The District Cup, page 2
Portugal was playing Germany in an all-European contest, and neither Mangya nor Titli could’ve pointed to the country or the continent on a map. They lived in a tin and tarpaulin structure by the beach of a sleepy little coastal town called Maulsari that took its name from a tree. And yet, seated upon a boulder on the sand, they watched the game with passion, peering at their neighbour’s television screen through the open door.
‘Come and eat your dinner!’ their mother called out from the shack behind them. ‘It’s late.’
Mangya held up a small mirror as Titli handed her brother a towel. Under the glow of the street lamp, the scrawny boy began scrubbing the dried paint off his face. First, he wiped the orange colour caked around his mouth, then the dark red tilak on his forehead.
Gently undoing his head gear, Titli placed the shining metal crown into a bag. As Mangya rubbed off the black kohl around his eyes, his sister removed the saffron stole from his shoulder. ‘Where’s Hanuman ji’s tail?’ she asked, unable to spot the string attached to his dhoti.
Mangya swung around to reveal the tail made of wire and cloth, hanging from his costume. ‘Imagine if I went to play football in this!’ He laughed, swinging around. ‘The other team would keep staring while I run all the way to the goal!’
Titli giggled. ‘What if you go dressed like Aladdin’s genie?’ she squealed.
‘I’d whoosh across the ground in my long cape, like King Messi!’ Mangya enacted the scene, dribbling a ball he’d fashioned out of duct tape. ‘And beat all the defenders!’
It began to drizzle; they turned towards their home. ‘And what if you were Ali Baba?’ Titli prompted her brother with another idea.
‘Khulja sim sim! I’d roar.’ Mangya took long strides as he pulled off his shiny vest and stuffed it into the bag in Titli’s hands. ‘And the goalie would vanish in a whoosh!’
The siblings laughed, rounding the bamboo partition to enter the kitchen.
‘Only this much?’ Their mother was squinting under the light of the single bulb in the room, peering at the folded notes in her hand, sitting between the stove and her husband.
‘That’s all they would give . . .’ Mangya’s father stared glumly at his plate, his make-up still visible in patches near the ears of his sun-burnt face.
The pitter on the roof turned into a patter. Titli dragged an aluminium bucket towards the wall. Tucking the notes into her blouse, Mangya’s mother hurried to pull a plastic sheet over the paper bags she’d fashioned out of old newspapers to sell to a local bookstore.
‘Our children,’ the father lamented, running a hand over his son’s hair, ‘have to get out of this profession. Nobody understands this art anymore.’
Spies to informers, entertainers to performers, it was true that the behrupiyas had seen better days. But in the Internet age of instant entertainment, storytellers practicing this ancient art form were fast disappearing.
There was a flash of lightning, followed by a crash of thunder. Water leaked through the tin roof into the bucket below. Mangya’s mother turned her worried face to the framed picture of gods and goddesses on the mud wall behind the stove. If there was a God up there, would he not show them a way out of this misery?
Turning away from his parents’ solemn faces, Mangya’s dark eyes fixed upon the yellowed newspaper cut-out he’d hung above the window—a frayed black-and-white picture of the greatest footballer of all time; suspended mid-air, one leg parallel to the ground, the other at right angles to the first, as he scored a stunning bicycle-kick goal. There was a God out there, and he would show him a way out of this misery!
4
THE SLEEPING GIANT SHALL RISE
‘Chai, garam chaiyeaaaa!’ The signature call of the tea seller echoed down the railway compartment.
Yawning, Sain sat up and reached for his glasses, then turned curiously to Siraj seated across the foldable table. ‘Look at this!’ he peered into Siraj’s papers. ‘Master ji is making report cards!’ He grinned, extracting a sheet and holding it up.
Mendez’s mop of unruly hair popped out from the berth above. He drew the sheet closer.
TECHNICAL
Parameter Score Remarks
Passing 8 Good. Work on improving peripheral vision.
Receiving 7 Trapping of aerial balls needs improvement.
Shooting 7 You may miss a few but don’t stop trying. Practise headers.
Dribbling 8 Keep up the good work.
PHYSICAL
Parameter Score Remarks
Stamina 8 Good. Follow your diet plan strictly.
