The District Cup, page 5
Sensing that things were spiralling out of control, Sain placed a hand on Siraj’s shoulder. ‘Let it go!’ he whispered.
But Siraj wasn’t done. ‘Respect?’ he fumed. ‘Respect for what? For killing sports in this country? For destroying talent? For crushing careers? India lags behind in sports not because we lack infrastructure, not because we lack funds. But because of blood-sucking leeches like you running sports associations, with no interest in sports, no vision for the future and no sense of purpose or duty.’
‘SECURITY!’ barked G.S., clenching his teeth. ‘Call security!’
Swinging into action, the assistant picked up the intercom line.
‘High-ranking official, my foot! You are the black sheep’—Siraj’s face contorted with rage, his voice quivered—‘the muck responsible for our dismal sports record. You care two hoots about the game or the players! Only for your own power and position! You are a blot! A curse! A disgrace!’
Two men in khaki uniforms came huffing into the room with dandas.
‘Throw him out.’ G.S. flicked his fingers.
‘W-we will leave,’ Sain assured him, holding one hand out towards the guards, the other tugging Siraj by the arm.
‘You are paid to run sports administration . . . not ruin it!’ Siraj thundered, as Sain pulled him towards the door.
As Siraj’s muffled screams disappeared through the doorway, Zubair’s face lit up with a cheeky smile. As far as the complaint was concerned, that was the end of that!
But to wily Mama ji and crafty G.S.—sports administering men of steel with egos of fragile glass and spines of malleable clay—it was always a zero-sum game. For one side to win, the other had to lose. And until the opponent had lost, they couldn’t count their victory as a win.
15
TUMULT AT TRAINING
‘See my sister standing there?’ Ismail pointed to the little girl outside the field of the Maulsari Gymkhana, where the team trained thrice a week. ‘She plays with dolls!’ He sniggered. ‘And you should too!’ Nobody liked losing, but Ismail hated it with a vengeance.
KD dropped her kit bag, her eyes puffed up and red. Showing up for training a day after that game had taken a monstrous effort. She wished she could disappear.
‘The football field is no place for girls!’ Ismail leaned menacingly into KD’s ears. ‘Certainly not for people named Kumbhakarna!’
Prithvi let out a scornful laugh, making Kadambini’s skin crawl. She noticed Ayesha walking towards them. How she wished she could look like her, play like her, and have a cool name like hers.
‘Go find yourself a kitchen!’ Ismail spat out his chewing gum.
‘HEY!’ hollered Ayesha, dropping her boots. ‘Who committed that stupid foul and gave away a penalty yesterday?’ she demanded, hands on her hips.
Ismail glared back at her. ‘Okay, guys.’ He clapped, calling for the attention of his teammates. ‘Name three women footballers!’
Ethan was examining the goo he’d dug out from his nose, Diljeet was squeezing water from his spray bottle onto Debashish’s head, Karzong was helping Jeet, their assistant coach, to place cones on the turf, Atharva was warming up with Prithvi, while Neel was moping about his bruised knee. Stopping whatever they were doing, they all stared at Ismail.
‘Yaar, who watches women’s football?’ remarked Atharva, starting off on short sideway sprints.
‘That you bozos can’t name women footballers does not prove that girls can’t play football,’ Ayesha shot back. ‘It only establishes that you are ill-informed dimwits!’
Eyes glued to the turf, KD’s lips curved into a small smile.
‘Come on guys, surely you know the top three women footballers!’ Ismail goaded them. ‘Chal Chowmein.’ He thwacked Karzong on his head. ‘You say.’
Eyes downcast, Karzong walked away. No matter how many times he’d conveyed how he hated those names, some people just didn’t seem to care.
‘Oye, Nautanki Neymar.’ Ismail turned to Neel next. ‘Tu bataa . . .’
Neel dusted off his bruise and shook his head.
‘Okay, chalo . . . name one, guys.’ Ismail granted them all a concession.
‘Christina Ronaldi!’ said Ethan, cracking up at his own silly joke.
‘Sahi!’ Diljeet smacked Ethan’s palm in a high five. ‘Harriet Kane!’ he chirped, bursting into peals of laughter.
‘Lionela Mrs,’ added Debashish.
