The District Cup, page 10
‘My brother’—Zubair spread out his hands feigning sincerity—‘why wrestle, when you can dance?’ He reached into his bag and pulled out a glossy pamphlet. ‘Here,’ he said, depositing it in Siraj’s hands. ‘You can’t return empty-handed from here. So as the large-hearted one, despite all your allegations against me, let me invite you to the legacy tournament of my academy.’
Siraj threw the hideous invite a quick glance, then let out a sigh. Sometimes, one just didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘Why stop at India?’ Siraj chortled. ‘Why not call it the most prestigious tournament in the world? And what tricks and fancy rules have you invented this time?’ he asked, recalling a tournament Zubair had organized some years ago with all kinds of absurdities. ‘Placed your team in an easy group so they can sail into the finals? Goalie can’t use hands? Players’ parents for referees? Multiple teams with the same kids?’
Zubair was about to speak when a youth came rushing towards him, a box of sweets in hand. ‘I got the railways job, sir! All thanks to you, sir.’
Zubair hugged the boy. ‘It’s all his blessing!’ he said, looking heaven-ward, as the boy ran along to distribute his sweets.
‘We don’t waste our time trophy-hunting every weekend like you!’ Siraj crumpled the invite and returned it to Zubair. ‘In fact, it baffles me that you’re even holding the contest! Why not just hand yourself the first prize?’
‘Mirza!’ Zubair barked, holding up his index finger. ‘Don’t take advantage of my patience. And stop this preaching and policing. See that fellow?’ He pointed to the boy handing out sweets. ‘His father abandoned the family years ago and his mother raised three kids by working as a housemaid from dawn till dusk. He’d come to train on an empty stomach. I fed him eggs and bread in my home, every day, so he could play. So what if I knocked out a year or two from his age? The boy made it to the state team, and through the sports quota, he’s got a secure Class C government job now. His mother can finally stop doing dishes at other people’s homes. That’s why these people bless me, Mirza! For all the good I do for them. So don’t come here trotting on your high horse and lecture me like you’re some saint! Life is hard for most people, Siraj Mirza.’ Zubair sneered, pushing him back by his shoulders. ‘And morals—morals don’t put food on your plate!’
37
DISAGREEMENTS AND DISCOVERIES
‘Talent? Nobody cares for talent, Mr Siraj.’ Mandar sniggered. ‘For every Tendulkar who rises, a hundred bite the dust. Didn’t Aaron have talent?’ he demanded, watching Prithvi and Ethan cross over to the park across the street, as the adults settled down around a table at their sweet shop.
‘Give Prithvi some time,’ pleaded Siraj, as Ganesh Kaka placed a tray of badam milk and snacks before them. ‘He is sorry that he lied. He’s promised to work on his grades and put in three hours every evening at the shop. Besides, I’m now going to be coaching at Prithvi’s school. He’ll finish by five-thirty and be here at the shop by six. Sir, not only is he talented, but he’s also willing to work hard. It’s rare to find kids like that.’
‘The boy has apologized so many times,’ said Ajoba, pulling up a chair beside Mandar. ‘He feels terrible about lying.’
‘It’s not only about the lies.’ Mandar threw up his hands. ‘This whole business of a career in sports—I just don’t like the idea. Look what happened with Aaron. The boy spent all his time on the field. And now, he says he won’t play again. He’s staring at a blank future!’
‘You can flog a horse all you want,’ chirped Ajoba, ‘but he won’t display the strength of an elephant. And you may train an elephant for years, but she just won’t run like a horse!’
‘Baba, please.’ Mandar held up a hand. ‘Just say what you want, in simple terms!’
‘Very well,’ said Ajoba. ‘When you were young, you loved helping me at the shop. Business came naturally to you. But Prithvi is different. I’ve seen him on the field, and I’ve observed him at the shop. It is quite apparent where he belongs. You can’t force people to change who they are and what they want to be. And if you do, that’s a recipe for a lifetime of unhappiness.’
‘Oh please. He’s a child. What does he know about what he wants? Their interests change every other day.’ Mandar shrugged. ‘Kids see the world through rose-tinted glasses. The other day, I found this boy in my building boasting that he’ll be playing in some Barcelona or Man City club when he grows up! Do you know how hard it will hit him when he realizes he’s chasing the impossible?’
