here or not. Because Rishabh Bala deserves better than her.’
‘I do?’ asked Rishabh. He caught Puro’s eye and quickly asserted, ‘I do.’
Soon the players were called to the centre of the pitch. Rishabh walked on, jelly-legged. He could physically feel the pressure crushing him. This was the first competitive match he was playing since his stupid sending off, and it seemed like the list of people he had to prove himself to just kept growing. There was the coach who didn’t believe in him, the girl who had dumped him and the Ganga house spectators who had heard of his card and had come to see if he would receive another. The only ones missing from this set of doubters were his parents.
His spirits rose when they lined up against the green-shirted Yamuna team. This was because the Yamuna football team was also almost the Yamuna cricket team. After totalling all the footballers in the house, Bhupinder had found that they were eight players short. So he had drafted the cricketers. At least they’re sportsmen, Bhupinder had thought, displaying the glass-half-full optimism that was classic Yamuna.
Fate might have dealt him a poor hand, but Bhupinder was afforded some luck before the match. He won the toss and decided that Yamuna would shoot towards the bus stop end. Which meant that Ganga would be shooting towards the basketball court end and Rishabh would spend the first half facing both the coach and Tamanna. Rishabh was determined to do his best, but the butterflies in his stomach suggested that he should go easy on his estimates.
As it turned out, Rishabh needn’t have worried. Ganga decimated Yamuna 9–1. Rishabh scored two goals and set up two others. It was a mauling so brutal that it would remain the most comprehensive victory in the school’s history for many years to come.
At the end of the match, the Yamuna players had to be rolled off the pitch from where they had fallen in exhaustion and grief, to the tune of boos from the handful of their supporters. Jaykar was the worst affected. He knew he had blown his chance of making it to the school team. His shoulders sagged so low that his fingertips almost grazed the grass.
The Ganga boys, on the other hand, glugged water and landed heavily on the grass. They shook their calves and waited for their hearts to settle. On the field, the white T-shirts of Himachal were lining up against the orange jerseys of Vindhya. Rishabh cast his eyes towards the basketball court end. The girls had disappeared. He wondered what she’d made of the game. Surely she had seen him dominate the second half. She had definitely witnessed him score the goals. Did she regret turning him down?
What the hell is wrong with me? he thought to himself. I scored against Yamuna. Which girl would be impressed by that? Then he dwelt on it further. Why the hell should it matter what she thinks anyway? Though I’m sure the scoring-from-the-corner thing must have impressed her. Not that it matters. Just objectively, it was impressive even if it was against Yamuna. But she can also go to hell. I hope that’s where she went. Not that it matters where she went. I wonder if she saw the ball I played to Rahul—
‘Good game,’ said a bashful voice.
He looked up at Barkha’s bright face. She had a smile on her lips and shyness in her eyes.
‘Hargh?’ uttered Rishabh, mid-gulp.
‘I’m sorry. You must be tired.’ She turned away.
‘No, no, I meant thank you,’ said Rishabh.
Barkha faced him, now beaming more radiantly than before.
‘I don’t watch much football, but it was such a thrilling match. Actually, I came because of Riya. She didn’t enjoy as much. Poor thing, Tej.’ She pointed towards the stands.
Tej was curled up like a dejected prawn. Riya Bose, his girlfriend, rubbed his back soothingly and whispered encouragement in his ear. Rishabh felt a pang of envy. It was true that Tej had been beaten nine times, not to mention once from a corner kick, but at least he had someone who still believed in him. He had someone he could share his grief with. Here Rishabh had played an inspiring turn in a magnificent comeback, and still he had not a soul to share his spoils with. Suddenly, he felt desperately alone. The match seemed distant. The victory lost its sweetness.
‘I think you really are tired,’ said Barkha. Concern coloured her features. She didn’t know what to make of Rishabh’s forlorn gaze. ‘I just came to say congratulations,’ she added hesitatingly. She stuck out her hand.
Rishabh looked confused, as if it were the first time he had encountered a handshake. Then he shook himself like a dog ridding itself of water and reached out and grasped her hand. He felt the warmth and softness of her palm, and giddiness overtook him.
‘Thank you,’ he said hoarsely. He didn’t know what he was thanking her for. He held her hand for a fraction too long, and she withdrew it coyly. The two of them looked in every direction but at each other. Rishabh caught Rahul’s eye, who, along with Sumit, stood behind Barkha; the two were grinning mischievously. All of a sudden, both attacker and defender were overcome by a coughing fit that seemed too loud and pointed to be allergic.
Barkha straightened herself and nervously tucked her hair behind her ear. Turning around, she announced in a quick, high-pitched squeak, ‘Well played, all of you!’
‘Glad you saw the rest of us playing too,’ said Sumit with a snigger.
Barkha hit him hard on the arm and hurried to the stands. Rishabh was about to ask her to return but stopped himself when he saw the coach. Mehfouz Noorani was standing at the entrance of the shed, diagonally behind him. Rishabh didn’t know how long he had been standing there. She was just congratulating me, he told himself, suppressing his guilt.
