We -- I and my uncle -- joined Krishnan and his friends. Together, we were more than 10 people. The torch led us on our way to Appu chettan's house just five minutes and two canals away. The monsoon was on and the road was full of water. And not just water. Fish, snakes, frogs, tortoises. One can find all of them in plenty during the rains. The ponds were overflowing. One couldn't tell the roads from the pond even during the day. But we had no other choice. The only television in Vazhikulangara was at Appu's house. There was no way we would miss Maradona and Platini in action. Even if it meant disturbing the neighbour's sleep.
Every night for about a month, this ritual continued. For two hours we held Appu and his family hostage. One room of his house, the one which had television, was taken over by us. This was the first time we saw the World Cup. That too in colour. My affair with football began then. Not just me, an entire generation fell in love with soccer.
Balagopalan was one of them. Every time I read about youth in Malabar committing suicide when Argentina or Brazil lost, I wondered why? I found the answer in Bala.
Every day, at five in the morning, he would be at the colony maidan. A football at his feet, all alone. He would run from one end of the ground to the other, dribbling, heading, kicking - the way Maradona would have done, had he been playing. An hour later, his other friends would stroll in. Bala was always the first to reach the ground and the last to leave.
One day, Bala did not turn up. Not the next day, not the next week. And suddenly one day he was back, just as suddenly as he had disappeared. He said he was in Qatar, where he earned much more than what he got in India. Ample to have two square meals and send some money home. But the luxury came at a cost. Life was difficult there. Long working hours, blazing sun, no easy liquor. The worst part, no time for football. It was enough for him to throw away the job and return to Delhi. Not even the lure of money could keep him away from the game.
I wouldn't blame him for that. How can any one be not swayed after seeing a Maradona, or a Zidane play? Each with his own style. Think of Maradona, and comes to mind a figure speeding ahead, unmindful of a body, which could in no way be called athletic. Or brute strength in play as defender after defender tried to bring him down, without much success. Think of Zidane, and one sees a ballet dancer. Slow, gingerly steps. A puppeteer pulling strings, one pass this way, another the other way, each one so well-directed as they were guided missiles.
How can anyone blame Bala? After all, he is a practitioner of a religion, of which we are mere followers. first published:May 21, 2006, 14:44 ISTlast updated:May 21, 2006, 14:44 IST
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"Wake up. Today is France versus Canada," Krishnan banged the doors of our house. It was two in the morning, and it was pitch dark. Krishnan and friends had a torch with them. Not the fancy ones run by cells. This one was made of dry palm leaves.
We -- I and my uncle -- joined Krishnan and his friends. Together, we were more than 10 people. The torch led us on our way to Appu chettan's house just five minutes and two canals away. The monsoon was on and the road was full of water. And not just water. Fish, snakes, frogs, tortoises. One can find all of them in plenty during the rains. The ponds were overflowing. One couldn't tell the roads from the pond even during the day. But we had no other choice. The only television in Vazhikulangara was at Appu's house. There was no way we would miss Maradona and Platini in action. Even if it meant disturbing the neighbour's sleep.
Every night for about a month, this ritual continued. For two hours we held Appu and his family hostage. One room of his house, the one which had television, was taken over by us. This was the first time we saw the World Cup. That too in colour. My affair with football began then. Not just me, an entire generation fell in love with soccer.
Balagopalan was one of them. Every time I read about youth in Malabar committing suicide when Argentina or Brazil lost, I wondered why? I found the answer in Bala.
Every day, at five in the morning, he would be at the colony maidan. A football at his feet, all alone. He would run from one end of the ground to the other, dribbling, heading, kicking - the way Maradona would have done, had he been playing. An hour later, his other friends would stroll in. Bala was always the first to reach the ground and the last to leave.
One day, Bala did not turn up. Not the next day, not the next week. And suddenly one day he was back, just as suddenly as he had disappeared. He said he was in Qatar, where he earned much more than what he got in India. Ample to have two square meals and send some money home. But the luxury came at a cost. Life was difficult there. Long working hours, blazing sun, no easy liquor. The worst part, no time for football. It was enough for him to throw away the job and return to Delhi. Not even the lure of money could keep him away from the game.
I wouldn't blame him for that. How can any one be not swayed after seeing a Maradona, or a Zidane play? Each with his own style. Think of Maradona, and comes to mind a figure speeding ahead, unmindful of a body, which could in no way be called athletic. Or brute strength in play as defender after defender tried to bring him down, without much success. Think of Zidane, and one sees a ballet dancer. Slow, gingerly steps. A puppeteer pulling strings, one pass this way, another the other way, each one so well-directed as they were guided missiles.
How can anyone blame Bala? After all, he is a practitioner of a religion, of which we are mere followers.
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