Increase protein intake.
Strength 7 Work on strengthening calf and ankle muscles.
Speed 6 Work on your speed drills.
OTHER
Parameter Score Remarks
Game sense 9 Fantastic! Keep seeing the game ahead of the others as you do.
Attitude 6 Be more positive.
Team play 8 Good. Learn to carry your team with you.
Communication 6 Signal/Speak more during the game.
Remarks:
Follow the process, progress will follow!
Siraj Mirza
Head Coach
Maulsari Eagles Football Academy
Date: 20 June 2021
‘Boss!’ Mendez threw off his blanket. ‘What’s all this?’
‘Guru ji ki jai ho!’ Sain laughed.
‘Honestly, Siraj.’ Mendez jumped down from his berth. ‘People laugh at you! I mean . . . who does this?’
‘Didn’t we get report cards in school?’ Siraj bunched his papers together.
‘That’s different.’ Mendez put on his slippers and hailed the chaiwalla.
‘The point is simple,’ Siraj explained, rubbing his tired eyes, ‘if you want to make progress, you have to set targets, measure performance, and provide feedback. Kids need to understand their strengths and weaknesses.’ He reached out for his cup of tea. ‘You’re constantly cribbing about player performance. But why do you think our players falter? Surely, they don’t lack energy or motivation, or love for the game. The biggest problem is technique. Basic fundamentals. Because nobody corrected them when they were young.’
Sain brought his palms together and bowed mockingly before Siraj. Laughing, Mendez pulled out his wallet to pay for the tea. ‘A thousand problems with the system, and our man thinks correcting technique will sort out Indian football!’
Slurping his tea, Siraj sat back and listened to his friends’ banter once again—about the dreadful state of things in the country, the corruption, the callousness. Was he a misfit in this rotting world? He was, after all, as they rightly said, too small to change a mammoth system.
As doubts swum about his head, Siraj’s eyes fell on his folder. Running his fingers over his expansion plans for the academy and some photographs, he paused to notice the gleaming smiles, the twinkling eyes of the kids he trained. With a sigh, he looked out of the window. The purple sky had turned crimson. The sun had made its appearance on the horizon, painting the fields a fiery orange. And in that quiet moment, Siraj found his answer.
It took not a thousand burning lamps, but one mighty sun to dispel the night’s darkness. An army wasn’t required to stir up a revolution. It sometimes took just one dreamer, one outlier, one pioneer to shake things up. One. One Gopichand to turn around the future of Indian badminton. One Bindra to get a nation excited about shooting. One Karmakar to give a fillip to Indian gymnastics. One Bhutia to turn the Northeast into a football cradle. One Tendulkar to have an entire generation dream. There was immense power in One.
‘Umeed pe duniya kaayam hai . . .’ he murmured. ‘The world is built on hope,’ he said softly, as much in assurance to himself, as in reply to his well-meaning friends. There was much in this world to despair of; there always would be. But hope; hope is what carried the day, and the darkest night. The sleeping giant would rise someday. The sun would shine over Indian football. Someday.
5
SON-RISE
As Siraj drew inspiration from the rising sun, at the far end of a grassy maidan in Maulsari, a couple admired their growing son.
‘He’ll do well in U-15,’ Coach Zubair told the beaming parents, his hawkish eyes on their boy Saksham dribbling down the northern quarter of the Dhyan Chand Maidan. ‘But if we play him in U-13’—he scratched his little Charlie Chaplin-like moustache—‘mashallah! He will destroy the opposition!’
Zubair Rafique was a man who did little to conceal his motives. Success was his only mantra, victory, his only goal.
‘But . . . uh . . .’ hesitated Saksham’s mother, taking care to avoid sinking her sandals into the mud. ‘Saksham just turned fourteen a few months ago . . .’
‘Look at that boy.’ Zubair raised his beefy arm and pointed to the striker, pretending he hadn’t heard the mother’s words. ‘Cristiano is fifteen. But I play him in U-13. He’s the star of the team. Solid.’ He held up his fist. ‘Nobody can get in his way.’
Adjusting his sunglasses over his unreadable face, Saksham’s father turned his eyes to the centre-forward. The boy was undoubtedly bigger than the rest, and was employing his large size effectively to push his way through some of the defenders.
