The District Cup, page 3
‘For any problem that life throws at you, Prithvi,’ said the balding old man, ‘you will find a solution in the great epic.’
‘Didn’t know they played football in the Mahabharata,’ grunted Prithvi.
Shaking his head, his grandfather pointed to a wooden plaque over the frame containing his favourite verse from the scriptures, made famous by Vivekananda. ‘The point is to read between the lines, see through the stories and find the hidden message.’
‘Stop talking in riddles, Ajoba,’ Prithvi protested, ‘and tell me what I should do.’
Having a lawyer for a mother, he’d learnt that if the high court crushed you with a harsh verdict, your remedy was to approach the Supreme Court. And so, he’d decided to appeal before his grandfather, against his father’s unfair decision.
‘Besan laddu, half kilo.’ An employee waved a chit with some money before the cash counter. Annoyed, Prithvi took the slip and notes. ‘How much?’ he asked, pressing open the drawer.
‘Two hundred and fifty. Give back fifty,’ said the worker.
‘It is your job to know the price of each item,’ chided Ajoba, seating himself on a cushioned chair.
‘But I don’t want to know the price of laddus and jalebis!’ Prithvi argued. ‘I . . . I don’t even like to eat these sweets.’ The smell of milk and ghee, the constant hiss of fire and oil, the sticky sugar, the gooey chashni—he found it all overwhelming, annoying, agonizing.
‘Pity,’ said Ajoba with a sigh. ‘This shop is what keeps our house running, pays for everything you need—even your football. Learn to respect it. Besides, all your friends think working at a sweet shop is a dream!’
‘Then they can have the job,’ growled Prithvi, his mind visualizing the shots he’d like to play in the match against the Braganza Boys, later that day. ‘Now, are you going to help me or not? Are you going to speak to Baba?’
‘At my katha yesterday,’ said the old man, referring to his weekend storytelling sessions at the Devi temple nearby, ‘I narrated Karna’s story from the Mahabharata. Perhaps it can give you some ideas.’
Prithvi sat back, his shoulders sagging.
‘When Karna was a young boy,’ began Ajoba, shooing flies off a tray of jhangri, ‘he wanted to be an archer. Mustering great courage, he went up to Dronacharya, the guru of the royal princes, and asked if he’d accept him as a pupil. But Drona refused.’
‘Half kg kaju katli.’ A hand appeared before them. In a swift move, Ajoba took the slip and cash, and handed back the change.
‘Karna was deeply disheartened,’ continued Ajoba, ‘but he had a choice. He could either quit or persist—he decided on the second. Leaving Hastinapur, he travelled in search of a teacher and ultimately became one of the finest warriors.’
‘What has this got to do with me?’ croaked Prithvi, popping walnuts into his mouth.
‘There are hurdles in every race, beta. But the choice is always yours to make. Will you jump over the hurdle? Or will you walk away? A tree can spend its time bending and groaning under fierce winds,’ he summarized, ‘or it can become stronger and taller because of the buffeting winds!’
‘Half kg white dhokla, ten pati samosa, half kg kachori.’ Another slip appeared with a credit card.
Just then, the kitchen door swung open and Prithvi’s father emerged, soaked in sweat. A harrowed Ganesh Kaka, the store’s kitchen-in-charge, followed behind him. One look at his dad’s furrowed forehead and Prithvi knew exactly how to jump over his hurdle.
‘I have a test tomorrow, Baba,’ he said impulsively, even before Mandar could take a seat. ‘We’re meeting for group study this afternoon at Ethan’s place. Can I go?’
‘Twenty litres of milk have gone bad!’ Mandar huffed, updating his father about a crisis that had broken out in the kitchen.
‘Baba,’ Prithvi nudged Mandar’s elbow. ‘Can I . . . uh?’
Picking up his phone to dial the milkman, Mandar waved his son away. ‘Twenty litres!’ he repeated, consumed by the problem, as Ajoba hurried into the kitchen to make his own inquiries.
Pleased to have made the most of his dad’s troubles, Prithvi filled his fist with dates and dashed through the door, leaving his father to fret and fume over his dull world of milk and mithai.
8
HAIR. SKIN. SHORTS. PERIODS.
‘Tch! How dry your hair has become!’ Kadambini’s grandmother tutted, pressing a palm-full of coconut oil in the centre of the girl’s scalp. ‘All this playing in the sun has ruined the lustre.’
