Red Card

by Kautuk Srivastava

  She didn’t get to complete her thought because Rishabh had already shot past her. He set his bags down and let out an ‘Aaaah!’ The class sniggered. They were thoroughly enjoying the show.

  Bobde had never encountered such a situation before. She tried to frame a remark in her head but couldn’t find the words. It was the boy’s first offence and he had been apologetic. ‘This is to inform you that Rishabh has not been taking my rebukes seriously’ sounded more like a failing on her part. Growling under her breath, she let the matter slide and returned to providing a terrible interpretation of the poem ‘An October Morning’.

  When she entered the classroom the next morning, the first thing Bobde noticed was that Rishabh Bala’s seat was empty. Purohit saw her eyes jump to the vacant spot in front of him and gulped. The classroom buzzed with low-decibel chatter.

  Bobde cracked her knuckles and sat behind the teacher’s desk. She tapped the table with her fingertips. She didn’t tell them to take out their textbooks. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. The class shared her anticipation. Every soul in 10 F was waiting for one boy.

  Precisely on time, ten minutes late, the dusty, wet-haired figure of Rishabh Bala staggered into the door frame. His steady eyes betrayed his preparation. He knew a showdown was imminent. Upon seeing him, the class collectively took a sharp intake of breath. Barkha shook her head solemnly. Everyone waited to see who would flinch first.

  Bobde fired the opening salvo.

  ‘What is the time?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry, miss, I don’t have a watch.’

  The class tittered. Rishabh 1–Bobde 0.

  Bobde knew he had bested her, so she set aside the banter and got down to brass tacks. Rising from her chair, she screamed, ‘QUIET!’

  A hush fell upon the class.

  ‘The time is 8.11 a.m. This class starts at 8 a.m. Rishabh Bala, you are late again.’

  Rishabh pursed his lips.

  ‘I am taking you to the principal. Right now,’ said Bobde. She briskly strode over to the door and grabbed him by his arm.

  ‘Miss, please!’

  ‘I am not listening to any more of your please-wease, sorry-worry,’ spluttered Bobde.

  ‘Please can I at least put my bag down?’

  The request caught Bobde off guard. She was expecting a protestation, but the entreaty had thrown her. Seeing her silent, Rishabh ventured, ‘Sorry, may I at least put my bag down?’

  The class burst into peals of laughter. Puro guffawed the loudest. Even Aaditya Raman, the boy genius, chuckled softly. Bobde’s eyes almost torpedoed out of her skull. She had comprehensively lost the duel and the class’s reverence. She hadn’t been this insulted since that suitor her parents had arranged for her to marry had rejected her, saying, ‘Her tea tasted like rat poison.’ For an English teacher, she suddenly fell mighty short of words. She gaped and goggled and, finally, she said, ‘Just you wait. I will see that you get the strictest punishment.’

  Rishabh’s exhaustion prevented him from showing it, but he was a tad concerned. They had seen Bobde livid before, but this time she had come positively unhinged. Her nails dug into his arm and she tugged at him with enormous force. He tottered behind her with all his bags crashing against him.

  The corridor of the tenth standard had seen many strange sights but never before had a teacher dragged a student down it, berating him so wildly.

  ‘No manners. No respect. No concern. This is the tenth standard! You will regret this attitude for life. Mark my words!’ shouted Bobde.

  She decried his future prospects, cursed him and threatened him. ‘You think you are too smart, no? I will take all the smartness out of you!’ she bellowed. They left behind a corridor of peeping heads in their wake as teachers popped out of classrooms like weasels to see what the commotion was all about. The embarrassment fuelled her rage further.

  ‘See what you have done! Look, everyone is watching now!’ she snarled, but her fury eclipsed her dignity.

  As they reached the stairs, her grip tightened. Rishabh winced.

  ‘What is it?’ spat Bobde.

  ‘Miss, please don’t hold my arm like that. It’s hurting.’

  ‘Good! Take this also,’ Bobde said and struck him hard on the shoulder.

  ‘Aye! Don’t hit him,’ said a voice from the bottom of the stairs.