‘So, what do you propose?’ Siraj picked up a glass of badam milk. ‘Should kids not dream?’
‘Dreams should be realistic!’ quipped Mandar. ‘Not so out of your grasp that you end up feeling like a loser!’
‘So, let’s restrict our dreams to lifting the Cricket World Cup once more,’—laughed Ajoba—‘because, clearly, that is within our grasp.’
‘But let’s not forget,’ added Siraj, his eyes on Prithvi in the park across the road, ‘even that was not within reach for years.’
‘Exactly!’ Ajoba snapped his fingers. ‘Then 1983 happened!’
‘A handful of nations play cricket, Baba, you can count them on your fingers!’ Mandar shot his father a look of disbelief. ‘Is this even a comparison? And anyway, at least, in that case, we’re talking about winning. In football, even an entry into the World Cup is impossible.’
‘We all studied history in school, didn’t we?’ Siraj picked up a coconut barfi. ‘So, tell me, when did India’s struggle for freedom begin?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Mandar scrunched up his face.
‘1857,’ replied Ganesh Kaka, bringing out glasses of water.
‘Correct!’ Siraj nodded. ‘But it was not until 1947 that we became free. It took nearly a hundred years! Do you know, the Japanese have a 100-year plan to win the World Cup? One hundred years!’ he repeated. ‘Because change takes time.’
‘So, I suppose you want my son to sacrifice himself in this great struggle, like our freedom fighters.’
‘Sacrifice!’ Siraj sighed. ‘What is it really?’ He pointed to the park across the street. ‘Let’s take a walk? Please.’ He gestured towards the door.
Ajoba got up promptly, so a reluctant Mandar gave in too. The three men made their way to the park across the road.
On a grassy lawn beyond a hedge, a group had gathered around Prithvi juggling a ball.
‘491, 492, 493, 494 . . .’ Ethan was keeping a steady count as the ball danced at Prithvi’s feet.
A gentle tap with the right foot, a back spin and soft landing on the left. A touch on the left shoulder, a bob off the right thigh. Hair bouncing with each tap, a slight jerk of the head, large eyes glued to the ball, Prithvi was in another zone—making the ball sing to his tune.
‘521, 522, 523, 524,’ panted Ethan.
‘Prithvi bhaiya, make it 1000 today!’ screamed kids who’d gathered around Prithvi.
Every eye in the park was on Prithvi. Grey-haired seniors hobbled closer to watch. Passers-by paused for a glimpse, peddlers selling their wares stood around to gawk. People were holding up phones to film the spectacle as Prithvi went on and on, even throwing in some stylish around-the-world and pancakes into the routine.
‘631 632 633 634 . . .’
Watching Prithvi, Siraj felt a surge of energy. He had failed Aaron. He would not fail again.
‘Thousands of kids can solve maths problems in this country,’ said Siraj, as Mandar gaped at the scene. ‘Dozens ace the Maths Olympiad, sir. But very few twelve-year-olds can do that with the ball.’
The tally had gone well past 700, but the ball hadn’t once touched the ground.
‘Sacrifice is letting go of something precious,’ said Siraj, as Mandar’s eyes stayed pinned on his son at the centre of an awestruck crowd. ‘Look at him, sir, and ask yourself who is demanding a sacrifice—you? Or I?’
38
ULTIMATUM
‘Wha-wha . . . what if,’ Prithvi’s grandmother strained to speak, her throat stiffening, arms contorting, as words spluttered out of her mouth along with drool. ‘If . . . li-like Aaaaa . . . ron . . .’
Mandar turned his befuddled eyes from the Sunday newspaper in his hand to his mother by his side, trying to understand her garbled words.
‘Aai is asking’—Ajoba stepped in to clarify—‘what if Prithvi runs away like Aaron.’
‘Aai has no work.’ Mandar shook his head. ‘So her head spins up these bhayanak tales. Who asked you to tell her about Aaron in the first place?’
‘I told her,’ interjected Maitreyi, setting down cups of tea on the table. ‘And why mustn’t she know? Aai is on a wheelchair. She’s not living on Mars.’
‘And she is right.’ Ajoba picked up a cup and blew into it. ‘If you put pressure on Prithvi, he might get such ideas too.’
