Red Card

by Kautuk Srivastava

  The Sanghvi boys scream in relief and rush over to Paras. They pat him so violently that he will develop bruises the next day. It turns out to be his last contribution to the match—the coach is replacing him with Chakraborty. Paras takes his own sweet time getting off the pitch. He makes it to the touchline with the speed of an octogenarian needing a hip replacement. By the time Chakraborty enters the fray and the match resumes, time is up. The referee blows the whistle and Sanghvi hands shoot up in triumph. They’re through to the semis!

  A mighty roar erupted from the stands when the quarter-final between Dingreja Educational Society and Kamani Krida ended. It was in part to celebrate KKPS’s victory but mostly because it meant that the home team was to play Sanghvi in the semis.

  The din made the Sanghvi players sit up. They had been studying the KKPS match and had watched how clinically DES had been carved open and cast aside. KKPS had won 4–0. Eklavya had scored twice; Nagesh and Sandeep Sinha had supplied the remaining goals. The match had had none of the uncertainty and hesitation that had marred Sanghvi’s quarter-final. It made a few of them nervous. Rana and Dutta had both stopped watching after the third goal.

  When the final whistle sounded, Rishabh cheered with the rest of the spectators. It made Dave and Puro, who were sitting next to him, raise their eyebrows. He smiled back at them sheepishly. This was the match he had come to play. It was the contest that had consumed him for thirty straight days. In his visions, the match always took place in the final, the perfect farewell to his school career. He was a tad disappointed to meet them earlier. It’s a pity, he thought. Would have been more fun beating them in a final. But it was a minor change in plan. He would now get revenge before the trophy instead of the two of them together.

  As he waited for the semi-final encounter, time flopped down and stretched out to take a nap, and refused to budge. Rishabh ate his lifeless sandwiches and got himself a glass of lemon juice from the canteen. It was sour and viscous. It takes special talent, thought Rishabh, to make nimbu pani badly. Then he sat back in the stands and watched the clouds drift by in the sky. He looked at the Kamani Krida students in the stands as they ate potato chips and watched Father Ignatius’s play St James’s High School. After some minutes, he found Puro, and they rehearsed elaborate celebrations for when they would score against KKPS.

  Forty-five minutes before the match, the team huddled around the coach and looked at him with expectant eyes.

  ‘You have made it to the semis. It is no small achievement. Well done,’ began the coach.

  The team cheered half-heartedly. The coach nodded his approval, and they added the rest of their heart.

  ‘Now, you know whom you are playing—’

  The boys let him know they were well aware of their opponents.

  ‘It is going to be a tough match. Maybe even tougher than a final. Firstly, we are on their home ground. Look there.’ He pointed to the stands.

  Crowds had begun filling up the seats. No one wanted to miss Sanghvi vs KKPS. There were a few girls in the cluster, but the stands were predominantly, aggressively male. Rishabh could spot the mischief on their faces. They were waiting to scream and shout, to boo and bay for the blood of every Sanghvi player. He could smell the expectation wafting from the stands. It was going to be no ordinary match. It was going to be a blood sport.

  It was as if the coach had read his mind. ‘Don’t worry about them. The best way to shut them up is to play well. I am telling you about them because they will make noise. I want your communication to be loud. Shout. Talk more. And whatever happens, do not react to the crowd. No matter what they say. Understood?’

  Although the coach had dispensed this as a general warning, Rishabh couldn’t help but think it was exclusively intended for him. He nodded vigorously.

  ‘Secondly, I know they are cheats.’

  Now this statement had a pronounced effect on the team. The coach had struck a groundswell of emotion. The boys chimed in with their opinions on exactly what kind of cheating scum Kamani Krida were. The coach heard them out patiently. Finally, he held up a hand and they fell silent.

  ‘I said I know,’ he said. ‘What I want to tell you is this: In school, age group and all matters. But in some time, school will be over. You will be men. The world outside is tough. Not everyone follows the rules. They bend them. They break them. But just because others do it does not mean you should bend or break. In my time, I have come up against many such crooked people. I can say this with full confidence—they might think they are getting an advantage, but there is only one way to win. You know what that is?’