  Rishabh saw the Mongoose looking up at them. His hands were on his hips, his moustache quivered with indignation. This was the first time in months that Rishabh had been genuinely happy to see the coach. He breathed a deep, happy sigh. Bobde, on the other hand, had an adverse reaction. She had struck Rishabh in what she had considered to be the perfect place—near the stairs, out of sight of the prying eyes of other teachers. Now confronted with this stern, blue-tracksuit-wearing, moustachioed man, she loosened her grip around Rishabh’s arm.

  ‘And who are you to tell me what to do?’ she stuttered.

  ‘I am this boy’s coach. Football coach,’ said Mehfouz Noorani.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Bobde, her anger returning with the mere mention of football. ‘Then may I ask you why this boy has been coming late for MY classes?’ The words ground out from between gritted teeth.

  ‘Because I told him to stay back,’ answered the coach.

  Bobde was taken aback by this response. In the school, there was a general code among the adults: always agree with each other, especially if it meant getting a student in trouble. This football teacher had flagrantly violated this agreement.

  ‘If he has disrupted your classes, it is my fault. I apologize. I will talk to him. It will not happen again,’ assured the coach.

  ‘No,’ said Bobde. ‘I have given this boy enough warnings. He’s coming with me to the principal.’

  The coach’s eyes hardened. He looked at Bobde’s clenched lips and then at Rishabh’s helpless face. Without saying a word, he began climbing the steps until he was on the same landing as Bobde and Rishabh.

  ‘Ma’am, I am asking nicely. Let him go. Or I can also take you to the principal for beating a student. You know the rules, no?’ It was the stillness in his voice that made the threat more potent.

  Bobde withdrew her talons from Rishabh’s arm. She knew the coach was right. She had violated a major code of conduct in the schoolteacher’s rule book. In Shri Sunderlal Sanghvi School, teachers were allowed verbal abuse of any kind—they could indulge in sarcasm and insult—as long as it didn’t involve assault. Just three years ago, a Sanskrit teacher had been sacked for using a ruler on the palms of students who hadn’t submitted their homework. The principal had condemned the ‘barbaric deed’ and had promised the parents at the annual PTA meet that she would stamp out all corporal punishment. ‘I’ll beat it out of the system,’ she had quipped, but the parents hadn’t laughed.

  Bobde was well aware of the school’s anti-student-pummelling policies. A smarmy smile spread across her face. Rishabh was repulsed on seeing it.

  ‘Yes, of course. I was simply concerned for the boy. I am sure he had a good reason for being late. And I would appreciate it if you spoke to him about it. I hope we can all resolve this matter amicably. Yes?’ Rishabh was truly impressed by how she could speak entire sentences while holding that smile.

  ‘Fine. I will talk to him,’ said the coach gruffly. ‘You can leave him with me.’

  ‘Right now?’ asked Bobde.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great! Send him back to class whenever you are done. Rishabh, please listen to your sir, haan?’

  Rishabh almost puked at the sweetness in her voice. If he’d had any doubts about her being bipolar before, they had all but vanished now. He wagged his head.

  Bobde withdrew. She made her way down the corridor with her arms by her side and her head bowed.

  ‘Sir, thank you!’ breathed Rishabh.

  ‘Come with me,’ said the coach. He descended the stairs and Rishabh followed.

  The sprinklers chugged away on the field, leaving the grass to glisten in the morn
ing light. The coach and Rishabh sat on the giant steps overlooking the ground. Mehfouz Noorani had brought him to the stands and asked him to sit down but had said nothing else for the last couple of minutes. Rishabh was growing awkward and fidgety. He began to question the coach’s benevolence. Why had the coach saved him from Bobde? Was it so he could yell at him now? Was he going to tell him to stop coming to training? Were the sprinklers a metaphor for how the coach sprinkled wisdom to help them, the players, grow?

  At last, the coach spoke.

  ‘Why did you get that card?’ he asked.

  ‘Sir . . .’ began Rishabh. Of all the possibilities his mind had made up, this train of thought had not occurred to him. He composed himself and recollected his sending off. ‘Sir, I didn’t deserve the red card. It was a yellow challenge. I just touched him, and he went flying. It was a dive, sir. Very clear. And that guy is a haraami. Sorry for swearing, sir, but he is. You don’t know him. He’s very cunning. And you saw how many fouls he had done before that, no? It wasn’t my fault—’

  The coach put his index finger to his lips and then held up his palm, indicating for Rishabh to stop talking.

