On the first day of the camp, Orko was relieved to find that some of the boys were close to him in age. They were not as intimidating as the older boys he had seen when he cycled past the field. Bishu Bhowmick, their coach, had been in the state football squad before Orko was born. He was a hulk of a man, with a head of unruly hair and a thick moustache. He had broad shoulders, and his upper arms were as thick as lampposts. His calf muscles pulsed when he ran. Even his large belly looked like it was made of solid muscle. His booming voice sent a shiver down Orko’s spine.
The early days weren’t too bad. Orko learned to head, kick and dodge. He was able to run twenty laps around the football field, and he was only a little winded afterwards. The coach often praised Orko for his skill and his stamina. The boys, on the other hand, began to tease him. Everything about him was wrong, apparently – the way he walked, the way he talked, the way he crossed his legs when he sat down. They asked him why he didn’t wear a frock. They pushed him and they shoved him when he protested. It wasn’t pleasant at all, but it was no worse than he had imagined it would be. The coach intervened sometimes, but not often enough.
‘It’s great fun,’ he said to Urmi a week after he joined the camp. He repeated the coach’s words of praise, with considerable embellishment. Urmi was happy for him, but she still didn’t show any interest in football. So he told her about his new friends. ‘We’re going for a movie,’ he said when she asked him if he wanted to study together on Saturday. ‘I wish you could come too, but you’ll probably feel a little left out when we talk about football.’
It was three weeks into the camp when everything changed. On the day, he reached the football field a little later than usual, he cannot remember why. Bishu wasn’t there yet. The two boys that he liked the least pointed at him and smirked. As soon as he was within earshot, it started.
‘Out of my way, silly cow,’ said Neel, in a singsong voice.
‘Or I’ll pelt you with flowers,’ Arijit piped in, pursing his lips.
Orko usually ignored them when they did that, but that day he saw the creature again, the one that sucked the colour out of everything. The turf was grey. The boys were grey. The houses around the football field were grey. He didn’t dare look up at the sky to see if it was still blue. He couldn’t bear it. He wanted to fight the creature, to defeat it, once and for all.
He let out a war cry and charged at the boys. He kicked and punched, scratched and bit indiscriminately, stopping only when he felt a hand inside his shorts, followed by a numbing pain that emanated from his groin. It knocked the wind out of him. It travelled upwards to his stomach, and downwards to his thighs. He fell to the ground and curled up, unable to breathe.
‘He’s grown a pair,’ laughed Neel. The others joined in.
‘Orka’s grown a pair of balls,’ they said, in a singsong voice. Somebody let out a guffaw and kicked him in the shin. The whole time, Orko hoped nobody he knew would witness this humiliation.
The boys would have continued to kick him if Saikat hadn’t intervened. Saikat was the oldest boy at the camp. He was taller than the rest of them, and he had the deepest, most imposing voice. ‘Leave him alone,’ he said calmly, just like a grown-up would, and the boys scattered as though the words were a magic spell.
Although Orko could breathe again, his whole body ached. The coach arrived just as he was beginning to gather himself.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Sir,’ cried Orko. ‘They…’
He couldn’t bring himself to utter the words, and Bishu didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. ‘Stop crying,’ he said as he led Orko towards the goalpost, where the rest of the boys were. ‘I’ll talk to you after practice.’
Bishu clapped his hands and blew his whistle, calling them all to attention. He divided the squad into two teams. They were adversaries now, lined up like pawns on a chessboard before the start of play. Every time the coach looked at him, Orko looked away. He was sure he was going to be expelled, or severely reprimanded. After all, he had thrown the first punch.
‘Sit,’ Bishu said to them. He paced between the lines, surveying his charges. Finally, he stationed himself as if the boys were seated at a table, and he at its head. There was a ball at his feet and a whistle on a bright yellow lanyard around his neck. He stood, arms akimbo, the tip of his boot on the ball, like the statue of a famous footballer Orko had once seen, though he could not remember where.