‘Paulina Pogbibi!’ Neel chipped in, as the boys exploded.
KD’s eyes turned to Prithvi. He had paused his high-knee routine and was holding his sides, laughing. She winced, wondering if those respected for their abilities on the field really deserved the admiration.
‘You fools haven’t heard of Megan Rapinoe?’ Ayesha raised her eyebrows.
‘Boss, nobody cares about women’s football!’ Ismail concluded his quick survey. ‘And you!’ He snapped his fingers at KD. ‘The only reason you’re playing here is that there aren’t enough of you to make a girls’ team. Soon’—Ismail turned around—‘we’ll be in U-14 and it’ll be good riddance to . . .’ He stopped mid-sentence.
Siraj was standing before him, hands crossed behind his back, black circles under his eyes. ‘Go on,’ he challenged the boy, his nerves frayed, ‘finish what you were saying.’ Racist and sexist remarks on the field was a custom kids inherited through thoughtless imitation of seniors. He had no patience for that kind of nonsense.
Ismail fell silent.
‘Who can tell me the world ranking of the men’s Indian football team?’ asked Siraj, standing between KD and Ayesha.
‘Uh . . . 104 . . . 105 . . .’ replied Atharva.
‘Something like that,’ said Siraj. ‘What about the ranking of the Indian women’s team?’
Five hundred! Ismail felt like saying, but he knew the world didn’t have that many countries.
‘Uh . . .’ Ethan tried venturing a guess, working out it had to be at least twice as bad as the men’s ranking. ‘Two hundred?’
More laughs and jeers.
‘Fifty-seven,’ replied KD softly.
Ismail’s eyes grew wide, Ethan’s jaw dropped. The others looked on in disbelief.
Siraj nodded. ‘If playing the World Cup is your idea of “having arrived”,’ he said, taking a step towards Ismail, ‘our women may make it there before our men.’
It was Ismail’s turn to look down.
‘If you can’t respect your teammates, Ismail,’ Siraj rebuked the boy, ‘you’ve got no business being in the team! Now, stop wasting time and warm up! We start with 2v2 drills today.’
As Ismail ran along, Siraj cast a disapproving glance at Prithvi. If only the boy had the right attitude to complement his talent. He held Ayesha and KD back. ‘People may talk’—he gestured an opening-and-closing mouth with his fingers—‘but you let your feet talk for you!’
The girls nodded, then ran along to begin the drills.
‘Siraj,’ a voice called out from the edge. It was Govind Varadarajan from the Gymkhana office, flapping an envelope in his hand.
‘Leave it near my bag,’ said Siraj, eager to get on with the training.
‘This is not the Gymkhana newsletter.’ Varadarajan’s flabby face was deadpan. ‘Read it!’
Stepping closer, Siraj took the envelope and opened the letter, the subject line springing upon him like a googly.
Notice of Termination
‘Termination?’ His eyes nearly popped out. ‘But why?’ He went through the letter. It stated that he would not have access to the Gymkhana ground from the following month. ‘What’s all this?’
‘I was asked to hand this over to you right away,’ explained Varadarajan, his eyes on the kids training on the turf.
‘But why?’ Siraj’s face went pale. The letter contained no reasons for the sudden action. ‘I’ve been running the academy here for years. Where will I train my kids?’
‘Sorry, Siraj.’ Varadarjan shrugged. ‘I’m only doing my job. The order has come from the top. Just be glad your coaching licence hasn’t been revoked.’
‘WHAT?’ Siraj looked at Varadarajan in dismay.
‘Woohooo!’ a cheer went up on the field, as the team gathered around Atharva to applaud a stunning scissor-kick goal. Parents clapped from the side, Atharva celebrated in the centre, and the tree boy whistled from the tamarind tree above.
‘You play like that’—Jeet held up both arms and bowed—‘and this season’s District Cup is ours!’
Siraj pressed his eyes shut, the applause hitting him as ironic. All he could hear was the crashing of his dreams.
16
THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
Kadambini sat glumly between her father and grandmother in a packed auditorium at the space centre, only half listening as a man on stage introduced her mother and gushed over the successful completion of her satellite programme. The big words sailed over her head—remote sensing, payload development, system integration. She didn’t care. As the hall erupted in applause and Chitra was handed a microphone, Kadambini wished she could run away. Who in this world full of scientists was going to understand her football dreams?