  ‘I did not ask you how you got the card. That I saw with my eyes. I asked you why you got the card.’

  Rishabh started to make more noises, but the coach shut him down.

  ‘That card,’ said the coach, ‘was coming. Whether you fouled or not. Because after the quarter-final, your whole attitude was different. It was not the attitude of a professional. You were aggravated. Undisciplined. Frustrated. So now tell me, why did you get that card?’

  Visions of that rainy day flitted across his mind. He thought of Tamanna. Once again he clearly heard her soft ‘No.’ The potato-shaped face of Eklavya grinned in front of his eyes. And more painful than all the rest, he saw the neon red card. He saw the raindrops trickling down it as it was brandished high in the stormy sky, like a lightning conductor of bad luck.

  ‘It’s okay. You can tell me everything. I will not mind it,’ said the coach.

  ‘Sir, from the beginning?’

  ‘From the beginning.’

  ‘But it will take time.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Sir, you promise not to judge?’

  The coach barked an affirmative.

  ‘Sir, promise?’

  ‘Aye! Say fast.’

  ‘Okay. So it starts with a girl,’ said Rishabh.

  He told the coach everything. How puberty had hit him like a truck and he had fallen for a girl called Tamanna in the seventh standard. He told him about the years he had spent in silent longing. How he had taken up football because he thought it would impress her.

  ‘That’s why you are playing the sport?’ asked the coach, not masking his incredulity.

  ‘Yes and no, sir. I started because of her, but I continued playing for myself.’

  ‘Hmm. Go on.’

  Then he told him about the fateful day he had asked Tamanna out and the hopelessness he’d felt when she had rejected him. For the first time, he put in words how lost and hollow he had felt. A large chunk of his life had been made meaningless by a one-syllable word that had taken a second to utter. Before that it had never occurred to him that others lived a life independent of him. He had been so consumed by his own selfish infatuation that he’d never stopped to wonder if she felt the same way. He told the coach that he had been confused by her love for Eklavya and then, slowly, that confusion had transformed into rage.

  He apologized for his bad behaviour. He admitted that he had jeopardized the team to exact a personal revenge. Eklavya was no saint, but Rishabh was no vigilante either. A part of him had been aware that the tackle he’d made wasn’t for the ball.

  ‘I deserved that card,’ said Rishabh finally. He was startled by his own admission. His heart rate dropped, and his eyes were caught by the beads of water cascading on to the ground. At long last, he had clarity on what had happened that rainy September evening.

  Rishabh had answered the coach’s question, but he couldn’t stop. He was in such good form when it came to confessions that he decided to go on. He told the coach about his results and how his parents were breathing down his neck to study. He spoke with feeling about the pressure of being in a board year, with the end-of-the-year exams looming on the horizon, casting their long shadow on all the days before them. He told the coach how much football aggravated his parents. And when he had run out of his own grievances, he even told the coach about Puro’s problems with his father. Finally when Rishabh was silent, the coach turned to him.

  ‘Is that everything?’ he asked softly. Rishabh was surprised that the coach could speak without his voice sounding like it came out of a cheese grater.

  ‘That’s everything,’ confirmed Rishabh, staring ahead.

  A slight chuckle escaped from beside him. He saw that a smile had opened up underneath the Mongoose’s bushy moustache and that his eyes had crinkled with laughter. It occurred to him that he had never really heard the coach laugh before. He had an odd fluty squeak for a laugh. And then it struck Rishabh that maybe the coach was laughing at him. He felt gypped that his heartfelt outpouring was met with ridicule.

  The coach was oblivious to Rishabh’s dark sentiments. He continued tittering to himself and then struck his forehead with his palm. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I forgot that you all are only boys. I am coaching a team of boys. And I forgot! How old are you, Rishabh?’

  ‘Sir, fifteen.’

  ‘Fifteen! Boys for sure. Mehfouz! How could you forget, yaar?’ The coach slapped his forehead once more.