‘Football,’ he said, ‘has two simple objectives. First – get the ball between the opponent’s goalposts, as many times as you can. That is to say, score goals. In torrents.’
Two boys sitting across from Orko whispered to one another. One of them raised his palm across his face to hide a smirk. Bishu glared at the errant boys until they took notice. Moisture from the grass seeped through the seat of Orko’s shorts.
‘The second objective is more difficult than the first,’ he continued. ‘You have to keep your opponents away from your goalposts. If you can’t, you’ll lose.’
The coach was right. The objectives were simple. Score goals. Don’t let the opponents score any. On the other hand, the whole endeavour seemed asinine. How did so many people all over the world find this fascinating?
‘Individual brilliance is, of course, beautiful to watch,’ the coach went on. ‘But individuals don’t win games. Teams win games. You need to have unity of thought. The most important aspect of the game is team spirit.’
With that, he blew his whistle and clapped his hands again. The boys stood up. The coach directed them to their positions on the field, and the ball was in play.
The boys ran up and down the field, jostling for the ball, tripping each other, sometimes deliberately, between frantic bursts from the whistle. Orko remained rooted to the spot assigned to him. He wasn’t sure what was expected of him. He could try to get at the ball and take it forward, maybe even have a shot at the goal, but he saw six others doing exactly that. He could go down towards the goal he was supposed to defend, but there was no one there except the goalkeeper. His eyes followed the ball as it went back and forth across the centre line. When someone kicked it out of play, the coach walked over to Orko and asked him if anything was the matter. Orko shook his head and ran off in the general direction of the action.
For the rest of the afternoon, he stayed close to the ball, but the only contact he made with it was when a shot from one of the boys ricocheted off his shoulder. He even forgot which team he was on. He was glad when the long whistle signalled the end of play.
‘Your mind was not on the game today,’ the coach said to Orko after practice.
Orko couldn’t bring himself to respond. He was sure Bishu had seen the boys kick him and call him names. He was ashamed, because this never happened to anybody else. The boys often fooled around, but it was all in good humour. They never ganged up on anyone else the way they ganged up on him. What was most unbearable was that so many of them sat around and watched, as if it was just a game. Tears began to come, and it was all he could do to fight them back.
‘You don’t like that they pick on you, do you?’ Bishu asked. His voice sounded softer and kinder than it had earlier in the afternoon. For the first time, he seemed to be on Orko’s side.
Orko shook his head.
‘Well, I used to be bullied too,’ Bishu said, almost in a whisper, and Orko began to sob. This seemed to fluster Bishu. ‘I don’t think you should continue with the camp,’ he said.
Orko’s heart sank. His worst fears were coming true: he was being expelled. Siddharth had been expelled from his school a few years ago. He was a horrid boy. He beat up the younger children and swore at one of their teachers. His parents were summoned to the principal’s office countless times before he was finally asked to leave. The thought of being expelled was more shameful than Orko could bear. He couldn’t believe this was happening, and in that moment he forgot how much he detested the football camp. He wanted to remain, at all costs.
‘But I
didn’t do anything at all,’ he said. ‘They were calling me names. They were the ones who hit me.’ He was surprised by the alacrity with which he said these words, because they weren’t true. He had thrown the first punch.
‘Some of the boys find your manner very distracting,’ Bishu said.
Orko was dumbfounded. He had put his heart and soul into football these past few weeks. He had paid attention to Bishu’s instructions. He couldn’t think of anything he had done that was extraneous or unnecessary. Bishu himself had praised him on many occasions. He hung his head, unable to respond to Bishu’s accusation.
‘I think you need to change a few basic things,’ Bishu said. ‘I can help you.’
Orko saw a glimmer of hope; maybe all was not lost. He waited for Bishu to tell him what he needed to work on, but Bishu said nothing.
As he turned to go, Bishu called after him. ‘There’s no time to lose. Why don’t you come home with me? We can start your lessons today.’
