Red Card

by Kautuk Srivastava

  ‘Take out your copies of Julius Caesar. Act four, scene three,’ she said.

  Rishabh nodded at Puro and raised his hand. ‘Miss,’ he said, ‘Puro—I mean Abhay . . . and I have an inter-school tournament. Can we—I mean may we leave?’

  Bobde squinted at Rishabh. ‘Which tournament?’

  ‘Miss, it’s athletics. Running and all,’ piped up Puro. ‘We have a letter also.’

  Bobde crooked her index finger. ‘Bring it to me.’

  Rishabh’s face was rapidly turning red. Things were not going according to plan. He felt apprehensive about giving the letter to Bobde. He knew she was on to them and wondered if the doctored letters would hold up under scrutiny. It was too late to worry about that, though. Puro and Rishabh got up from their seats, walked up to the teacher’s desk and handed their letters to Bobde.

  She smirked at them and began inspecting the notes. Time slowed down. In the morning light, Rishabh could see the soft hairs on her earlobes as she bent over the sheets of paper, scanning them for dishonesty. Nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, he wondered what would happen if she caught the deception. Then he looked up. No longer under observation, the class had gone back to its default state of confusing chatter. Suddenly, his troubled eyes met a pair of burning black ones. They belonged to Barkha.

  She waggled her eyebrows. ‘All okay?’ they asked.

  Rishabh gave a micro shake of his head.

  Barkha grew concerned. ‘What happened?’ asked a single raised eyebrow.

  Rishabh’s eyes directed hers to the note.

  Barkha’s mouth fell open. Oh! Then her hand shot up. ‘Miss!’

  Bobde looked up from the note.

  ‘I have a doubt,’ said Barkha. ‘Why did Cassius condemn Lucius Pella?’

  Bobde reacted as if it were the first time she was hearing the names. And it could well have been the case too. It was her first year teaching the play, and she was having a hard time keeping up with all these Roman blokes who had banded together to do Caesar in.

  ‘One minute, Barkha. Let me finish reading this,’ answered Bobde, continuing her forensic analysis of the leave notes.

  ‘Miss,’ persisted Barkha, ‘why is it that Caesar talks in Old English for the whole play but when he is stabbed, he suddenly says, “Et tu, Brute?” in Latin?’

  ‘Barkha, I said give me a minute! Do you understand that or should I say it in Latin?’ shrieked Bobde with venom on her tongue.

  Rishabh and Puro could see that her patience was wearing thin. Behind her back, Puro began silently inciting the class to ask more questions by wringing his palms. Gowda was the first to get it.

  ‘Miss, I have a doubt,’ piped up Gagan.

  ‘What?’ spat Bobde.

  ‘How come you can’t kill politicians so easily nowadays?’ he asked with genuine curiosity.

  Eventually the whole class caught on to the game, hands mushrooming all over the room.

  ‘Miss,’ asked Parth Popat, ‘my cousin has a German shepherd called Brutus. Should he be worried?’

  ‘Miss,’ asked Barkha, ‘which came first: the name Brutus or the adjective “brutal”?’

  ‘Miss,’ asked Amay Khatri, ‘is it true that Caesar was the first caesarean baby?’

  Poulomi Bobde looked around at the eager faces and raised hands. Usually the kids sat in class like stuffed animals, but today, all of a sudden, the light of learning shone from their eyes. Bobde had never been drowned in such a deluge of doubts before. She smiled benignly. Deep down, she had known that it would take time, but that one day, she would get through to them. She was glad that day had finally come. She handed the notes back to Rishabh and Purohit. They could go to hell; she had the attention of thirty-eight other kids to bask in.

  ‘Leave my class quickly. Don’t make a noise,’ she growled at the two.

  ‘Yes, miss. Thank you, miss,’ said Rishabh.

  They scooped up their bags and rushed out of the room. As they left, they heard Bobde say, ‘Who had the question about the dog?’ Rishabh stood outside the door at an angle that hid him from Bobde but put him in sight of Barkha. He waved his arms to get her attention. She looked.

  ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed.

  ‘Gooooo!’ she mimed, moving her hands rapidly.

