“Stop this football!”
The words sailed over Prithvi’s head, the twelve year-old’s gaze fixed on the television
screen.
Bernardo Silva was emerging threateningly out of Portugal’s half on a counter-attack, bursting through the right flank towards the German goal. Ronaldo was making a run through the centre of the pitch. One touch, another, one more and Silva was into the other half, the German players trying to fall back. Fingernails between teeth, feet on ball, Prithvi was in another zone.
“A great lobbed pass from Bernardo Silva to Diogo Jota.” The commentator’s voice was charged with excitement. Fourteen minutes in, the score in the group-of-death game in the Euros, was poised at 0-0.
“Shut this damn thing off!” screamed Prithvi’s father.
Prithvi didn’t budge. Wide-eyed, his attention was consumed wholly by the scene before him. Jota had trapped the cross brilliantly just inside the box; and the defenders were scrambling to catch up. Only Manuel Neuer, the goalie now stood between Jota and the goal. Hands spread out, knees bent, Neuer braced himself for a strike.
“Does this boy hear a word I say?” The voice moved closer; grew more irritable. “Kadhi-kadhi, I feel like throwing out this television!”
Prithvi’s senses had tuned out all other frequencies. Smack in front of Jota, Neuer prepared to block off a shot. Stretching out his right leg, the Portuguese forward tapped the ball, sending it rolling to his right, towards the feet of a fast-approaching Cristiano Ronaldo. Prithvi held his breath.
PLUNK!
The screen went blank.
“BABA!” Prithvi jumped from the couch, his hands in the air. “Portugal was about to score!” Mandar gave Prithvi a thwack on his head. “When I was your age,” he began, “I was serving customers, doing home deliveries, even handling cash. You barely know your way to the shop!”
“Uggggh!” Prithvi slapped the air around him like he were wrestling an invisible monster. Damn the shop and to hell with the customers! Ronaldo had the goddamn ball! He sank into the sofa, burning with fury.
“You’re in the seventh grade now.” Mandar deposited his haggard frame beside his son. “Enough of these silly games. Focus on your studies and the shop.”
Prithvi pinned his father with a fierce glare, then snatched the mobile phone from his older sister’s hand. “This is a silly game,” he pointed to the coloured balls bouncing on Prerna’s screen. “Football is a sport. The most popular sport in the world. It’s not the same thing!” He inched towards the television remote.
“And Parle-G is the most popular biscuit in the world!” Mandar pulled the remote away, then untied his shoelaces. “So? Shall we keep munching away?”
Giggling, Prerna grabbed her phone back. Unable to wedge the remote out of his father’s fingers, Prithvi punched the cushions.
“This is all your fault!” Mandar accused his wife, pointing to the glass cabinet filled with trophies. “This obsession with sports.”
Poker-faced, Maitreyi handed her husband a glass of buttermilk.
“As it is, we’re struggling after Covid.” Mandar massaged his tired feet with his thumbs. “He needs to become responsible. . .give me a hand at the shop. Not kick around a ball like a kid all day!”
Prithvi turned to his mother. “They’re organising the District League after two years, Mamma. If I win best player this time, I can get selected for the state sub-juniors,” he shared his grand vision. “Maybe even get called for national trials. Siraj sir has said I have a good chance to –”
“Oh, Mr Best Player!” Mandar derided his son. “Give up all these foolish fantasies. You are no Ronaldo or Messi! Your future is Prakash Sweets! The sooner you accept that, the better it will be for all of us.Forget all this football-shootball.”
Thwack!
The half-ajar door burst open and Prithvi’s friend Siddhanth barged into the room. “Sorry yaar! Got late,” he said, plonking himself on the sofa. “Finally managed to sneak out of that khadus tuition class! Arre!” He stared at the blank screen. “What happened? You’re not watching the match?”
Throwing back his head, Prithvi sighed.
“Kya hua?” Siddhanth whispered, sensing the tension in the room.
Ignoring his friend, Prithvi walked to his mother – lawyer by day, arbiter by night. “Mamma, Aaron is sure to make it to the U-15 national side,” he said, crossing his fingers for his senior.
“Siraj sir says I can too. . .” He buzzed like a bee beside Maitreyi, as she pushed her frail mother-in-law’s wheelchair towards the dinner table. “Ask Siddhu,” he pointed to his teammate sitting awkwardly on the sofa’s edge. “This season is crucial, Mamma. The District Cup is my big chance. I can –”
“Siraj sir may say whatever he likes,” snapped Mandar, his mood unaffected by the cool drink. “But have you got no brains? You think they’re waiting to welcome you with garlands into the national side? Ani tu?” He turned to Siddhu. “You’re bunking tuitions to watch football? Do you know how hard your parents work to send you to a private English school?”
Eyes pinned to the floor, Siddhanth stood at attention, like an errant solider before an imposing general.
“You know who came to see me in his new car today?” Mandar turned back to Maitreyi, thumping a magazine on the table. “Look at this!”
Maitreyi glanced at the magazine. “Entrepreneur of the Year,” screamed the title on the cover below a large picture of Mandar’s cousin.
“He thinks I have nothing better to do on a Saturday than serve him free samosas and listen to his tall tales!” Mandar ranted on, unable to wrap his head around how his good-for-nothing cousin had become so successful.
“Kaka on a magazine cover?” squealed Prerna, picking it up.
“That’s it! No more of this rotten middle-class life!” Mandar declared. ‘Our children must get a sound education and turn our shop into a chak-a-chak business,’ he said, glowering at his cousin’s face on the glossy cover.
When the thread connecting cause and effect is broken, the mind often begins to spin webs out of loose ends. “Dignity,” he said determinedly, as lines blurred between envy and honour, “. . . our children will live a life of dignity and respect. No more wasting time, playing stupid games.”
Taking his cue, Siddhanth waved his friend a silent goodbye and slunk out through the door,leaving Prithvi stomping maniacally around the room. What is life without football? Prithvi grappled with a thought that hadn’t crossed his mind before – what was the point of asking questions for which answers didn’t exist? “What’s my football got to do with any of this?” he screamed.
“Don’t test my patience, Prithvi,” growled Mandar. “No more football. And that is final!”
The words hit Prithvi like a thunderbolt. “What? I. . .I. . .cannot stop playing football! Baba, please. . .” Tears brimmed in his big black eyes.
“Beta, you’re nearly a teenager now,” said Maitreyi, placing a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Baba is right. You need to become responsible. Football, after all, is just a. . .game.”
Just a game? Prithvi slid down against the wall. Hurt and disappointed, he couldn’t tell his mother that what she’d dismissed as just a game, was the one thing that gave meaning to his life. He couldn’t find the words to tell her what football meant to him.
Dreams. Identity. Future. Happiness. Hope. Everything.
Emotions possess an uncanny knack of knocking out thought, of stamping out reason, of drowning out words. So Prithvi managed to say little. Slumped on the floor, he drew in his legs and buried his teary face between his knees. “It is not just a GAME!” he screamed. “It is NOT JUST a game!”
Excerpted with permission from The District Cup: Maulsari Eagles vs Strikers FC, Mallika Ravikumar, Puffin.