Seated on the floor by her pati’s knee, Kadambini ignored the remark, her eyes scanning the sports magazine in her hand.
‘She was the colour of milk when she was born’—the old lady frowned—‘and just look at her skin now. Completely burnt!’
‘Well, now my baby is the colour of honey!’ chirped Kadambini’s mother, as she worked on her laptop at the dining table.
‘Don’t indulge, Chitra,’ said Pati. ‘If she keeps playing in the sun all day long, she’ll soon be the colour of coffee.’
‘Or chocolate!’ Kadambini smiled. ‘But Pati, what’s wrong with that?’
‘What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. By next summer,’ said the old woman, ‘you’ll become like that girl, Ayesha Mascara, in your football class!’
‘Aiyo, Pati . . . it’s not mascara for the eyes!’ Kadambini closed the magazine. ‘It’s Mascarenes! Ayesha Mascarenes. And she’s a very good player, okay? How does it matter what her skin colour is?’
Ignoring the question, the old lady turned to her daughter. ‘Chitra, enough of this taekwondo and football! How long can she run around with boys in kutti shorts?’ she demanded. ‘She’s no longer a child! And she’s a girl, for God’s sake!’
‘Amma!’ Kadambini protested. ‘Which century does Pati live in? Tell her to chill!’
‘Chill aa? It’s not just about shorts.’ Pati fixed the mother with a definitive stare. She suddenly dropped her voice to a whisper like she were sharing a secret. ‘There are practical concerns too. How will she play when she gets her . . . you-know-what? Have you thought about that?’
Period. Not you-know-what, Kadambini cringed. What a rotten Sunday!
Chitra’s phone buzzed. ‘Ah! Siraj sir has sent a message.’ She sighed, relieved to have a break from yet another inter-generational altercation. ‘He wants you to come for the match this afternoon.’
‘Really?’ Kadambini squealed.
‘No!’ The grandmother shook her head. ‘She has dance practice this evening.’
‘Some player called Neel is injured it seems,’ Chitra conveyed Siraj’s full message, ‘so, he wants you to come.’
‘Amma, the A team is playing a match today with Braganza Boys.’ Kadambini grabbed her mother’s hand. ‘It’s the first time Siraj sir has called me to play with that team,’ she said, a little unsure about how she’d fare, but excited to have been called anyway. ‘I can’t miss this!’
‘All this A team-Z team and all, I don’t know,’ muttered the grandmother. ‘You reply to the coach and say she can’t miss dance class.’
‘NOOOOOO!’ cried Kadambini. ‘Please! Please! Please! I have to go!’
‘How can she go and play football today?’ Pati argued. ‘She has a dance show next week. What if she gets injured? How will she perform?’
Kadambini pressed her eyes shut. ‘I don’t care if I can’t dance, Pati. You do! I want to become a footballer.’
‘Footballer aa?’ The woman’s heart nearly stopped beating. ‘What do you mean you want to become a footballer?’ Many years ago, her daughter had given her a jolt by telling her she wanted to be a space engineer. Now, her granddaughter was dreaming of shattering another glass ceiling.
‘Please, Amma.’ Kadambini pressed her palms together. ‘I can’t miss this—’
‘I’ll take her!’ said Anand, walking into the room with a plate of dosas. ‘Look, I made violin-shaped dosas for your music students,’ he said to his mother-in-law and placed a little piece into his daughter’s mouth.
‘Uhmm . . .’ The old woman stood up with a disapproving grunt. ‘This new generation of parents,’ she muttered, ‘simply dances to their children’s tunes!’
‘Thanks, Appa!’ Kadambini threw her arms around her father. What a perfect Sunday!
It was only noon, and the day had swung from awful to awesome. By midnight, it would swing back again. Only this time, it would hit a hundred times harder.
9
CRICKET OR FOOTBALL?
‘Oh, hello Ved,’ Abhiti greeted her ex-boss, her eye on the field where her older son was approaching yet another half century. ‘Good to see you here!’
‘I’m glad I decided to come to the club today,’ said Ved Sabarwal, chief editor of Newsbuzz, pulling up a chair in the long clubhouse veranda. ‘What a coincidence that I run straight into you. Well, to be honest, I am still hopeful I can persuade you to stay on.’
