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It was I who made the goal.
Even now, you can hear the shouts —“Three cheers for
Paillaram! Hip, Hip, Hurray!”
It would have been only right for everyone to hoist me high on their shoulders and dance. To feed me to my heart’s content from Bhim Nag’s Sweetshop or Dilkusha Restaurant!
But instead of that, a band of buzzing mosquitoes is feeding on me. In a bid to swat one, I ended
up hitting myself really hard on my nose. It isn’t even as if I can relieve my feelings by crying out. I have to stay immobile in the middle of a swamp of mud on the edge of a colocasia thicket — like a statue of Krishna, with mosquitoes playing their flute all around.
A shout rang out again — “Three cheers for Pallaram!“
A mosquito appeared, as if on cue, and tried to puncture my right cheek. Quick as a flash, I slapped it. The force of my slap made my head reel. Even Gopi babu, the maths teacher, hasn’t slapped me so hard.
I almost let out a howl, but stopped myself just in time. I will have to bide in silence for at least an hour in this colocasia grove in Dumdum. I have no choice but to stay here till the darkness of dusk descends.
The shouts grew steadily further away and softer: “Three cheers for Pallaram! Hip, Hip, Hurray.“
I am Pallaram from Patal Danga — I suffer from malaria and drink the juice of basak leaves. But who knew that I would, after all, have to leave Patal Danga and cool my heels in this swampy thicket of Dumdum.
I am an enthusiastic member of our Patal Danga Football Thunder Club. I never play but I can always be counted on to inspire the players.
If our club scores a goal, my throat does not recover for seven days. If we win any game, which is almost never, my fever flares up with the force of my joy.
I was fine as a member. All the trouble arose when I became a player. We were to play a football match with the Vagabond Club of Dumdum. So, for the past three days, I could be heard trying to practice Dhrupad to the accompaniment of Chotdi’s broken harmonium.
Not for the purpose of singing a song but with the aim of building up my stamina, so that I can cheer continuously on the field. It was when Mejhda, brandishing a big medical textbook threateningly, emerged from the third floor, that I had to stop.
But when we reached Dumdum, we heard a terrible piece of news. Our team’s stalwarts are two brothers, Bhontu and Ghontu.
Both lift dumbbells and work on their muscles, and are frightfully good at football. Together with the ball, they send the other team’s centre- forward flying. There is no count of the number of people whose feet they’ve broken. But finally, what they broke well and truly was Thunder Club’s legs, in fact our very foundation.
Bhontu and Ghontu’s Kuti-mama stays at Benaras. Benaras — virus — sinus. He is welcome to stay wherever, and with whatever, and whoever he wants. But couldn’t Kuti mama find some other day for his wedding? Just this afternoon a telegram arrived. And those traitors Bhontu and Ghontu, immediately skipped off to the station, dealing Thunder Club two undercut punches.
“Couldn’t resist the thought of feasting at the wedding,” roared Tenida, our captain. “Shame! Greedy fellows — Cowards—! Shame!”
Cursing them may help to work off some steam but how will it solve our problem?
The members of Thunder Club wilted like stale rice-puffs. No Bhontu or Ghontu! Who will protect us from Vagabond Club?
Their squint-eyed fiery forward, Naira Mitter thoroughly confuses our goalkeeper, Gobra. He just cannot figure out from which direction the ball will come.
That Naira alone will probably score a heap of goals. What shall we do now?
Tenida’s young servant Bhajua had come with us. Stolid-looking, he had been brought along with the thought that he would be useful in case there was any fighting.
Tenida stared hard at him for a while, and then said: “Bhajua, will you be able to play at back?” Bhajua was kneading tobacco in his palm. He popped it into his mouth, and asked: “What is that, Chotto Babu?”
“The ball will come near your foot. You will kick it at once. Can you do that?”
“Yes. Yes. Kick the ball also, and the man also,” Bhajua responded enthusiastically, his face and eyes aglow.
“No, No, you don’t need to kick the man. Just the ball will do. Will you be able to do that properly?” Tenida demanded.
“Why not? Yesterday a dog came growling up to me. I gave him one big kick. A lorry was going past — the kick carried him on top of it. That’s it, straight to Howrah station.”
“Enough, enough — don’t talk rot.” Tenida heaved a sigh of relief. “That’s one accounted for. One more, one more.”
He gazed around and suddenly spotted me — “That’s decided, Palla will play.
I had just popped a peanut in my mouth — it went and lodged in my throat.
Tenida carried on: “Didn’t you claim that when you went visiting Shimul Tolai, you alone scored three goals. Was that just a fib? ”
Naturally, it was! Sitting on Chatterjee Roak, eating fried savouries, everyone tells many tall tales. I did too! But who would have guessed that Tenida, who had flunked his matriculation twice, would have such a good memory?
I managed to swallow the peanut and said, “No, no, why would that be a lie? Malaria has left me weak. Otherwise by now I would be playing for Mohun Bagan. But now if I run, the malaria seems to become active again, you know, that is the only problem. ”
“Yes, your malaria will get active and move around — and that will mean it will move away. I am telling you. Come on — get going —.” Tenida hustled me.
Phoo-r-r-r. The referee’s whistle sounded.
I was going to say something, but before I could, Tenida had pushed me on to the field. I just managed to save myself from falling down. Rather than protest, I decided it would be far better to try and see if I could hit a couple of goals.
Whatever fate has in store! Today will be either Pallaram’s day or malaria’s day!
The game started.
I was standing at ‘back’ position.
I had thought Bhajua would be able to manage by himself, but it was clear that he had no other qualification apart from his big mouth. A ball came close to him and he let loose a mighty kick.