  ‘Sir, what happened?’

  ‘I made one mistake, Rishabh. And it is not a small one. All this time I have been thinking that I was coaching bloody Mohun Bagan! But you are only kids, yaar. You are boys! You have hormones and foolishness. And that’s a good thing,’ added the coach, seeing Rishabh frown.

  ‘You see, Rishabh, a man forgets where he comes from. I also used to show off when my wife was in the stadium. My coach would know. He used to say, ‘Mehfouz, today too many step-overs. Nazneen has come or what?’ And you know what? She used to get impressed also!’ The coach upturned his collar.

  ‘Those were the days, yaar. I had a team like yours only. All the boys were there: Swapnil, D’Mello, Roger, Baldeep. We won so many trophies. Santosh Trophy, Durand Cup—all of them. Sunday afternoon was beer day. So many times I’ve carried Baldeep home. Bloody bastard was so heavy! Now we are all bloody old. We get hangovers just drinking water.’ The coach grew quiet. In the mist of the sprinklers he saw the sunny days of his prime, when his knee was sturdy and his body was unbreakable.

  ‘Main thing was that we had fun. My father was like yours. I told him I want to play football. But he didn’t like it. He said, “Passion and all is fine, but can passion fill your stomach?” He was very much against it. But I did it anyway. And you know what? I don’t regret it. My career ended because of this, see.’ He hiked up the right leg of his trackpants and revealed his knee. It was gnarled and twisted like an old tree trunk.

  ‘I played at the top level for only ten years. But I played it all, haan. Indian league, Indian national team, Maharashtra team. Everything. Only ten years . . . then it was over. But they were the best ten years of my life. Till the day he died my father said I wasted my life, but I will tell you—ten years of happiness is enough. Most people—even my father—don’t even get one year.

  ‘And football is so beautiful at your age. When you are playing only because you like playing. You boys are so lucky. You don’t have to think about the rent, children’s fees, biwi ka kharcha. You can just bloody play!’ He chuckled again. ‘And then I come along and keep bugging you people. Aye, do this, do that! You know, I was treating you like men, yaar. But you are only bloody boys. You will fall in love. Enjoy it. You will fall in love many times, but never like the first time. And yes, pay attention to your studies. I have said it before and I will say it again: it is important. And enjoy this time on
the pitch, yaar. You will never get it back. My mistake was that I made you play from here,’ he tapped Rishabh’s foot, ‘when you should always play from here.’ He patted Rishabh’s chest.

  ‘Now, getting that card was a very selfish mistake. Because you were hurt, you hurt the whole team. But I guess boys make such mistakes. What I like is that you have finally understood how to say sorry. I have been watching. You are on time . . . sorry, before time. Free kick practice. Penalty practice. Very good. My coach used to say, “You are a man when you change your capability and not your challenge.” I can see the maturity in you. And I will also be a man and say that I am also sorry, Rishabh. I will be happy if you train with the senior team. You deserve it.’ The coach extended his arm and almost hugged Rishabh but, at the last moment, settled for three pats on the back.

  Rishabh turned his face away and flicked the tears out of his eyes. He had spent the last two months in the pursuit of these very words. He was overwhelmed, but the coach had called him a man. He took a few seconds to compose himself and then said in a moist voice, ‘Sir . . . does this mean I am on the team for the MES tournament?’

  ‘Aye! Did I say that?’

  ‘No, sir . . .’

  ‘See, you have not trained with the senior team. I cannot take a chance. But you start coming for practice and the next tournament pakka you will play. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Rishabh took the coach’s leave. He hoisted his bags and made his way to class. When he found himself alone, his eyes filled up with tears again. If one had placed him on the ground just then, he would have done a better job than all the sprinklers.

  November 2006

  ‘NOT EVEN THE quarter-final, behenchod!’ spat Purohit, making the group of girls walking in front of them jump and scurry.

  ‘Shit, man . . .’ mumbled Rishabh.

  ‘Those DES chutiyas didn’t deserve to win, bey,’ continued Puro.

  ‘I wish I were there.’

  ‘We needed you, man. That Oza didn’t make one right pass. The goalpost moved more than he did!’