Orko was taken by surprise. ‘Okay,’ was all he could say.
They walked to the cycle stand at the back of the club-house. Bishu took a set of keys from the pocket of his shorts and unlocked a large green bicycle. He wheeled it out of the parking area and mounted. He took his left hand off the handlebars and indicated, with a nod of his head, that Orko should sit on the crossbar.
‘It’s not very far. We’ll be able to talk freely,’ Bishu said, before they began rolling.
They went past the football field and down an earthen track that was just wide enough for the bicycle. After about half a kilometre, Bishu leaned into a left turn; his belly rubbed against Orko’s side. They went past houses, single-storey with tiled roofs that were once brick-red. Many were fronted by fences and wicker gates fashioned out of bamboo. Some had plantain or guava trees growing in front. The street was deserted. A solitary crow cawed in the distance. The pedals squeaked with every revolution. Orko was reminded of a ghost town, from a story his father told him years ago.
After a few minutes, they came to a halt. ‘Here we are,’ said Bishu.
Orko slid off the crossbar. He was a little sore, but he didn’t know if it was from the beating he had taken or from sitting on the crossbar of Bishu’s bicycle. The house stood on a large plot surrounded by a shoulder-high brick wall. At its centre was a little red gate. Bishu dismounted and undid the latch. He pulled the gate outwards and wheeled his bicycle in. Orko followed, though he was not sure that he should.
The plot was neatly bisected by a narrow concrete strip that led from the gate to the front door. To the right was a tubewell. To the left, in a patch of grass, was a clump of trees of varying shapes and sizes. Orko recognised a palm tree, a plantain and a guava tree, among others that he couldn’t name.
The house wasn’t very big. It looked like it had no more than two rooms. The walls were pink. The window frames were lime-green, their frosted panes embossed with a floral pattern.
Bishu parked his bicycle by the tubewell and made for a flight of stairs to the right of the house. Orko stood by the bicycle.
‘Come on,’ Bishu said, and motioned for Orko to follow him.
The staircase was narrow. It was a single flight, with an unpainted iron guardrail. From the terrace, Orko saw that there was a pond at the back of the house. A concrete stairway descended into its murky waters. The pond was surrounded by overgrown, haphazard shrubbery. On the far side was a dark thicket of tall trees.
On the terrace, tucked away in a corner, was a small room, its walls the colour of unpainted concrete. The windows were the same colour and design as the ones downstairs. The door was secured by a padlock hanging off a deadbolt. Bishu dug into the zippered pocket of his football shorts and retrieved his keys.
Inside the room was a writing table with a matching chair, a single bed and a large bookshelf, full of trophies and medals. The medals were enclosed in a glass case, against a green felt background. The walls were plastered with photographs of Bishu, mostly in black and white. Some were mounted on frames, others pasted on green chart paper. In one photo he was standing with a football in the crook of his arm. In another he was on the podium, accepting a trophy from an important-looking man with white hair. In yet another he was posing with his team, on his knees, smiling, young, maybe just a few years older than the oldest boys in the coaching camp.
‘That’s my first match with the state team,’ Bishu said, a wistful smile on his face. ‘I played more than a thousand games. No one would have thought…’ His voice trailed off. ‘You can be a great footballer too,’ he said to Orko. ‘Before you can do that, though, you have to earn the respect of your teammates.’
Orko felt indignant. Just a few days ago the coach had said that he had a natural ability, and Orko had worked hard, in spite of the fact that he hated football. It was all going well until they started that nonsense about the cows and the flowers. Something snapped inside of him as he relived the humiliation of the afternoon.
‘I don’t want to play with them,’ he blurted out. ‘They’re horrid. They tease me and call me names.’ He regretted the words the moment they left his lips. He hoped Bishu wouldn’t take umbrage. He didn’t want to be expelled from the camp. He felt his eyes well up with tears again. Before he knew it, he was sobbing.
‘That’s what you need to work on first,’ said Bishu. ‘You’re not a girl. You can’t dissolve in a puddle of tears at the drop of a hat.’
