Red Card

by Kautuk Srivastava

  As hope evaporated, some turned their wrath towards the source of their problem. The boys had to do all they could to restrain Sumit from breaking the remaining bones in Oza’s body. Puro called for peace. ‘It’s not Oza’s fault,’ he reasoned.

  Rishabh begged to differ. He had always seen Oza as a usurper of his place, and now the weasel had graduated to stealing their tournament from them! One just had to marvel, thought Rishabh, at how good Oza was at ruining things for the football team even when he wasn’t on the pitch.

  They fought the ban for two more days, taking turns going to the principal’s office. The only outcome of the pleading was that the principal’s secretary was now on first-name terms with the entire football team. He would greet them with a cheery smile and tell them that the principal was not in. Once Rana had even seen the principal standing outside the door, but Yadav, her secretary, vehemently insisted that she was at a conference in Ulhasnagar.

  On the third day, the finality of the decision finally sunk in and turned Rishabh and Puro into sulking, slouching messes. They lay draped on their desks, gaping at the teachers with unseeing eyes. When the bell sounded for the short break, Rishabh felt a tap on his shoulder.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ asked Barkha.

  It was the first conversation she had initiated in a whole week. One of the odd things about couples was that at any given point in time, only one of them could be upset. Barkha had been exacting her vengeance for all these days but now, seeing Rishabh so mopey, she melted.

  ‘Never mind. It’s football stuff, you won’t like it,’ grumbled Rishabh.

  He was right. There was a part of Barkha that had hoped Rishabh was feeling bad because of what he had said to her. She sighed. Of course it’s about football. Why would it ever be about you? she thought. She wondered if she should leave him alone, but her better instincts dictated that she probe further.

  ‘It’s all right. You can tell me.’

  Rishabh shifted in his seat, scanning her face. On it he saw warmth and genuine concern; so, slowly and cautiously, he unspooled the chain of events. He was careful to not let slip anything about KKPS, Eklavya or Tamanna. He stuck to the facts. Then, involuntarily, he began telling her about how terrible he would feel if they didn’t end up playing in this tournament.

  ‘I didn’t go for the MES tournament and we probably won’t go for this one. You know what kills me?’

  Barkha made an attentive sound.

  ‘I’ve possibly played my last game for the school, and I didn’t even know it.’

  Barkha was touched by the feeling he had for the game. She could sense his grief. It made her jealous that he had never once spoken about them with the conviction with which he spoke of football. Maybe one day, she hoped.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be fine soon,’ she said.

  ‘How? The coach will never take us to play without training.’

  Barkha considered the dilemma. She wanted to help him but knew nothing about football. So she resorted to applying a broad soothing philosophical balm.

  ‘Everything happens for the best,’ she offered. She meant it sincerely. She even smiled to make him feel better. However, her kindness produced the opposite effect. Instead of improving his mood, Rishabh’s features darkened.

  ‘How is this for the best?’

  ‘Maybe . . . maybe if you don’t go for this tournament, you will get more time for your studies. See, every cloud has a silver lining.’

  Rishabh had just told her how his school football career had been tragically cut short, and here she was talking studies and silver linings! For the first time, he saw what Purohit meant when he had said that she was not his type. She sympathized with him, but she didn’t understand him. If she didn’t get that football was his sole preoccupation, did she even get anything about him?

  ‘Who the fuck cares about all that?’ His voice was high-pitched with helplessness.

  ‘Rishabh! Don’t curse!’ reprimanded Barkha.

  ‘I’ll curse all I fucking want. What’s wrong with you? Look, you may like studying—Ms Goody Two Shoes, four-pointer, topper. And you get to do that and win awards and all. Good for you. I like playing my sport. But I’m not getting to do that. It hurts. How hard is that for you to understand?’

  ‘Who are you?’ she said. Then she rushed out of the classroom. The people who saw her leave immediately turned an accusatory eye towards Rishabh.

  Rishabh dropped his head into his hands. What have I become?

  ‘Ma’am, I have a doubt,’ said Rishabh.