‘I went to a vernacular school in a small village,’ Chitra began narrating her personal journey after the pleasantries. ‘Back then, girls would be made to sit separately in the classroom, and our teacher believed that boys were better than girls at maths! Many of the boys in my class thought so too. I found it outrageous.’ She laughed. ‘And it spurred me to prove them all wrong!’
Kadambini’s ears perked up. Now, didn’t that sound familiar?
‘When I began this fascinating journey to become a space scientist’—Chitra looked at the screen behind her that displayed satellite images of the earth captured by the programme she headed—‘there were hardly any women in engineering. In fact, would you believe it? In my college, there was no washroom for girls,’ she said, adjusting the microphone on the lectern. ‘In those days, space was an upcoming field, and I had a tough time convincing my parents’—she pointed to her mother seated on the front row—‘to allow me to pursue my PhD instead of pushing me to get married.’
Conscious, Kadambini’s grandmother pulled the pallu of her saree over her shoulder.
‘There were many struggles, I was tested and pushed to the brink. And then, one day, my professor gave me this book.’ She held up a booklet. ‘It’s the story of Kadambini Ganguly—one of India’s first women doctors.’
Turning to his daughter, Anand winked. Kadambini’s cheeks flushed red.
‘Nearly 150 years ago, the Calcutta Medical College refused to admit Ganguly though she was a deserving candidate. “There is no history of women studying here,” they told her. But she didn’t give up. Persisting against all odds, she went on to qualify and practice as a doctor. Later, she became a torch bearer for women and demanded that the university change its rules and open up for female students.’
Chitra paused, turning her attention to her family in the front row. ‘You know’—she smiled—‘my daughter scolds me sometimes for naming her Kadambini. She says it’s an old-fashioned name. But I know, she’ll understand one day, and go on to wear her name with pride!’
Kadambini let out a chuckle.
‘Reading about Ganguly inspired me,’ Chitra continued. ‘And whenever I’m asked for the mantra behind my success, I only say this: When challenges drive you to the point of either giving up or suffering on, understand that hidden between the two roads is a third choice.’ She gestured two diverging paths with her palms. ‘The path to focus all your energies towards becoming so good, so competent, so outstanding, that all those mocking and discouraging you, simply cannot ignore you!’
Kadambini sat up, her mother’s words holding up a candle and guiding her through the gloom. She wasn’t good enough to take the ball away from Ayesha or Prithvi, not good enough to tackle Karzong or Ismail, not good enough for the A team. Not good enough, not good enough, the thought had pummelled away inside her. But now, listening to her mother’s journey, she felt a glimmer of hope.
‘As my daughter’s football coach says,’ Chitra said, turning once again to the front row, ‘chase excellence, not results. So don’t give up if you fail,’ she added. ‘Instead, raise the bar, take on tougher challenges, and believe me—your time will come.’
Sitting back, Kadambini’s lips curved into a smile. The light she chased, the answers she sought, the courage she needed, were right here, before her very eyes.
17
SEEK AND FIND
‘Can we be training partners?’ KD popped the question as their class made its way to the morning assembly.
Prithvi contorted his face, hurriedly twisting his necktie into a samosa-knot. ‘What?’
‘You remember Siraj sir asked us to train in pairs?’ KD said, as the line snaked its way down a corridor. ‘That’s what we do in my taekwando class too.’
‘Uh . . .’ Prithvi hopped on his right foot as he tied his left shoelace.
‘So . . . what do you think?’
Neel nudged Prithvi, Ethan giggled; their eyes screaming who-trained-with-girls!
‘Training? With you?’ Prithvi scrunched up his eyes.
‘We can do drills together, you know . . . juggling, ball control.’ KD kept up, ‘Remember what sir said? “Train with someone who complements your skills. It helps to push one another.”’
‘Good morning, Ms Hermione Granger!’ chuckled Neel as the line inched towards the assembly hall.
‘So?’ KD ignored the jibe. ‘How about at lunchtime?’
‘Complementary skills?’ Prithvi was half amused, half annoyed. ‘What are you going to teach me? Poetry?’