  Rishabh was about to say, ‘Discipline’, when the coach added, ‘To play by your own rules. Because in the end, we have to live with ourselves. We have to be who we are. Do what you love. Love your family. Enjoy life. Live with yourselves. In the end, that is all that matters. They can cheat and lie and win trophies, but when they shut their eyes, does winning like this mean anything?’ He paused for breath. ‘I have won many things in my life, boys. And the ones that matter, I didn’t have to play for.’

  Mehfouz Noorani stood with his arms folded across his chest, staring at the ground. They could see pictures flicker in his eyes, though they couldn’t see what he was seeing. His moustache moved. A smile spread across his face.

  ‘Thirdly, don’t hold back for the final. Don’t go easy now. Don’t conserve energy. Run like this is the last one. Play like this is the last one. The final generates its own energy. In the semi-final, you have to bring your own. GIVE IT EVERYTHING AND YOU WILL TAKE EVERYTHING!’

  The boys cheered as the coach reached a crescendo. At that moment, Rishabh was willing to give his life up, if only the coach asked. He had never felt this way before. That he himself was insignificant; that there were things bigger than him and that he was ready to surrender to them.

  ‘Now, warm up. Do it properly. Purohit, lead the team. It is match time.’

  Rishabh carefully wrapped the crêpe bandage around his ankle. He had carried that bandage in his bag for four years; he was glad to have used it at least once in his time on the school team. It seemed like he hadn’t wasted the bandage’s time.

  The stands were packed. The clamour washed over the ground in waves. He couldn’t tell what was being shouted, his heart was beating so fast in his chest. His laces kept slipping because of the patina of sweat that coated his fingers. Time had slowed to a crawl. He knew he got this way when he was afraid. Except this time it was different. He could feel his pulse humming in his wrists. He couldn’t wait to walk on to the field.

  He jumped up and bounced on the spot. ‘Come on!’ he yelled.

  He caught Purohit’s eye, and his friend’s face broke into a wide grin. It was the same smile that he had seen when he had first met the captain all those years ago on a rainy day in the seventh standard.

  ‘Come on!’ Puro yelled back.

  ‘This is our game!’ said Rahul.

  The crowd roared around them, but Rishabh heard each Sanghvi voice the loudest. Sunlight slanted over the ground, the red earth glowing in the dying light. He thought of the trophy. He felt his fingers curling around the golden metal. His heart stopped for a single second before resuming its function again.

  Beside them, the KKPS players were tucking in their jerseys. Not this time, he thought. Not while I’m on the pitch.

  Purohit patted him on his number. ‘This one is for you.’

  Rishabh beamed. ‘And the next one will be for all of us.’

  Nothing has prepared them for the jeers they are greeted with when they take the pitch. It is the sound of 200 virulent voices. Rishabh soaks it in. He basks in the hatred. It fuels the adrenaline already coursing through him. In the first half, Sanghvi are shooting at the flagpole end. Rishabh takes his position on the right, away from the baying crowd. He jumps and tucks his feet in. His muscles are loose and raring to go. His ankle is stiff, but the pain has vanished.

  A louder racket erupts as the Kamani Krida players wal
k on to the field. They wave back at the crowd. Their smug faces revolt Rishabh. They think they are going to win, he realizes. He shakes the anger out of his body. The familiar stocky frame of Eklavya floats out of the clump of orange jerseys. He pads his way to the left flank. Welcome, says Rishabh to himself.

  ‘I’m going to kill you, boy,’ says Eklavya by way of greeting.

  ‘How long did it take you to come up with that?’ taunts Rishabh.

  Eklavya glares at him. ‘I can smell the fear on you.’

  ‘It’s Relispray, genius.’

  Eklavya’s eyes drift to his feet and he spots the bandage. Rishabh winces. He knows he’s made a mistake by revealing his injury.

  Eklavya is smirking. ‘I’m going to finish that job,’ he promises. ‘Upgrade you to a plaster. Maybe even crutches.’

  Rishabh doesn’t reply. Coolly, Eklavya touches his toes and flexes his back. His T-shirt strains against his muscles. Rishabh looks down the line. Puro is watching him. He holds up his palms. ‘Easy, easy,’ he indicates. Rishabh nods.

  ‘Rishabh!’ Rahul yells. ‘Kick-off!’

  Rahul is waiting at the centre circle. Rishabh shakes his head and runs over.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot,’ he says.

  ‘As long as you remember to not get a card, it’s fine,’ says Rahul.