‘Aye, call that Romeo goalie,’ said the coach.
Rishabh breathed a sigh of relief. If the coach had seen anything suspicious, he hadn’t brought it up. Sumit fetched Jaykar, who stood before the coach with his face scrunched up and ready for the rejection. The team gathered around to hear the verdict.
The coach knew they were waiting and dragged out the suspense. Rishabh couldn’t believe he was relishing this announcement. Jaykar was growing increasingly jittery as the coach sized him up with a steady, studious gaze.
Finally he spoke. ‘Firstly, all this coochie coo you do somewhere else. Not on the ground. Okay?’
‘Sorry, sir—’
‘Shhh!’ hissed the coach sharply.
Jaykar winced.
‘Secondly, your positioning was wrong for the second goal. You have to stay closer to the line.’
Jaykar gave a sorrowful nod.
‘Thirdly, you are a keeper, but you don’t have gloves?’
Jaykar shook his head.
‘Now you can speak.’
‘Sorry, sir
. I’m not selected, no, sir?’
‘No,’ said the coach. ‘When you get gloves, you will be on the team.’
Tej Jaykar’s spine had managed to wilt further, but suddenly it straightened up. He didn’t know if he had heard right, and, from the looks of it, neither had the rest of the boys.
‘Sir, I didn’t understand?’
‘You will come to practice from day after.’
‘I’m in?’ verified Tej.
‘Is he stupid or what?’ asked the coach. Then to Tej, ‘You . . . will be . . . our keeper. Come to practice . . . from day after.’ He said it slowly and with gestures to ensure Tej got the point.
‘Yes, sir, okay, sir, definitely, sir!’
‘And remember, gloves. Now you will be professional. Understand?’
Tej was dazed. If one had asked him what he was experiencing at that moment, he would have replied, ‘A miracle.’
The coach dismissed him. Jaykar tottered to the stands, but kept a cautious distance from Riya Bose. He didn’t want to jeopardize his newly acquired position.
Puro asked in a low voice, ‘Sir, how come you picked him?’
The coach was annoyed. ‘What is this stupid question, Purohit?’
‘No, sir . . . I mean . . . we thought . . . after that kind of a match, you wouldn’t choose him.’
‘What do you mean? He had a superb game.’
‘No, sir . . . I mean . . . we scored nine goals against him.’
‘Arre, you could only score nine goals against him. It doesn’t matter how many you scored, what is important is how many he saved.’
Now there were fewer doubts as to why Tej Jaykar became the keeper and none as to why Mehfouz Noorani was the coach.
Rishabh flung the stone with savage violence. It struck the water at a hard angle and sank with an angry plop. Puro and Rishabh were at Upvan Lake. Leaning against the iron railing, Purohit was enjoying the breeze that cut across the water even as Rishabh could do nothing but be aggravated. For the last three minutes, he had been chucking stones into the water. Puro was afraid that if he didn’t stop his friend soon, he would end up throwing all of Thane into the lake.
‘He’s messing with you, bey,’ said Puro.
‘I don’t get it. You saw me in the house matches, no? What did you think?’ demanded Rishabh.
‘Are you joking?’
Ganga had faced Vindhya in the finals and had eviscerated them too. The only time Vindhya managed to keep the ball for longer than a minute was when Tejas fell on it and refused to get up until a Ganga player was booked for tackling him. This summed up Vindhya’s match, and so it had come as no surprise when Ganga won 5–0. Out of the five goals, Rishabh had assisted in three and scored one. He was unanimously named player of the tournament. It was a mighty triumph for Rishabh. The trouble was that it was a triumph for him alone. Apart from being a partial redemption of his ability, the award changed nothing.
When he’d shared the happy news with his parents, they had been quick to remind him, ‘It’s nice but it’s no distinction.’ Winning player of the tournament wouldn’t get him more marks in the tests at Oswal’s, nor would it reduce any of the remarks that continued to fill his calendar (Kaul Miss had to staple an extra sheet to continue jotting down disparaging comments about him). But those he could deal with. The reaction that had perplexed him the most was that of the coach, who couldn’t have ignored him more if he had been the ‘Beware of crocodile’ sign at the entry to Upvan Lake. Rishabh had continued to train with the juniors, feeling like anything but the player of the tournament.
‘What more do I have to do?’ protested Rishabh, hurling another stone. Puro noted that, worryingly, the stones were getting bigger and bigger.
‘I don’t know,’ said Puro truthfully.
‘We’re less than two weeks from the tournament. I don’t think he’ll select me.’
‘Be positive, bey. It’ll work out. As captain, I’m 100 per cent going to recommend your name. He’s still not made the team sheet, you know.’
‘So there’s a chance?’
‘A big one.’
‘He was there for both matches. He saw me play.’
‘Yeah. He said you played well also.’