‘Speed and balance.’ KD replied sincerely, as the line emptied into a large hall. ‘You know I beat even the boys at the races!’ She shuffled in, turning sideways to speak to Prithvi in the row behind her. ‘And there are a bunch of martial arts moves I can show you. Those may help as well.’
‘Ya, sure, Usain Bolt!’ Prithvi sniggered.
‘Mary Kom meets P.T. Usha!’ Ethan chortled.
Up on stage, Principal Anthony began the assembly with a hymn.
‘Ask and it shall be given unto you;
Seek and you shall find!
Knock and the door shall be opened unto you;
Hallelu Hallelujah!’
‘Ya, right!’ KD mumbled, the verse hitting her as ironic. Why would the star of the team partner with me?
‘Bro!’ Ethan threw his arm around his friend. ‘Yesterday, that monkey boy said, “Prithvi bhaiya, will you play with me?” And today . . . a girl!’
‘Colourful fan following you have!’ snorted Neel.
Standing in the row before them, Kadambini pressed her eyes shut and cursed herself. What a fool she’d been to even ask!
18
CLOSED DOOR
‘I thought we had a deal!’ Siraj stormed into the glass cabin, flinging the termination letter on the table of the Gymkhana secretary.
‘Ah, Siraj!’ Arun Mavani smiled. ‘How are you? Come, sit. Tea?’
‘I’m not here for tea, Arun! How can you cancel my slot? I’ve checked my records. There’s been no delay in payment. No violation, no complaint, nothing.’
Mavani adjusted his glasses. ‘Please, calm down.’
‘Calm down?’ Siraj threw up his hands. ‘I have an agreement! The south lawn has been allotted to me for the whole of next year!’
‘Siraj, read the fine print. The Gymkhana has the right to cancel the allotment at any time.’
‘But I’ve paid an advance for six months!’
‘Your amount will be refunded.’
‘I don’t want a refund, for God’s sake! I want the ground!’
The fan creaked on the high ceiling. Sepia pictures of cricketing greats smiled down from glass frames. The legendary Indian football team that had qualified for the World Cup in 1950 watched from a laminated photograph.
‘My academy’s raising funds to expand, and everything depends on access to a good quality turf to train kids. You know this.’ Siraj sighed. ‘The season has started. The District League is taking place after two whole years. How do we get anything done if I don’t have a ground?’
‘Look for some other space’—Mavani fidgeted with his thumbs—‘or join another club. I can fix you up with someone, if you like. They’ll be happy to have a good coach like you.’
‘I’m not here to get career advice, Arun!’ snapped Siraj. ‘Just tell me how I can get the space back.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Mavani sank his hands into his pockets. ‘It’s a done deal. A European soccer club that’s been setting up base in India, is now looking to expand to smaller towns. They’ve approached us for space, and we’ve agreed.’
‘So? You’ll cancel my slot to accommodate them? Suck up to the white man. Cut your own people out . . . or . . .’—Siraj paused and looked Arun in the eye—‘was there another reason?’
‘It’s not like that, Siraj. The decision was taken by our working committee. In fact’—Arun spun a crystal paperweight—‘the Spanish club was eager to start immediately. But because of our long association with you, we realized it wouldn’t be fair and decided to give you a month to make other arrangements.’
‘You’re telling me there was no pressure on you from outside to terminate my agreement?’ Siraj’s deep-set eyes fixed Mavani with a piercing glare.
‘Not at all!’ Mavani brushed him off. ‘San Amaro as you know is a prestigious club. We are honoured to be hosting them.’
‘Look, I have nothing against foreign academies and coaches,’ Siraj confessed. ‘They want to come and teach our kids. That’s good. I’m happy for football in this country, it will improve. But why should you snatch away my slot? I am going through some personal issues and I can’t afford this jolt right now.’
‘In that case, why don’t you join them?’ The secretary pointed through the window to two men out on the turf. One of them was Varadarajan. The other, a muscular young man sporting a ponytail and tattooed arm, was taking a tour of the field. ‘That’s Shekhar Jadhav, head coach of San Amaro,’ said Mavani. ‘Go, speak to him. I’m sure his club will be delighted to have an experienced coach like you.’