Abhiti sighed. ‘Ved, I emailed you my resignation weeks ago. Accept it and make this easier for me. I just can’t go on anymore.’
Sabarwal exhaled deeply, then hailed a passing waiter and ordered orange juice. ‘It’s going to be hard replacing a senior journalist like you.’
‘When we began,’ said Abhiti, pausing to applaud a straight drive from her son’s bat, ‘the media was a different space, Ved. Now, it’s become a circus! There seem to be few takers for news today. Most people prefer noise. And I just can’t be a part of it.’
‘Even so,’ Ved pressed on. ‘There is an audience for real news. There are people who care about real issues. It’s a blow when journalists like you quit the industry.’
‘I’m leaving the organization, Ved, not the industry,’ said Abhiti. ‘I’ll work independently.’
‘Well, if you’ve made up your mind, I can’t hold you back,’ said the senior editor. ‘But remember, if you find a good story, my doors will always be open for you.’
‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’ Abhiti turned her eyes back to the cricket pitch.
‘Didn’t know your older son was such a good batsman,’ noted Sabarwal, as a shot from the boy’s bat came hurtling towards the boundary line. ‘What about you, young fellow?’ he turned to Atharva, Abhiti’s younger son, sitting on the wicker chair behind them. ‘Will you be playing for the club team like your brother?’
Atharva didn’t reply, his attention absorbed by the game he was playing on his mother’s phone.
‘Atharva is more interested in football,’ Abhiti replied on her son’s behalf.
‘This next generation seems to be more enamoured by football than cricket,’ Sabarwal said. ‘My sons, too. They stay up at night to watch these Premier League games. But it’s funny—most of these football crazy kids are obsessed with game consoles. They don’t play football on the field with their feet, only with their fingers on the screen!’ He laughed, pointing to the phone in Atharva’s hand.
Atharva looked up. ‘I’m the striker for the U-13 Maulsari Eagles!’ he said, throwing the man a mind-your-own-business glare. ‘In every season, I’ve been the highest goal scorer for the team.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Sabarwal, smiling. ‘But don’t you think it would be better if you played cricket? I mean, where do we stand in the world of football? What scope do we have? The boys in Europe, in South America, they’re the top in the world! But in cricket’—he pointed to Atharva’s brother on the field—‘we rock! So why not focus your energies there?’
‘You’re right!’ quipped Atharva, flashing his braces. ‘India is the best at cricket. It can’t get any better with my help! But with football’—he gave the man a cold stare—‘maybe I can help India get there!’
10
A BOY WITH A CONSCIENCE
‘Papa,’ said Saksham as he stared at the butter-laden paratha on his plate, shoulders slumped, head down. ‘This is wrong.’
Fixing his cold brown eyes on his son across the table, Vipin snapped his fingers to hail the waiter.
‘I’m fourteen, Papa.’ Saksham shifted uneasily on his seat, poking at the pieces of paneer on his plate with his fork. ‘Why are you asking the coach to play me with twelve-year-olds?’
‘You don’t understand the world.’ Vipin squeezed lime into the bowl of dal.
‘But what if somebody finds out?’ whispered Sonali.
‘What if I get suspended?’ added Saksham.
‘Everyone’s doing it.’ Vipin clicked his tongue.
‘Yes, sir?’ The waiter appeared beside the table.
‘This butter chicken is stone cold!’ Vipin shot him a stern glare. ‘Absolutely tasteless. Am I paying so much money for this third-class service?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ll replace it, sir.’
‘This is the last time I’m visiting your trashy restaurant,’ yelled Vipin. ‘You don’t know who I am.’ Then he pulled out his most potent weapon. ‘I know the chief minister. I’ll have signboards put up all over Maulsari about what a bakwas place this is.’
‘Very sorry, sir.’
‘What sorry, sorry? Replace it right now!’
‘I’ll replace it immediately, sir,’ said the jittery server, disappearing into the kitchen with the curry.
Watching her son pick at his food, Sonali decided to steer the conversation back. ‘But still,’ she insisted. ‘What if someone complains?’
‘Look at this.’ The father thrust his mobile towards his wife and son across the table. ‘This boy—our general manager’s son—he plays cricket,’ he said with a mouth full of food. ‘The fellow was found to be overage at some tournament.’