  The referee, a lean, bald man with hooded eyes and a hooked nose, jogs over to the circle.

  ‘Ready?’ he asks.

  The boys nod. He puts the whistle to his lips and blows. The crowd roars. Rishabh rolls the ball out. Rahul traps it and side-foots a pass to Puro. Once the game begins, Rishabh loses all his pre-game nerves. The crowds transform into a blur. The only sound he hears is the quick intake of his breath. He drifts to the right flank. He is shoved forward. He stumbles but maintains his balance.

  ‘Watch where you’re going,’ calls Eklavya with a grin.

  Floyd is holding off a KKPS midfielder, looking for passes. Rishabh glances around the ground. Puro, Rahul and Tejas are all too far ahead. He breaks away from the touchline and drifts towards the middle. He’s in an ocean of space.

  ‘Floyd! Look!’ he yells. Floyd acknowledges him and cuts the ball to Rishabh. It’s a trap. As soon as he traps the ball, three KKPS players pounce on him like wolves bursting from the bushes. A foot hacks into his vulnerable ankle. He goes down in a heap of agony and screaming. Another well-aimed stud drives into his back. He twists in anguish. A player bounds over him, and he sees the orange jerseys streaming past him. His eyes are shutting as pain shoots through his back and ankle.

  Then he hears the crowd boom. A tsunami of noise washes over the ground. He stops squirming and sees Eklavya billowing away from the Sanghvi goal with his arms outstretched. He comes to a stop in front of the stands. Nagesh jumps on to his back. Rishabh staggers to his feet just as Dave is stooping to pick up the ball from the Sanghvi goal. That’s when it sinks in. Kamani Krida has scored. Eklavya has scored. And Rishabh let it happen.

  ‘BEHENCHOD!’ he screams. He buries his face in his palms. His fingers rend his hair. His heart sinks into his sock. His stomach turns to ice.

  If there is a worse way to start this match, then Rishabh can’t imagine it. All around him, Sanghvi heads drop. Kamani Krida jog back to their half. As Eklavya passes him, he shouts, ‘Thanks, sissy!’

  Rahul is standing in the centre circle. His arms are on his hips as he’s rolling the ball on the spot in anger.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ says Rishabh to every teammate within earshot. He looks to the bench. The coach is squeezing his lower lip between his thumb and his index finger. He has no sage advice to offer now.

  The whistle rings in their ears again. This time, it sounds ominous. Rishabh is still shaking. Rahul puts his hands on his shoulders.

  ‘We’ll do this. Don’t worry. Not this time. Not again.’

  ‘PLAY!’ yells the referee.

  Rishabh jumps to attention. Jerkily, he nudges the ball forward. KKPS has always had the skill and now they have the momentum too. They begin dominating possession. The crowd flares up in appreciation with every pass completed by their team. The Sanghvi players sense the desperation with which KKPS seek their second goal. Puro is pushed back. Floyd is back-pedalling. Dutta and Rana are overrun. Almost every Kamani Krida player is camped inside the Sanghvi half.

  Bhupinder is struggling to keep up with Eklavya. In a perilous moment, Eklavya skips past Bhupinder, reaches the goal line and sends a cross sailing in. Dutta jumps, but it’s a Kamani Krida head that gets to the ball. Nagesh powers a header into the ground. The ball ricochets upward. Dave launches into the air and his fingertips prove to be the difference between the status quo and Kamani Krida going two goals up.

  KKPS take the corner quickly and the pressure doesn’t relent. They shuttle the ball around from the right to the left. Eklavya gets the ball. Bhupinder advances towards him. Rishabh holds up a hand. ‘He’s mine!’ he yells and rushes up to contend with Eklavya.

  ‘Want some more?’ asks Eklavya.

  Rishabh doesn’t respond. His eyes are riveted on the ball. Eklavya’s feet dance over it in a series of step-overs. Rishabh dives in with a challenge. His right foot knocks the ball out of Eklavya’s foot. His trailing foot takes out Eklavya’s standing leg. Puro is about to mount an attack, when the referee blows the whistle.

  ‘Foul!’ shouts the referee.

  Rishabh jumps to his feet. ‘I got the ball!’ he protests. On the touchline, the coach is punching the air in frustration.

  ‘Foul,’ says the vulture-faced referee, quietly and definitely.