‘And that’s Anuj.’ Zubair pointed to the goalie. ‘Also fourteen. His height is a key advantage. And that’s Farhan, the central defender. He’s fifteen. Look, I’ve been training your boy for a month now. He is good, no doubt about it. But I’ll be frank,’ he said, ‘Saksham doesn’t stand out amongst the U-15s. He’s only one amongst many. But in under-13, he’ll have it easier. And, I believe, you need some special recognition of his outstanding performance.’
‘Uh . . . yes.’ The father smiled sheepishly, grateful for having found such a helpful coach. ‘But as you know, we’ve moved to Maulsari only recently and we don’t know any . . .’
‘All you need is some legal paperwork,’ said Zubair, explaining the process as he popped open a bottle of water. ‘Prepare an affidavit—a statement on oath—stating that you have lost his birth certificate . . .’
‘But Vipin . . . we have his birth certificate at home.’ The mother’s face twitched.
‘Sonali!’ The father held his wife’s hand. ‘Let him talk.’
‘Then, apply to the registrar to have a fresh birth certificate issued,’ Zubair continued, sharing tricks of his trade—methods he’d mastered and so often employed. ‘Pick a date in 2009 as his date of birth,’ he said between sips of water. ‘I have a friend . . . a lawyer. He does this regularly for us. I’ll give you his phone number.’
‘Not required.’ The father shook his head. ‘We’ll manage.’
Shifting on her feet, Saksham’s mother cracked her knuckles, worried not about the prospect of fraud and forgery, but mentally recounting the various places they’d already submitted the boy’s real birth certificate. Old school, new school in Maulsari, a dozen swimming galas . . . What if . . .
‘Nobody cross-checks records, ma’am!’ Zubair remarked, reading the mother’s thoughts. ‘Think of it this way,’ he joked, ‘you have the choice to select an auspicious date for your son’s birthday. How many people have that kind of luck?’
Just then, bells began to toll at the church across the southern end of the field where a game of the local parish was underway. Bringing her palms together, the mother looked heavenward. An auspicious sign!
‘If Saksham bags the award for best player in the district,’ said the father, ‘that would make our efforts worthwhile.’
‘On my part, I’ll do my best for him, sir.’ Zubair flashed his crooked teeth. ‘You just get his documents ready and leave the rest to me!’
Setting down the bottle, Zubair jogged back onto the field, a wry smile pasted on his face. With Cristiano in front, Anuj at goal and Farhan at the back, Saksham’s presence in the centre would give his U-13s a clear edge at this year’s District League.
6
GOALIE BROTHERS
As bells tolled atop the pearly white towers of St Thomas Church, and the quadrangle emptied out after Sunday mass, a small congregation remained behind, huddled around the tall priest. Amongst them were Ethan Kutty, the pudgy-faced goalie of the U-13 Maulsari Eagles, and his mother Finsy.
While the others spoke, Ethan’s eyes were glued to the match at the church-end of the field across the fence, where his fifteen-year-old brother Aaron, also a goalie, was preparing to defend a free-kick in a match he was playing for the parish.
‘Aaron is doing so well,’ noted Father Paulose, crossing his hands behind his long white cassock, as he watched the game.
‘All your blessings, Father.’ Finsy smiled.
‘Oh come now,’ said the priest, ‘let’s give credit where it’s due—it’s all Aaron’s talent and hard work.’
On the field, Aaron was adjusting the position of his teammates to form a wall before the goal, directing his left-back Dhruv Shetty to move into place. Then tightening his gloves, he bounced on his feet in readiness as a tense Ethan looked on.
‘Aaron was away at the state-level trials, yesterday,’ Finsy informed the priest. ‘But he didn’t want to miss the game for the parish, so he changed two trains to get back here in time for this match today. He works hard. I have no worries at all about him. But Accha, Ethanodu onnu parayu,’ she requested the priest, giving Ethan a tap on his shoulder. ‘Father, please talk to this fellow. He’s always up to some mischief. Not at all focused like his brother.’
‘Tch!’ Ethan glared at his mum. At her insistence, he’d risen early on Sunday and endured a baptism ceremony of some unfamiliar aunt’s unheard-of neighbour’s unknown grandchild. And then sat through an agonizingly long mass. Hadn’t Father Paulose spoken enough for one morning already?