‘Then?’
‘Then what?’ The father tittered. ‘The officials asked him to correct the age in his records. That’s it. The boy is still playing. In fact, he just got selected for the state. Tension mat lo.’ Vipin reassured them. ‘This is India. Nothing happens here. People are cheating openly even at the top level. Who’s going to check this chotu-motu tournament in this small town?’
‘Hmm.’ Sonali sighed.
‘Last year, our accountant’s daughter, her twelfth grade marks were pathetic, but she got into a good college. You know why?’ He paused, as the waiter set down a steaming copper bowl along with a dozen apologies. ‘Because of her sports record,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘I’m telling you, it will help you in the future. You will thank me later. I know what I’m doing.’
Vipin certainly knew what he was doing. The company that employed him offered an enormously attractive sports scholarship to children of employees, promising up to ten lakh rupees for deserving candidates. The amount, the father had calculated, could cover a fancy foreign holiday for the family and a home-theatre system. The only problem was that there were over twelve hundred contenders for the scholarship. To win it, Saksham would have to stand out from the rest, and what better way than being adjudged best player in the district!
‘Don’t worry about suspension and all that,’ he said to his wife, digging into the hot chicken. ‘Who wants to become a footballer anyway? Next year, he’ll be in grade ten. Let him play and pile up certificates this year. It’ll will help him in future.’
Sonali nodded, convinced about the plan.
‘Look at that Cristiano’s mother,’ Vipin continued. ‘They even named their son after Ronaldo. What planning! Learn from her, Sonali. She is friends with all the coaches and selectors. Sends them cake and flowers on their birthdays and anniversaries. When the time comes, all this will count. Follow her, learn from her. Networking is key. In fact, I’m so glad we found a coach like Zubair. His club has a good record. He wins several tournaments and manages to get his kids into the state team.’
The waiter re-appeared at their table. ‘Sir, our manager offers you this meal with our best compliments. No charge for the lunch, sir. Please enjoy your food.’
‘See? It’s all a mind game.’ The father grinned as the waiter turned his back. ‘Apply your mind. And the world is there for the taking!’
11
TALENT-KILLER
Mangya’s eyes lit up as Siraj’s motorbike approached the bougainvillea-draped wall of the Dhyan Chand Maidan. ‘Sir! Coach sir,’ he pleaded, ‘one chance giving me, please sir.’
‘Arre!’ grinned Referee Prabhakaran, hopping off the backseat. ‘This monkey fellow is still following you around!’
Ignoring the boy, Siraj parked his bike under a row of maulsari trees, his eager eyes turning instead to his students streaming onto the field in navy blue jerseys emblazoned with the logo of a soaring eagle. He waved to Debashish Bandopadhyaya, one of the defenders. The boy was early as always, and quizzing everyone around him. ‘Who was the first footballer to be red-carded in a World Cup game?’
Atharva and Karzong, the two strikers were there too, exchanging animated notes about the ongoing Euro Championship, even as they struggled to keep up with Deba’s questions.
‘Thanks for the ride.’ Prabhakaran pressed Siraj’s arm. ‘You saved me a bus ticket.’
‘No worries, ref.’ Siraj smiled, aware that the pandemic had left them all worse off. ‘We all need each other.’
As the referee walked on, exchanging friendly high fives with the children, Siraj spotted Prithvi and Siddhanth locking their cycles to the iron gate. ‘All set, guys?’
‘Can’t wait, sir!’ they chirped, running over to join their teammates.
Ismail, the boorish left-back strode in behind them, his arms thrown around Diljeet, the team’s second goalie. ‘What’s KD doing here?’ Ismail winced, watching Kadambini alight from her car. Siraj ruffled their hair as the two boys walked on.
Just then Ethan came in whistling, riding pillion on his brother’s bicycle. ‘The lockdown has left you with a nice little paunch!’ Siraj patted the goalie’s tummy protruding from his outgrown orange jersey. ‘How was the parish game this morning, Aaron?’ he asked, turning to the older boy.
‘Good, sir,’ Aaron hopped off his cycle. ‘But we lost 3 – 2.’
‘ALISSON!’ three young boys whooped as they walked past. Aaron blushed as he locked his cycle. Alisson Becker was one of the best goalkeepers in the world. To have little kids bestow him with that nickname was no mean honour.
