The ball rushing through the ground, I see my legs frantically tracing a path behind it…. most times controlling it while other times, the ball taking the lead. A slight dribble and the the opponent vanishes as quickly as he had come, the last glimpse is of his maroon and yellow T-shirt out of the corner of my eye. My brain screams to focus forward and everything else is left behind, the swirling run through the mid field calling forth my lungs to deliver that extra energy. I can feel the cold air creating a numbness in my throat with each rasping greedy intake as I bound forward.
An instant reaction to the call on the side, I feel myself reacting to it even before my brain can process the signal. I see my foot connecting with the ball and it sails through landing a few feet in front of the caller. Racing forward this time free of the confines of the ball, I dart across trying to weave a pattern for my escape from the defender who stays like my shadow.
Dark green gloves on my hands, I notice and unnoticed a thought cycle begins, Why am I wearing dark green gloves with stripes? … the colour felt strange in my hands. I wonder why I never removed them earlier, I was no longer the goalkeeper. That string of thought cut away as soon as it had come as I feel a shove from behind for the ball. The ball however flies effortlessly through from the left flank to the right with no chance for a head of a hand of god bouncing a couple of times before crossing the white line at the corner of the field.
Its late and a couple of them have been looking at their watches, we decide to call it a day or atleast a couple hours. Sweating and with deep breaths, we walk off the grounds; friends chiding me on how clumsily I had fallen earlier and the goalie letting the ball go through his fingers. A stop at the water cooler at the corner of the ground, where it suddenly becomes a free for all with bruised elbows being washed, gallons of water being drunk. Nudging each other to get a closed palm full of water to wash our faces and allow our heated bodies to accept the change in temperature, we wash and throw water on another. Its always been a wonder that there is water in the cooler at all times and at that moment, it’s a blessing to quench our thirst.
We slowly find our way to the bakala (corner mom pop store) and dig into our bags and the bottom of our shorts listening to the sounds of coins clanking against each other as they come to see what they are being exchanged for. A coke, some sunkist emptied greedily till you hear only slurps, the sweet sticky orange flavor giving a sugar rush to the entire body. Out back on the pavement, walking along in a silence built of tiredness, a bag of chips are passed around and emptied before it reaches its owner back.
A walk back home is about 5 minutes away but seems like 15, friends bidding ‘see you’s’ along the way since we’re to meet back in a couple of hours. The lift is not working, its been that way for a week now. This is a daily exercise for thinking up the best of words all thrown at the maintenance man while walking up the flight of stairs.
I’ve always liked the ring of the door bell, it is not only an instrument of announcement. It is a sign of hope, of togetherness; it tells you that you are not alone anymore and that there is someone there waiting to greet you just on the other side of the door. Like in life too, all one has to do is open yourself to that person and allow them to come in.
A friends father had gone on some business trip and we had earlier gotten access to some of the goodies he had brought from the US. All we had to do was walk into the corner shop to get the same chocolates that his dad had brought but the very fact of it coming from the land of plenty gave it a holy aura to it. Dirty hands forgotten, I remove half a slab from the bag to share with my younger brother, everything has always been shared. It was the code, it is the code to live by… I grew up thinking it and believing it, to me it has a certain pleasantness, it pleased me as much as or sometimes even more than those who were on the receiving end. I wonder why it is so but recognise that feeling instantly and am warmed by it. We both decide that we can share the loot with mummy and keep some for papa in the fridge.
A quick wash and run to the kitchen to get the plates to lay on the table. It’s a hurried action both because I am famished and a certain event to look forward to post dinner. Everything mummies ever made has been mouth smacking, she has this knack of laying out the tastiest food with whatever is available as raw materials. Of course it did help that I’m one of those types who adores his mum to bits and believes a mother can do no wrong. When I’m in those happy happy moments, I sometimes wonder if it’s the love that gives it that additional taste which makes everything feel like magic. Irani kaboos with canned tuna fried with garnishing which gave out a heavenly aroma which permeated the entire house, a salad to the side and paysam for after. The holidays always witnessed a strange phenomenon, food on the plate never lasted more than 2 minutes; it was always gobbled in hungrily with such relish that you could never stop yourself from licking your fingers and making a smacking noise from your lips.