  Biology period had just got over and Rishabh had followed Avantika Miss out of the classroom, calling out to her as soon as he was out of sight of his classmates. Avantika Chandra was the teacher who had caused an early onset of puberty in many a Sanghvi schoolboy. For the hormonal teenagers, her appeal lay in the fact that she was one of the few teachers who hadn’t been alive when India was still a part of the British Empire. She was in her late twenties and wore jeans to class. This, coupled with a figure that Shakespeare would have described as ‘bodacious’, meant that she widened the eyes of the XY chromosome–having population of the school.

  Rishabh didn’t know whether he had the doubt before wanting to meet her or if wanting to meet her had made him have a doubt. That point was immaterial. He had a peachy question that guaranteed him audience with Avantika Miss; and so he took his chance.

  ‘Miss, what exactly is the epidermis?’ he asked in his most earnest voice.

  ‘Oh,’ said Avantika Miss. The sheer number of people who had doubts after her classes always surprised her. It made her question the effectiveness of her teaching.

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ she began. ‘You see, the epidermis is the layer of tissue between the bone and the skin.’

  But Rishabh didn’t hear the end of her explanation because at that very moment he saw Rahul looming up from behind Avantika Miss. Rahul noticed whom he was talking to and gave him a thumbs up. Rishabh shook his head as inconspicuously as he could. Rahul then mimed that Rishabh should follow him.

  Now, Avantika Miss, on seeing Rishabh’s vacant expression, assumed that he wasn’t following her explanation. ‘Let me explain in simpler terms,’ she tried again. ‘Show me your finger.’ She reached out and raised his index finger.

  Rishabh couldn’t believe this was happening. But Rahul kept jerking his head violently in the direction of the corridor. Come, come, he implied, we have to go.

  Rishabh nodded his head ever so slightly towards Avantika Miss. Are you mad? was his implication. Not now.

  ‘See, the epidermis is the layer between your skin,’ she touched the surface of his finger, ‘and the bone.’ She knocked on the bone under his nail.

  ‘Er . . . Rishabh,’ interrupted Rahul, realizing that it was going to be impossible to extricate Rishabh without intervening, ‘sir has called us.’

  ‘Sir? Which sir?’ quizzed Rishabh with monumental annoyance.

  ‘Mehfouz sir. Football coach.’

  In a flash, Rishabh’s finger was out of Avantika Ma’am’s grasp, epidermis and all.

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Now. Call Puro.’

  Rishabh nodded. He dashed back to class and hollered for Puro to follow him.

  ‘Got it, miss. Bone, skin, between!’ shouted Rishabh as he sprinted down the corridor.

  Avantika Miss could only look on, bewildered, as the boys raced towards the gymnasium.

  The coach stood in the middle of the gymnasium. Ghadge Sir stood beside him with an expression that betrayed no emotion. The players surrounded them. Their eyes were wide with anticipation. Questions trembled on their lips. The coach held up a hand. All motion ceased.

  ‘Meeting is about the tournament,’ he began.

  The players held their breath and leaned in closer.

  ‘I’ve thought a lot before coming here. And having spoken to some of you, I’m sure this is the correct thing to do.’ He addressed this to Rishabh. There was a gleam in the Mongoo
se’s eye that they had never seen before.

  ‘I know you want to play. After a lot of thinking, I also want you to play. If I can, then I will keep this team together as much as I can.’ He paused. ‘Problem is practice. Without practice, there is no sense in going for a tournament. Correct?’

  There was grumbling among the team. They had seen eye to eye with the coach on many matters, but on this last point, they seemed to have a difference of opinion. They really wanted to play this tournament; practice was just a means to that end.

  The coach dismissed their chatter. ‘I will not send any team of mine without practice, so forget about it. But,’ he continued, ‘if you find a way to practise for the next twenty days, there is no way I won’t send you.’

  Dutta and Rana high-fived. Rahul looked heavenward. Tejas cocked his head. Only Sumit held reservations.

  ‘Sir, but the principal doesn’t want us to go.’

  ‘No. She doesn’t want you to practise. She said nothing about playing,’ corrected the coach.

  Ghadge Sir unfolded his arms and piped up, ‘That all you don’t worry about. I wheel get you leave. You concentrate on practice.’