‘What nonsense!’ Mandar put away the newspaper. ‘You people are holding me at gunpoint!’
‘Does it not worry you?’ asked Maitreyi. ‘Times have changed Mandar. Children these days are not like we used to be. You can’t force your will upon them.’
‘Give Prithvi a chance,’ said Ajoba, holding a cup to his wife’s lips. ‘Give him at least one year.’
‘He . . . found . . . his shoes.’ Aaji smiled, speaking slowly. ‘It . . . is . . . a . . . a . . . si-sign. God . . . God . . . wants . . . Pr-Pri . . . Prithu . . . to play.’
‘Arre, please!’ Mandar clicked his tongue. ‘I don’t believe all this!’
‘But you saw what happened at the park,’ said Maitreyi. ‘Everybody is talking about his juggling. Videos taken by passers-by are being forwarded on WhatsApp. He’s so talented. As his parents, shouldn’t we be proud?’
‘I don’t understand this obsession. Football is just a game. Kick the ball here, then kick the ball there. Completely brainless!’
‘Thorns are unpleasant and prickly to you and me,’ quipped Ajoba. ‘But to a camel, they are delicious. Now you either accept that as it is, or turn into a camel to understand why!’
Mandar pressed his eyes shut. ‘Baba, can you NOT, FOR ONCE, stop talking in riddles?’
‘What I am saying is—you won’t understand his perspective until you live in his shoes. But you . . . you’ve simply thrown away his shoes. That was just wrong. You—’
The bedroom door creaked opened. A sleepy Prithvi and Prerna dawdled into the living room. Picking out a magazine from under the newspaper, Mandar flung it across the dining table towards his son.
‘Meet Saksham Sharma,’ screamed a headline. ‘The Rising Star of Maulsari!’
‘What? Who’s this?’ Prithvi scrunched up his eyes. Underneath the headline, a boy beamed in a purple jersey with medals around his neck, his proud parents smiling by his side.
‘He plays football, and he’s your age,’ said Mandar. ‘He’s created a name for himself, so his picture is here—in this magazine. Not getting circulated on faltu WhatsApp groups,’ he snapped. ‘Forget country and state, Prithvi, you’re not even at the top of your age group in our little Maulsari!’
‘Wait!’ Maitreyi tilted her head as she cut apples. ‘I know this lady. She’s a client of mine.’
‘I’ve never seen them before,’ mumbled Prithvi.
‘This guy?’ Prerna peered at the picture. ‘Wait! Wait! Wait! This guy isn’t Prithvi’s age! He’s in the nineth grade.’
‘What?’ Maitreyi stared at her daughter. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because he’s in my maths tuition.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Arre, Mamma! Why would anyone do ninth grade maths if they were in the seventh class? I’m telling you, he studies at Model High School. And he’s in grade nine.’
Maitreyi’s mouth went dry. The boy looked so much bigger than Prithvi, more muscular, more mature. Clearly, he wasn’t twelve, as his mother had claimed while applying for a duplicate birth certificate.
‘Prithvi, I will give you one year.’ Mandar held up his finger. ‘And only because all these people—their hearts bleed for you.’ He threw his father a disapproving glance. ‘In one year, let’s see you get some recognition like this, and then . . . then I’ll accept that your football is worth something!’
39
A MOTLEY GATHERING
‘It’s been two weeks.’ Finsy updated the group gathered at the tea shack under the banyan tree. ‘Not a word. He’s stopped talking, struggles to sleep, barely eats. Ethan tries to take his brother out to play, friends drop in to cheer him up but . . .’
‘It’ll pass,’ said Varadarajan. ‘He’ll get over it with time.’
‘I understand his pain,’ said Maitreyi. ‘I too had a brush with this kind of thing. I used to be a state-level table tennis player once and was good enough to play for the country. But the state coach forced me to lose deliberately, so a girl whom he personally coached could get ahead.’ She paused, and then said, ‘I never wanted play again. I can understand Aaron’s disappointment.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear this.’ Abhiti placed a hand on Maitreyi’s knee.
‘Same story everywhere!’ Chung shook his head. ‘Anyway, Siraj, you’d said you wanted to meet us all about some plan.’
Siraj nodded and tapped the folder on his lap that was marked ‘OPERATION TOPPLE’. ‘We know what happened with Aaron. And we can’t let it happen again. I called you all here today because,’ he said, turning to the three mothers sitting on the bench across him, ‘I’ve made a decision, and I need your help.’