  Rishabh is about to let loose a torrent of abuse, when Paras wraps an arm around him and pushes him back. ‘Let it go,’ he whispers.

  Rishabh shakes his head and steps back.

  Eklavya is rubbing his knee. He grimaces at Rishabh. ‘You thought you’d be a hero? Now watch.’

  The free kick is twenty-five yards out. Eklavya places the ball on the spot and takes three measured steps back.

  ‘Wall! Wall!’ screams Puro.

  Paras, Rahul, Puro and Rishabh link their arms and stand as tall as they can. They cover their genitals with a palm and wait. Rishabh can feel Paras jittering. Sweat is dripping into his eyes. He blinks it away. The Nike logo flashes as Eklavya plants his foot more firmly into the ground. Please don’t let him score. Please. Please, he begs God, his guardian angel, anyone who has any cosmic say in the outcome of this situation.

  Eklavya takes a short run-up and strikes the ball cleanly. He hits it with tremendous power and pinpoint accuracy. The ball rockets into its intended target: Rishabh Bala’s face.

  Rishabh feels the bridge of his spectacles dig into his mug and the sharp cut of their metallic frame before he feels the blunt trauma of the ball. He rocks back and falls to his knees, clutching his face. The skin has peeled off his nose, and it burns in the cool wintry evening. Soon a small stream of blood trickles down his cheeks. Eklavya runs up to him in mock concern. He bends over the fallen Rishabh.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  Rishabh groans.

  ‘Good,’ Eklavya says as he yanks at the back of Rishabh’s head before straightening himself.

  Puro shoves Eklavya in the chest. ‘Get away from him!’

  Eklavya smirks but retreats. Paras hands Rishabh his glasses, which had fallen from the impact. The frame is bent out of shape. They sit askew on his face but are still usable.

  ‘Get off the pitch. Clean the blood off your face and then return,’ commands the referee. He’s looking down at Rishabh with a cold, apathetic stare. He seems less concerned about Rishabh’s well-being and more worried about protocol.

  Rahul and Puro hoist Rishabh to his feet, and he stumbles his way to the touchline.

  The coach is concerned. He is the first to get to Rishabh. Ghadge Sir shuffles after him, carrying the first-aid kit.

  ‘Can you carry on?’ asks the coach.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That
cut looks bad.’

  ‘Sir, I can play,’ says Rishabh, his voice rising.

  His eyes are still fixed on the match. His mind is still racing. Ghadge Sir pulls out a tuft of cotton, wets it in water and dabs it on Rishabh’s face. It singes his wound. Rishabh yowls in pain and swats away Ghadge Sir’s hand.

  ‘Shtay shtill!’ shouts Ghadge Sir. ‘Otherwise it wheel take longer to put you back on.’

  Rishabh apologizes and holds still, though the cut burns like an ember flaming on his face. When the blood has been wiped off, Ghadge Sir administers a Band-Aid in haste. As a result, the Band-Aid is lopsided and doesn’t cover more than half the gash.

  ‘You wheel wear shpecs like that?’ asks Ghadge Sir.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It is little crooked.’

  Rishabh grabs the glasses off his face and bends them into some semblance of their pre-impact form. Then he shoves them back on.

  ‘Okay, now you can go.’

  Rishabh waits impatiently for the ball to go out of play so he can return to the pitch, but the game goes on uninterrupted for what seems like decades to him. From the touchline, it looks like the two teams are playing different sports. Sanghvi are playing football while Kamani Krida are playing rugby. Rishabh watches as the KKPS players commit a series of fouls that go unpunished. A player yanks Puro’s jersey. Another elbows Paras off the ball. Two KKPS players ram into Dutta from both sides, compressing him into a chapatti. And the Vulture overlooks it. It’s only when Amar makes a clearance, sending the ball over the touchline, that Rishabh gets to return to the field. And when the KKPS player takes the throw, he finds himself back off it as the referee blasts his whistle for half-time.

  In the heat of the match, Rishabh had forgotten his mistake. As he left the pitch, he saw that the scoreboard read Kamani Krida 1–Sanghvi School 0, and guilt took hold of him once more. His breath grew ragged and he pursed his lips. He saw the leering faces in the crowd and remembered crumbling to the ground. He recalled the vibrant KKPS jersey as Eklavya had torn towards the goal. He could have fended them off. He had let them overpower him. He had lost the ball. He had cost them the match.