  As they ran down the corridor, Puro asked, ‘Why did Barkha help us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Rishabh, unable to fathom the largeness of her heart that enabled her to do so much for someone who had only let her down. ‘I don’t know.’

  On the bus, they retold the story of how Bobde had almost sniffed them out and how Barkha had started an avalanche of questions that had buried Bobde’s curiosity in their notes. The bus was filled with laughter as they bounced along.

  ‘Legends,’ said Bhupinder, clapping Rishabh and Puro on the back.

  ‘But just imagine if Bobde had caught you all,’ said Sumit.

  ‘The first thing she would have said is, “Et tu, Barkha?”’ quipped Dave.

  Mirth rippled through the bus afresh. They jabbered ceaselessly for most of the journey, but as the vehicle approached Kamani Krida Public School, they fell silent. Their energetic conversations were replaced by a quiet contemplation. Looking around the seats, Rishabh could feel the emotion coursing through all his teammates. Ever since the sixth standard, he had been playing with these boys. They knew him better than almost anybody else on the planet. He trusted them. He loved them. They had been the Golden Generation of the school, the ones who were destined to win trophies and glory. And now they were down to their last tournament. As he gazed out of the window, at the blurry world outside, he felt the weight of expectation on each of their shoulders. This was their final chance to fulfil their potential. And he knew they were going to make good on it.

  When the Sanghvi boys got out of the bus, some sections of the white-and-blue Kamani Krida crowd in the stands jeered them. It gave the boys their first taste of the hostility that was going to come their way. A shudder ran down the length of Rishabh’s body. He could imagine them sending shards of sound when he’d battle Eklavya in the middle of the pitch.

  Kamani Krida Public School was a sprawling, modern, modular building block that was painted a dull grey colour. It felt forlorn and bleak as the Sanghvites gazed at the imposing monolith. What was more, the KKPS ground looked like the surface of Mars. It was a red, grassless rectangle that lay adjacent to the building. On one end of the ground was a large banyan tree. On the other end was a flagpole, on which fluttered a bright orange flag, bearing the Kamani Krida insignia.

  The boys first made their way to the board on which the fixtures were put up. It being December and so close to the final exams, fewer schools had sent their teams. There were sixteen sides in total, divided into two groups. Their first match was against a team called B.L. Bhosale School. If the S4 had a case of nerves going into the first match, they were settled right then. They knew B.L. Bhosale was a small school situated near Thane station, whose team had been on a hot streak to see how many tournaments they could go without winning a single match.

  It was a run that had extended to at least a decade. The Sanghvi boys had grown up watching B.L. Bhosale always getting bundled out of tournaments in the first round. If anything, they were consistent. And they were cheerful. It was as if they knew they had a reputation to maintain, and feeling bad about their losses would only make their work harder. It had reached a point, Rishabh thought, where they would be inconsolable if they were to win a match.

  Their fixture was the second match of the tournament, and the coach told them to kit up and then start warming up. Adrenaline flooded Rishabh as he put on his shin pads, stockings and studs. Then he took off his shirt and slipped into his jersey. He inhaled its musty scent from the cupboard corner in which it had lain for three months. He looked down the front, at the logo they had designed, and felt the memory of every match he had played that year trapped inside it. Puro was sitting in front of him, his face a study in concentrati
on.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked Rishabh.

  ‘What happens after this?’

  ‘We reach the quarter-finals.’

  ‘No, after all of it.’

  When Rishabh was younger, say, in the fourth or fifth standard, he never thought he’d reach the tenth. It had seemed so far away. The boys and girls in the final year seemed so big and intimidating. He just couldn’t picture himself being one of them. By the time he had reached the eighth or even seventh standard, he’d been in school for so long that he had resigned himself to it. This is my life. And there’s nothing I can do about it, he would think. He never felt that a day would come when he would wake up in the morning without hearing, ‘Jaldi utho, brush karo!’

  But here he was now, in the December of his final year. He had been in such a hurry to grow up that he hadn’t realized when it had happened. Soon he would be a man. An adult. What would it be like then? Would he be any good at it? Would it be any fun? He had rarely seen men smile. Did the joy go away or did responsibility overtake it? He realized he had more questions than answers. One day, he would answer them, but now they had a match to play.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Rishabh said to his friend, ‘and it’ll be better if we win this tournament.’ He clapped Puro’s hand and hoisted him to his feet. ‘Come on, captain. It’s showtime.’