‘Maybe joining the church choir or Bible class might help,’ suggested Finsy. ‘It might teach him some discipline like Aaron.’
Hello! Choir? Bible class? Ethan frowned. Thank God, he wasn’t like his brother! Aaron didn’t just ‘train’, he over-trained. Sometimes, even the coaches pleaded with him to take a break. Which normal kid gave up chocolate, chips and cold drinks on their own to become a footballer?
Fweet! Fweet!
On the field, the referee blew the whistle. The midfielder of the opposing team struck the ball hard just inside the halfway line. Eyes focused, light on his feet, Aaron assessed the flight of the ball as it came flying towards him. Timing his jump correctly, he leaped to his right with both arms outstretched, managing to pluck the ball out of the air just in front of the goal line.
‘Fantastic da!’ remarked Jadon, Ethan’s cousin, standing by the priest’s side.
Father Paulose turned his attention from the game to Finsy. ‘Aaron makes me so proud. I’m told we can expect to see him play for India some day!’
‘Aaron, for sure,’ Jadon said, ‘not this Humpty Dumpty!’ He sniggered, nudging Ethan in his ribs.
‘Shut up, you fouler!’ Ethan held up his fist, threatening to punch his annoying cousin.
‘This is exactly the problem.’ Finsy sighed. ‘He’s constantly getting into trouble.’
‘Every child is different.’ Father Paulose ruffled the twelve-year-old’s hair that sat over his head like an inverted bowl. ‘Not everyone can be as driven and disciplined. But yes, Antony’s Bible classes are lovely,’ he added. ‘Kids listen to parables, memorize scriptures and sing gospel songs. You should bring him.’
Ethan’s large eyes turned pleadingly towards his mother. Was suffering school not enough? ‘I don’t need any more classes,’ he said, loosening his bowtie. He wanted to fling his monstrously uncomfortable shoes and tear apart the horrid suit his mother had forced him to put on.
‘Do you know, Father?’ He turned to the padre, itching to change the topic. ‘I’ve seen God and met the Devil too!’
‘Is that so?’ The pot-bellied priest grinned, humouring the child.
‘God wears the No. 7 jersey and goes by the name of Cristiano Ronaldo!’ chirped Ethan.
‘Ena da!’ Finsy gave her son a rebuking tap on his back.
‘Oh ho,’ chuckled Father Paulose, brushing off Finsy’s embarrassment. ‘Ronaldo fan, ah? I’ve got to confess’—he held a hand to his chest—‘I’m an all-out Messi supporter! But what about the Devil?’ he asked. ‘Do tell me where you met the Devil.’
‘The Devil truly walks amongst us, Father!’ said Ethan, earnestly. ‘All this while, I thought that was the Devil.’ He pointed to a lady under a fig tree in the courtyard. ‘Her name is Mrs Poyyail. She teaches maths in my school!’
‘Enda ammo!’ Finsy twisted her son’s ear. Jadon and his twin brother Jason, standing beside him, had silly grins on their faces. Father Paulose pursed his lips, suppressing a smile.
‘But I was wrong, Father.’ Ethan wriggled out of his mother’s grasp. ‘There is not one Devil, but two!’ he said, glancing at his twin cousins. ‘And since God plays football, these Devils’—he laughed, pointing to Jadon and Jason, as he dashed towards the gate to make a quick escape—‘think they can play football too!’
7
SHORTCUTS
Bored to death at the cash counter of his sweet shop, Prithvi popped pistachios into his mouth, dreading the hours of drudgery that lay ahead. At his father’s insistence, he was to spend every Sunday morning here, learning the ropes of the family business. And already, every minute was beginning to feel like an hour!
His eyes caught sight of a billboard across the street upon which appeared a chubby boy and his stunned mother, their hair standing erect on their head, in an advertisement for an electrical appliances brand. The slogan screamed out at him.
SHOCK LAGA KYA?
Annoyed, Prithvi looked away.
‘The Mahabharata!’ exclaimed his grandfather, hands folded before a framed picture of Swami Vivekananda on the wall behind him.
‘Huh?’