  ‘But, sir, where will we train? We can’t use the grounds.’

  ‘You can’t use the school grounds,’ retorted the Mongoose. ‘There is a ground outside school. Just outside the gate. That we can use. If you are okay, then I am happy to train you there.’

  ‘Sir, we were always okay. If you want to start now, we are ready to go. Right, team?’ asked Puro.

  ‘Hold on,’ persisted Sumit. ‘They’ve sent letters home, remember? My mother is happy that football training has stopped. She won’t let me come.’

  He had finally succeeded in dampening their enthusiasm. They all recalled the circulars that had reached home and how their parents had reacted. The average of their remarks had been: ‘Finally, good sense has prevailed on the school authorities.’

  The coach rubbed his chin. ‘So you boys cannot train?’

  ‘Not unless we can convince our parents,’ said Sumit.

  ‘Okay, I am giving you three days to decide. After that it will be too late. In three days if you are not at the ground, then tournament is over,’ declared the coach. ‘Go now, I’ll see you soon.’

  The pitch opposite the school was the zilla parishad ground, but everyone called it ZP for short. It had an ill-maintained stony surface and was half the size of the Sanghvi ground. When players ran down it, the ground coughed up plumes of dust. It was a ground that either made you a player or an asthmatic. But given the special circumstances they were in, the Sanghvites were more than happy to train there.

  The problem of permissions persisted, though. The coach had asked them to report at the ground the coming Tuesday. On Saturday, after Oswal’s, all the boys spent the afternoon at Café Coffee Day, coming up with strategies that would convince their parents to let them play. By the end of it, they had amassed a pageful of ideas, the catch being that none of them were viable. For example, Tejas had suggested holding their parents hostage: ‘Tell them, “If you don’t let me play, I’ll not study on purpose.”’

  Puro said it wouldn’t work. ‘I’m not going to study even if they let me play.’

  Bhupinder spurred them to revolt. ‘Let’s burn our uniforms and drop out!’

  ‘It’s a school tournament. If we drop out of school, then we won’t be eligible,’ reasoned Rishabh.

  ‘Dammit,’ mumbled Bhupi. ‘Didn’t think of that.’

  Dave suggested they threaten suicide. ‘And it wouldn’t be just one of us, right? It will be mass suicide. Just imagine. Who will say no to that?’

  It was at that moment, they admitted, they were out of ideas.

  The next morning, Sunday, Mrs Bala opened the door to Rishabh’s room and found him asleep even as the alarm clock sang and danced on his study table. She shook her head. More than half the school year was over, but the boy still showed no signs of seriousness. On days he had to go for football practice, he jumped out of bed without any external stimuli, but when it came to going for tutorials, even trumpeting elephants couldn’t wake him.

  With the tired sigh of a mother chained to her duty, she began the familiar cycle of waking up her son. It was a step-by-step process that had been perfected over a decade. She began by shaking him awake and, as expected, he grunted and rolled over. Then she shouted out his name three times, each intonation rising in decibel. This made him flap his sleepy wrists in her general direction. Then she informed him he was running late for tutorials. At this point, he usually begged to sleep for a proverbial five more minutes. But on that day, Rishabh veered dramatically off script.

  ‘Wake up, Rishu! You’ll be late for coaching!’ crowed Mrs Bala.

  ‘Coaching . . .’ he mumbled.

  ‘Yes, you have to get ready. Come on! Up, up!’

  ‘Coaching . . .?’

  ‘Yes, coaching. Oswal’s. The tutorials we’ve paid a lot of money for and so you can’t afford to miss.’

  It was understood that when humans slept, most of their body shut down, except the brain. Such was the case with Rishabh too. Circuits fired in his grey matter, sparks flew through his synapses and an idea bloomed in his sleepy head. Then Rishabh’s eyes flew open.

  ‘Coaching!’ he said joyously, springing out of bed. He hugged his mother and sped out of the room.

  That day he got ready in record time. Mrs Bala was amazed. Never before had he shown such passion for tutorials. Maybe she had been wrong about her son. Maybe he had started taking things seriously after all. Little did she know that she had unwittingly gifted Rishabh an idea that was going to make his teammates very happy.