  They warmed up in silence. It was as if everyone had had the same existential crisis at once. The sense of an ending clung to them. This would be their last tournament regardless of the outcome. No trophy could adequately compensate for their disbanding. It would just be an excellent way of honouring their time together.

  Mehfouz Noorani had terse instructions before they took the field. Most of them were strategic in nature. But he concluded with ‘We all know how this team plays. They are not good. Doesn’t mean we don’t have to be. Same intensity. Same focus. Every game is final. Every game is last. Respect your opponent. Don’t be arrogant. If you feel you will not enjoy this victory or that you will not accept defeat, then realize you’re being arrogant. Stop it, at once. Go have a good game.’

  He clapped his hands. The boys patted each other on their backs and got ready to face their first challenge.

  Before kick-off, Rishabh found himself opposite B.L. Bhosale’s striker, who wore the number 8 and kept shouting and clapping at no one in particular. ‘Come on, come on!’ he would scream, and not a soul would look in his direction. It was like the mad barking of a rabid dog. The only one who paid him any attention was Rishabh. He finally caught the striker’s eye.

  ‘Nervous?’ asked Rishabh.

  ‘Not at all,’ said the boy, his eyes shifting in his sockets like ping-pong balls.

  ‘How many games have you not won?’

  The striker thought about it. He counted on his fingertips and offered a number. ‘Twenty-two tournaments.’

  It was now Rishabh’s turn to applaud. ‘Well done,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you. In some time, we will talk to the guys behind Limca Book of Records.’

  ‘Very nice. Who gets the credit, though? The players? The coach? Who?’

  The question made the number 8 run the upstairs machine again. ‘I think the school. They showed a lot of faith in our failing.’

  ‘Are you ready to lose today?’

  ‘If luck is on our side, hopefully.’

  ‘But you don’t plan to lose?’

  ‘No. It’s not fun then. There has to be some suspense.’

  In the meantime, Purohit had won the toss and elected to kick off. B.L. Bhosale chose to defend the half they were standing in, so Sanghvi had their shots targeted towards the banyan tree end.

  Within seconds of the match commencing, Rishabh can feel the difference in the side. Two things stick out in particular. Firstly, every player in the black Sanghvi jersey has the focus of a grandmother with acute far-sightedness trying to thread a needle. Secondly, they are quieter than eagles soaring the skies while scanning for mice. They complete their passes and don’t fumble with the ball. They spot each other without hollering. They run rings around the hapless B.L. Bhosale defence. Scarcely have two minutes passed, when Floyd splices the ball through two centre backs. Rahul burns some fuel, catches up to the through ball and calmly slots it home. 1–0.

  Even their celebrations are muted. The Kamani Krida spectators grumble in disapproval, which becomes louder three minutes later, when Rahul strikes the ball from the edge of the D and into the top-right corner to bag his second goal of the match. 2–0. Then Purohit, in a dazzling bit of individual brilliance, makes a run to remember. He collects the ball from the centre circle, beats an onrushing Bhosale player, cuts to the left, nudges the ball forward, snakes past a second player, runs around a third, deceives the goalkeeper, drops a shoulder to the left and pokes the ball to the right. 3–0. It’s a goal so magical that even the staunchest KKPS supporter is stunned into silence. A patter of applause emanates softly from the stands.

  ‘It’s a walk in the park,’ says Puro with carefree pride.

  As the half is about to draw to a close, Rishabh receives the ball. He looks up for options and sees Floyd darting forward. He passes to Floyd and shoots ahead.

  ‘Give!’ he says. Floyd can see a defender closing in on Rishabh. He’s reluctant to pass. Rahul is open to the left.

  Rishabh follows Floyd’s gaze; spots the defender. I’ll get past him, he thinks. ‘Floyd! Pass!’ he calls.