‘What decision?’ asked Sain haltingly, as Varun placed steaming glasses of tea on a stool before them with a plate of biscuits.
‘I don’t agree with you often, Joy,’ Siraj said, turning to his friend, ‘but I must admit you were right this time. I need to learn from Zubair. I need to think beyond the field. Aaron’s episode was a wake-up call. Absolutely nothing will change at the bottom, if things don’t change at the top.’
‘So, wait’—Mendez dropped the biscuit into his tea—‘you’re going to do something foolish again?’
‘Nah.’ Siraj shook his head. ‘My blinkers have finally come off. I realize I’ve been fighting the wrong battle all along. Now, at last, I know what I need to do.’
‘And what is that?’ Sain scratched his chin, peering at the folder on Siraj’s lap. ‘OPERATION TOPPLE?’ He read the title slowly. ‘Topple what?’
‘Topple the powers that be. Topple the crown. Topple the men presiding over this rotten system.’
‘Boss, our friend here has simply lost it!’ Mendez leaned in. ‘Siraj, do you know the kind of powerful people who sit at the very top of this system?’
‘And it’s not just the powerful who manipulate the system, Siraj,’ argued Sain. ‘You heard Zubair. Like it or not, the man’s got a point. Morals don’t feed people! Junta want security, they need jobs. Only a few idiots like you and me are worried about football standards.’
‘This chalta-hai attitude is precisely the problem.’ Siraj put down his glass of tea. ‘Stop making excuses! Do you guys think there’s no pressure on me? Has Chung got no worries? Is Fernandez minting money? Is Jayraj’s academy rolling in cash?’ He stood up in a huff. ‘Look, we all have problems. And yet, you’ll find dozens of coaches and kids playing fair. So stop defending those guys and belting out these lame excuses. It’s an insult to all of us who are trying to do an honest job.’
‘Look, boss, I know you’re mad about losing the ground,’ said Mendez, joining forces with Sain. ‘Your anger is justified. But there’s a fine line between passion and madness. And you are now crossing over to the other side. The District League is about to start. It’s bad timing to do anything brash.’
‘And the state elections are about to start too,’ persisted Siraj. ‘With elections around the corner, the timing couldn’t possibly be better. Look, there will always be a hundred explanations to justify breaking the rules. A hundred more to ignore it all and look the other way. But I’ll give one reason why we can’t’—he held up his index finger—‘for the sake of football. To save the future of Indian football!’
When the lights go out, one could cry and complain about the darkness, or one could get up and light a candle. And he had made his choice.
40
FLATTERY
‘So, you’re the star whose juggling videos have been doing the rounds online?’ Suhaas greeted Prithvi as he emerged from the sweet shop.
‘You’re famous!’ Zubair smiled. ‘And hugely talented too. What leg work and concentration! Wah!’
About to hop onto his cycle to go spend time with Aaron, Prithvi stopped, wondering why the two Strikers coaches were casually lounging about on their bikes outside his shop. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘But I sometimes wonder if you’re as intelligent . . .’ Zubair let the thought sink in. ‘Because Siddhu tells me you’re serious about football.’
‘Siddhu?’ Prithvi turned his puzzled eyes to Zubair.
‘Arre! You don’t know?’ Zubair laughed. ‘Your defender, Siddhanth, he’s joined us. Didn’t he tell you?’
Prithvi’s mouth fell open. Sid had left? And joined Strikers?
‘Siddhu tells me you’re a solid player. Determined to play professionally someday.’ Zubair looked into the mirror of his bike and ran his fingers through his gelled hair. ‘I’m happy so many kids from Maulsari are yearning to make it big. Small town, big dreams . . . I like that.’
Prithvi was only half listening, his mind mulling over the news about Siddhu. Why had he left? Why hadn’t he told him?
‘But you’re in the wrong team, beta.’ Zubair placed a hand on Prithvi’s shoulders, feigning concern. ‘A player like you in a team that draws with Braganza Boys? Sheeeesh.’ He shook his head with sympathy. ‘That’s not fair! I’d say it’s an insult to a quality player like you.’
Prithvi’s wavering attention latched on to some words. Wrong team?