  That Tuesday afternoon, the minutes ticked by slowly for Mehfouz Noorani. He was standing under the shade of a solitary banyan tree, watching a tornado of dust swirling in the middle of ZP ground. It was five minutes past the scheduled time and the team hadn’t shown up. Five more minutes by the stopwatch, and he was going to leave.

  Then he heard the pattering of feet and saw the bobbing heads of the boys from Shri Sunderlal Sanghvi School burst through the entrance. He smiled. The boys apologized for being late.

  ‘Won’t happen again, sir,’ said Bhupinder, who huffed the hardest.

  ‘I am surprised this has even happened,’ said the coach, beaming at his flock. ‘I thought you boys wouldn’t come.’

  ‘No chance,’ said Dave.

  The coach cocked his head. He looked at Dave suspiciously. ‘Aye, your father wanted you to study, no?’

  ‘He still does, sir,’ confirmed Dave with a devilish grin.

  The coach now paid closer attention to the faces present and soon caught the eye of Floyd, who waved back merrily.

  ‘What have you told your parents?’ interrogated the coach. He supposed the lie had to have been pretty bold if Dave and Floyd, too, had managed to return to the fold. He just wanted to know what it was so he could tell how much trouble there would be if they were to be found out.

  ‘Sir, we didn’t say anything,’ confessed Purohit. ‘The school did.’

  Saying so, he stepped forward and handed the coach a rectangular piece of paper. With great trepidation, Mehfouz Noorani read it. And as his eyes reached the bottom, his lips curled into a smile. The paper looked like an authentic school circular. The boys had even got the school’s letterhead printed at the top. The text read:

  Dear Sir/Madam,

  As the exams are drawing closer, we are holding extra lectures and test series for your wards. Please make sure they attend the same. The lectures will be held from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m. from 15 November to 15 December.

  Thanks,

  Principal

  ‘Ah! Very smart. Parents cannot say no to extra classes.’

  ‘Sir, my mother forced me to come! I’ll toh get whacked if I go home before 6 this evening,’ said Floyd, chuckling.

  ‘Superb,’ said the coach. ‘Whose idea was it?’

  Rishabh raised his hand as his teammates
pushed him forward. The coach nodded. He stuck out a hand. Reluctantly, Rishabh shook it.

  ‘Good job,’ said the Mongoose. ‘Only one mistake you’ve made.’

  Concern flashed across every face that stood around him. The coach remained silent for a few extra agonizing seconds before he spoke.

  ‘The principal does not say “Thanks”. She says “Regards”.’

  ZP ground was filled with cheers and every whoop was louder than the last.

  December 2006

  RISHABH PEERED INTENTLY at the mirror. He had worn the cleanest uniform in his cupboard. It was crisply ironed and perfectly tucked in the right places. His shoes, for once, were polished. Even though he knew that they wouldn’t be seen, he didn’t want to take a chance. It was for the tenth standard photograph after all. Shri Sunderlal Sanghvi School had a tradition of taking a photograph of every passing batch—all 320 students—and cramming it as a fold-out in the school magazine, The Sanghvite. Photographs were taken in the lower classes too, but those were always shot class-wise. Only in the tenth standard was the entire batch made to stand together on the steps next to the ground and told to look into the camera and smile.

  The picture had always fascinated Rishabh. The odd thing about that photograph was that even though the faces were different every year—not to mention funnier looking—the photograph appeared the same. Even the date above it did not seem to matter, because each batch gave off that identical heavy stench of hope. Each thoroughly scrubbed face with their neatly combed hair and puffed-out chest looked ready to never look back. They could see the finishing line to their school lives and seemed buoyed up by that vision. They looked like a pack of academic wolves that was ready to pounce on the world, grab the jugular of hard work and devour the meat of success and . . . you get the point. The spirit of anticipation in the image was so strong that sometimes the magazine glowed in the dark.

  But here he was now, getting ready for his own tenth standard photograph. He remembered having a fleeting thought about it at the start of the year. It’s far, far away, he had mused and promptly started thinking of something else. Now the year had raced past, and the day of the photograph was indication that all of it really was coming to an end.