Orko wiped his tears away. He took a deep breath, like his mother had taught him to. As his sobs receded, the anger welled up again.
‘They can’t treat me like this,’ he said. ‘They tease me. I’ve never said a word to either of them. They just won’t leave me alone.’
‘They’re good boys,’ said Bishu. ‘This is quite normal. If you can’t face this, how will you face life when you grow up? The world is not a doll’s house, you know!’
There was an edge in Bishu’s voice, and Orko’s heart skipped a beat. Did Bishu know that he had played with dolls, once upon a time? Was that going to be held against him? Did Bishu bring him home just to tell him that he had to leave the camp? Was he going to tell Orko’s father?
‘Maybe you should come back to the football camp next year,’ Bishu continued. ‘This year, I’ll teach you some other things.’ He walked out of the room and onto the terrace. Orko followed him outside.
‘Do you have an older sister?’ Bishu asked him, as they stood there on the terrace.
Orko was taken aback. ‘No,’ he said tentatively. ‘I am an only child.’
‘And your parents? Does your father live in another city?’
‘I live with my father. My mother passed away,’ said Orko.
‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Bishu. ‘How old were you then?’
‘Eight.’
Bishu stared at Orko, as if he were a curiosity. Orko stood still, confused. Bishu paced about, looking pensive. When he stopped pacing, his face was uncomfortably close to Orko’s.
‘Do you have any friends at all?’ he asked.
‘I have lots of friends at school,’ Orko replied.
‘Who is your best friend?’
‘Urmi. She is in my class, and she lives right next door.’
‘And your other friends? Are they all girls?’ There was a hint of derision in Bishu’s voice. Suddenly he seemed just like the boys on the football field.
‘No,’ Orko said defiantly. ‘Sugato and Bodhi are boys.’
Sugato was in Orko’s class. He had excellent handwriting, and he took very good notes in class. He was quiet and diligent, and during the lunch break he was usually at the library. Orko had malaria last year, and had missed two weeks of school. When he returned, Sugato helped him catch up with the rest of the class. Bodhi wasn’t really Orko’s friend. He was Urmi’s older brother, and he often advised Orko about how he should conduct himself at school.
‘Do you really want to play football?’ Bishu asked, his voice gentle and calm again.
Orko did no
t want to play football. He did not want to have anything to do with it. He hated the sport, and he hated the boys he had to deal with every day. He would rather do his homework with Urmi. If he discontinued, though, she was going to ask him why he wasn’t going to the football ground anymore, and he would have to admit to her that it had all been a lie, and that he really hated football.
‘Yes, sir. I want to play football,’ he said, trying his best to sound determined. Bishu was quiet. He looked away from Orko, into the distance past the pond at the back of the house. Orko was beginning to feel really anxious. He fidgeted with the hem of his shorts. Several minutes seemed to pass before Bishu spoke again.
‘You have skill, and stamina. But that isn’t all football is about. When you walk out on the field, your opponents size you up very quickly, and if you appear weak, they will target you. Your teammates need to know that they can depend on you.’
‘But they can, sir,’ said Orko. He felt ashamed about the way he had been on the field that day. ‘I was a little distracted today,’ he said, hoping that was explanation enough. He couldn’t think of anything he had done before that day that would give people the impression that he couldn’t be depended upon.
Bishu shook his head. ‘They don’t take you seriously because you have a disease,’ he said. ‘You walk like a girl, and you start crying at the slightest provocation.’
Orko wasn’t sure what Bishu meant. He thought of the boys and girls in his class. They all had their individual gaits, but basically they all put one foot before the other, to get where they wanted to be. Did boys and girls really walk differently? Did he walk like a girl?
Bishu went back into the room and came back with a square of blue tailor’s chalk. He drew two lines on the ground, about two inches apart. They were perfectly straight, and perfectly parallel. They stretched across the terrace, and Bishu stood at the far end.
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