‘What!’
‘Oh, I didn’t tell you?’
‘NO, you idiot!’
‘Yeah, he said you played well.’
‘Tell me exactly what he said!’ said Rishabh, resisting the urge to grab Puro by the shoulders and shake him.
‘Let me think. He said something like, “You boys played well. Even that Rishabh.”’
‘Even that Rishabh or especially that Rishabh?’
‘Even that.’
‘Oh, shit. But there is a chance. I’m going to be back on the team, Puro.’
‘And the team is going to back you.’
Rishabh whooped and threw a large rock into the lake.
‘Enough now,’ interjected Puro, ‘you’ll disturb the crocodile.’
‘Yeah, right,’ scoffed Rishabh. ‘It should be honoured that the player of the tournament is throwing rocks at it.’
They continued chatting, oblivious to the faint plop from the middle of the lake.
As a rule, Rishabh was a player who gave it his all in training. It was the only way to make up for his talent. In the following days, he went a step further: he gave it his all-est. He trained with a determination that bordered on damaging. He ran ceaselessly, so much so that his legs would scream with agony towards the end of the session but he would keep going, swaying drunkenly. Sharp pain would shoot down his sides, but it spurred him on, like the heels of a jockey jabbing into the flanks of a horse. He howled at himself in fury if he misplaced a pass or shot wide of the goal. He berated himself louder than the coach would ever have done. His teammates remembered their loved ones if they ever made a mistake, in case the psycho Rishabh Bala strangled them in his frustration.
His manic intensity yielded twice as many goals. The teams he was part of never failed to win a practice match. He even raised the skill level of the youngsters who played alongside him. Yet the coach left him stranded in the junior squad. He nodded appreciatively every time Rishabh shone but never invited him to train with the team that was to play in the tournament at MES High School.
As they entered the final week, Rishabh doubled his already doubled efforts. He arrived half an hour earlier than anybody else and practised his free kicks with monklike devotion. One in every ten attempts would go precisely where it was intended. The others would sail over the bar or meander to the sides. Rishabh would stoically collect them, line them up and boot them all over again. Ball after ball, day after day.
What Rishabh achieved through all this was a more consistent free kick manoeuvre, which was generally a good thing but rather pointless if he was not going to be playing any matches. So he decided to amp up his efforts another notch. Not only would he come in earlier and hoof balls into the goal, he also began staying back after training to practise penalties.
On the first day of his penalty improvement drive, the coach walked up to him, bemused. ‘What’s happening here?’ he asked.
‘Sir, I’m taking penalty shots. I had missed that one time . . . I don’t want to make another mistake.’
The coach considered the situation. He couldn’t make out if the boy was dedicated or if he was trying to con his way back into the fold.
‘How long will you be here?’
Rishabh wanted to answer, ‘As long as it takes to go for the tournament.’ Instead he went with ‘Ten minutes.’
‘Hmm,’ went the coach. ‘You will put the ball back after this is over?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Rishabh.
The coach took a long pause before speaking again. ‘Look, I have seen you in the morning, I am seeing you now. Dedication is good. I just want to tell you—’
Rishabh’s pupils dilated. This was the moment. The coach was going to take him back. He wondered what his reaction should be. Gratitude? No, h
e had earned it. Glee? No, he wasn’t three years old. A curt thank you would do.
The coach continued. ‘You should work on your technique. Make sure you aim for the sides of the goal. They are the hardest for a keeper to reach. Keep practising. It will happen soon.’
Rishabh wilted. Reality burst his bubble. His chin crashed into his chest.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ he said.
In addition to not helping him get back on the school team, his penalty-practising sessions had one more result—they rankled Poulomi K. Bobde. He wasn’t hitting his shots with as much precision as he was hitting a particularly raw nerve with the teacher. The additional ten minutes that he spent on the pitch meant that he walked into class ten minutes later than everybody else. And Bobde took the first period on three days of the week: English on Mondays and Thursdays and history on Wednesdays.
The first day he sauntered in after everyone else, she wagged a menacing finger at him.
‘Rishabh, why are you late?’ she demanded.
‘Miss, I had football practice.’
‘You also have English class. How come Abhay is on time?’
‘Miss, he is good at penalties. I am not. I have to practise them.’
‘I don’t care,’ snapped Bobde. She resented the boy’s calm insouciance. ‘Come late on any other day, I don’t care. But be on time for my lectures.’
‘Sorry, miss,’ said Rishabh. ‘Can I sit?’
‘May I sit.’
‘Yes, if you want,’ said Rishabh. The class erupted in laughter. Poulomi K. Bobde almost burst a capillary. She had not gone to teaching school to be made fun of by teenagers.
‘NO! STUPID BOY! The right usage is “May I sit?”’ she roared.
‘Okay, may I?’ Rishabh was too tired to get fazed by semantics. All he wanted to do was place his buttocks on a bench and give his creaky knees a rest.
‘Sit. But don’t come late—’
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