  It’s the conviction in Rishabh’s voice that makes up Floyd’s mind for him. He knocks the ball forward. Rishabh spreads his arms and plants himself in the ground. The defender slams into him. Rishabh shifts all his weight backward, shielding the ball from his opponent. He twists this way, then that. He spots a gap. He rushes into the space and rifles a shot. It smoothly rolls past the keeper, hits the post with a thunk and ricochets into the net. 4–0.

  It’s a clinical, satisfying strike that propels Rishabh skyward. He lands on his feet and punches the air. A wave of aggression rolls through him. Ever since the tournament was announced, he has dreamed of the day he would score within the walls of Kamani Krida. The distant rumbling from the stands sounds like a symphony.

  When the whistle was blown for half-time, Sanghvi left the pitch elated but the B.L. Bhosale boys looked happier. They were on course for another well-deserved defeat and a step closer to record-book glory.

  Usually in the interval, the boys would rasp for air and fall to the ground, exhausted. That day, they didn’t feel like they had played a game at all. For most of them this was metaphorical, but for Dave it was literal. With neither a shot to defend nor a kick to make, he had spent the half staring at the back of the heads of his busy teammates. He came off the pitch yanking at his gloves and grumbling to himself.

  ‘Anybody has a book or something?’ he yelled. ‘Super bored out there.’

  They settled down as the coach cleared his throat. ‘Good half,’ he said. ‘The match, as I see, is over. In the second half, play a relaxed game. Don’t waste energy. The tournament is long, and you will need it soon.’

  ‘Sir, I spend more energy playing chess,’ quipped Rahul.

  ‘Aye!’ barked the coach.

  Rahul winced. He knew he should have kept his smart alec comments to himself, but an innate Rahulness made him blurt it out.

  Surprisingly, the coach broke into a wide smile. ‘Funny,’ he said, before continuing. ‘Okay, team, drink water. Sumit, Lokhande, Chakraborty, warm up. Rahul, Purohit and Rishabh, you will be on the bench.’

  Rahul’s eyes widened. Fear crawled all over his face. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was just joking!’ he pleaded.

  ‘I know,’ said the coach.

  ‘Sir, then why are you taking me off?’ Rahul had scored two goals, and in B.L. Bhosale’s rickety defence he could see the inevitability of a hat-trick. In the tradition of every full-blooded striker, he was greedy for goals and gutted when he was hauled off the pitch.

  ‘I want you to rest for other matches,�
�� reasoned the coach.

  ‘But, sir, I have the stamina. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Aye, you know better or I do?’

  Rahul had some opinions on the matter, but he saw the moustache flare out and managed to bottle up his views. Rishabh shared Rahul’s sense of regret, but he was also flattered that the coach had identified him as a key player for future matches. He rolled down his stockings, unclasped his shin guards and stretched his legs out. For once, he would enjoy being on the bench.

  The second half belonged to the substitutes. Rishabh was happiest about Sumit’s inclusion. The mynahs that pecked at the Sanghvi soil had spent more time on the pitch in a single morning than Sumit had in a year. Yet he had never let his lack of playing time curb his enthusiasm. It didn’t help that Sumit lived forty-five minutes away from the school. For a long, punishing year, he had awoken at a time when even roosters snuggled under their blankets and taken a rickshaw to the bus stand and then a bus to school. He’d put in all that effort for the hard task of being left on the bench. Rishabh had often wondered what drove Sumit despite the disappointments. Watching him gambolling about on the pitch now, he realized what it was: a pure and simple love for the game. It hurt Sumit not to play, but it would have hurt him more not to try.

  Given his opportunity (but more likely because of the opponent), Sumit was majestic. He towered over the B.L. Bhosale strikers. He flicked them off the ball like they were ticks. He bullied and heckled every player who wandered within earshot. He slammed into the enemies like an angry rhinoceros. Within minutes, the B.L. Bhosale players were reluctant to go anywhere near him. So he started advancing towards them. He rushed to clear balls as far ahead as the halfway line. Once, he booted the ball so hard, it possibly struck a space station before landing well outside the school walls.

  ‘Abbey, how small is this ground?’ Sumit bellowed at the Kamani Krida stands.

  And how the Sanghvi players clapped. They applauded him till the skin of their palms threatened to chafe.

  ‘SUMO! SUMO!’ they cheered.