A bottle of water quickly slipped into my backpack and shoes to finish of the dressing, off I was to the flood light lights for matches which were retained in memory all these years and maybe some more to come. It made for a strange bunch with kids from Iran, Pakistan, India and Bangladesh playing together. Only years down the lines when I think back do I realize that there on the field, it didn’t matter where I came from or how I looked or what language I spoke, it only mattered that for the next two hours or so, we played to the best of abilities, saving every point, smashing every ball to eke out a point and built a lead over the other team in a game of volleyball. The game came naturally to me and with a small height advantage it was played with ease but with the same intensity as my teammate standing on either side. For the next few hours, it was a blur of hands slapping the ball, stretches across boundaries to keep play alive and camaraderie of jokes which only boys will crack.
Closer to midnight and we drag ourselves home, completely exhausted, feeling content with having played a good game. The game has always been better the next day and will be better the next day. Just about making it before curfew time at home, I drag my tired bones to bed but not before setting the alarm for the next day.
From the deep dredges of slumber I hear the horn of the grand yacht sailing majestically in the Arabian Sea, suddenly to realize that it’s the alarm going off. Still half asleep I drag myself out of bed and head to the bath room in a sliding slinking fashion furiously rubbing my eyes. I’ve timed myself exactly 10 min to freshen up, gobble down half a loaf of bread, heat a glass of milk and wear on my shorts. My watch told me it’s almost 4:30am and if I don’t hurry, I’ll have to run to catch up with the gang. It takes us exactly 25 min of brisk walking to get to the beach and allowed us about 3 hours before the sun became too hot for us to swim in the ocean or walk on the beach. Three hours of pure unadulterated fun swimming in the sea. Of course, none of us were great swimmers but you put a bunch of boys together and give them access to the sea and it doesn’t take long for a dare to be thrown up. We believed we were invincible and I am sure none of us would have batted a lid is going to help the other if there was ever a need. The beaches are pristinely clear and the sea was blue till the eye could see. It was a time when there was not a care in the world and no one thought of anything but the present joy and fun there is to be had. Completely wet, with pockets full of sand, salt water in our tummies, we’d sit together on the beach. No one was stupid enough to admit that they were dead tired from swimming but a consensus was always reached magically of when we’d wrap up with the excuse being the rising sun. yesterday nights rotis, the other half of the bread, kaboos rolled with egg or vegetable wrapped inside it, it was all there and I have not had any better meals than the ones I had there sitting with my friends on the beach. All the food shared, all the water drunk, we would walk back home smiling at the wonderful day that was to be. By the time we got home, our clothes were dry and the salt would have hardened onto our face and bodies. A lavish cool water bath after a swim and a walk in the sun can never be forgotten. It is something to experience, one of those things that can never be explained, it can only be felt. As you guiltily turn on the jets of the shower and feel the water hitting your face while you run your fingers through your hair, you lose track of time, space and thought. At that moment, you are just there enjoying the very essence of being.
I have a nice breakfast with bread and cheese and allow for the sleep to envelope me for the next few hours. Somehow its always that type of sleep I long for, where you find yourself asleep for a couple of hours and awake as though it was for two days. A quick lunch eaten while flipping through channels and a sibling fight for the remote later, I’m already thinking of how the coming cricket game would go. Images of kathik tendulkar the master blaster at one end and kathik Akram bowling swinging toe breaking Yorker come to instill a sense of awe to the greats of the game.
Initially the team had been called war lords, names of power and strength which we believed gave each man (boy) on the team super human cricketing strength. The kit had been pain stakingly built with pocket money and loose change used to feed the regular requirement for cricket balls. I think if anyone had informed us that there was a festival called Ayudha puja, we would have done it every quarter to the kit. Later nick named Salmiya XI, it was what every early adolescent dreamed off… to be the captain and lead his very own team which would beat every other team in a 50 mile radius! A game was played in the swelting heat but not one person cared for the 50 degree heat or the dust blowing about in the afternoon. All we focused on was to hear the sweet music of ball on wood or the single finger going up. A short game of ten to a dozen overs and we were well on our way to being ready for the Indian team.
Every day of every summer vacation began with the ocean somehow never ended, for each day runs on in a compartmentalized section of my hippocampus.
As the evening came, we would switch quickly to the two nets on either corner of the ground where twenty two players try and move a round inflated piece of leather into one of the nets. And I find the ball rushing through the ground, I see my legs frantically tracing a path behind it…. most times controlling it while other times, the ball taking the lead.
No comments:
Post a Comment