But he made no contact with the ground — instead he tripped and fell. Fortunately, our goal-keeper Gobra was on the alert. Otherwise the ball would have got in.
Gobra dispatched the ball to the centre with a high-kick. Right-out Habul Sen sped away with the ball — the danger was past.
But how long can one stay untroubled on a football field? The next moment I saw the ball coming up with twice the speed towards me. And the squint-eyed Naira Mitter was bearing it along.
Bhajua raced towards him — but he couldn’t even touch Naira Mitter. Naira side-stepped him neatly and Bhajua went over the line, right on top of linesman Kabla.
But what happens to Bhajua doesn’t matter — I was the one on whom the crisis had fallen. Now it was just me between Naira Mitter and goalkeeper Gobra.
And I know Gobra. He will be hypnotised by Naira’s squint —he will have no clue from which direction the ball may get into the goal. He will be completely at sea.
“Charge, charge!”
Centre-half Tenida’s shout. “Palla, charge! ” Jai Ma Kali! I am done for either way!
I let kick with all my might!
What a surprise! Naira is standing like a fool and the ball has gone straight to Habul Sen.
“Bravo, Palla – bravo!”
On all sides a cry arose: “Well saved!”
Then I’d actually cleared the ball!
I, Patal Danga’s Pallaram who’d never touched anything but a tennis ball with my foot all through my boyhood.
I’d stopped the formidable Naira Mitter!
My twenty-six inch chest swelled up with pride. It occurred to me that there was nothing very difficult about football after all. It was just because I had not chosen to play till now, that I have not been picked for Mohan Bagan.
But here comes Naira Mitter again. His foot seems to contain some magnet! Do all balls get stuck there?
Bhajua was angry at being foiled twice. He charged full tilt. Though he couldn’t stop Naira, this time as well we were saved from a goal. Not because of Gobra, but because of a heap of cowdung.
Just in time Naira Mitter slipped on it and I cleared the ball with a flourish. It hit their left-out’s foot and got converted to a throw.
Our self-confidence steadily increased.
I could hear the steady shouts of Patal Danga’s Thunder Club — “Bravo Palla! Well done!”
Oh, here is the ball again! What are our forwards up to? Grazing grass? Gone — gone — their right-in made a shot and the ball slid past my foot towards the goal.
“Go—a—a-a..!”
Vagabond Club let out a shout! But no ‘al’ after all! Only a turnip. Meaning the ball hit the goal-post and rolled off towards the thicket of colocasia.
Goal kick.
In the midst of all this, Bhajua created a furore. Trying to steer the ball away, he shot it near the goalpost. And the next moment he rolled and fell on the ground, holding his leg.
Two or three people carried him off the field. Well, that is one danger less. The way he was playing, if I could, I would have tripped him myself. The goalpost has done that for me.
But that means I am now entirely, absolutely alone. Like the false mud fort of Bundi that appears to protect the Kumbha region. By God’s grace, I did not have to touch the ball at all for some moments. Gobra came out and managed two shots. The half-backs dealt with about three. After that the whistle rang for half-time.
Somehow or the other, I have managed till now. If the rest of the time goes as well, then I’ll be safe. The malaria was making my stomach feel odd, and I could also fell my heart all-a-flutter.
From all sides could be heard Thunder Club’s cheer — “Well played, Palla”! So much so that even Captain Tenida thumped me on the back. “I see you’re a regular first-class player, Palla! From now on, you will have to be given a chance to play at least a couple of times.”
After that, who can think of malaria!
I downed two glasses of lemonade in a rush
of pride. Only Bhajua said nothing — he sat hunched with a bandage around his foot. Tenida bared his teeth, and said, “Just a king of words! Sent a dog on to a lorry with a kick!
But couldn’t even touch the ball! Shame!” Bhajua just sat, his eyes smouldering.
The game started again.
Bhajua limped down to the field. He came up to me and said, “Palla Babu, this time I will hit.”
The look in his eyes made my heart jump. “What’s that? Who will you hit?”
“You wait and see.”
Oh, but here is that Bhairav again ! Naira Mitter with that squint-eyed gaze. He is sure to score a goal this time. Bhajua shot off like an enraged buffalo. And after that, an earth-shattering yell!
Leaving the ball alone, Bhajua aimed a kick at Naira’s foot. And Naira retaliated by punching Bhajua’s face. After that both were flat on the ground, unconscious. Bhajua had certainly taken his revenge, but little did he know that Naira boxed regularly.
The play stopped for a couple of minutes. Thunder Club and Vagabond Club practically came to blows — a few gentlemen intervened to stop them. But Bhajua did not return — neither did Naira Mitter.
It was quite clear that with Naira’s departure the opposition had gone all to pieces. Even so, Vagabond Club refused to give up. They kept racing up to the goal.
And that diminutive right-in!
Off-side! Referee’s whistle. One more hurdle over. Our half-backs finally seemed to have found their form. The ball no longer reached my end. About three minutes left for the game to end.
If this passes without any incident, I’m safe. Patal Danga’s Pallaram will be able to return home victorious.
That short guy! Who knows when he came up again — one step ahead of even Naira Mitter! Scampering about like a field-rat with a ball in its mouth.
Before I could come near him he kicked the ball. Gobra dived, but failed to retrieve the ball. Even so, the ball scraped the goalpost and rolled out.
But the heap of cow-dung that tripped Naira Mitter now laid me flat! When I managed to get up, it seemed as if my malaria had reared up like a cyclone. And as if a troop of drummers were sounding a fanfare inside my head, with my fever sending shivers up my spine.
One more minute, one more minute for the game to finish. The referee kept glancing at his watch, Sure to be a draw. Whatever happens — if I can just leave the field respectably. All the air has been knocked out of me.
Who knew that one’s head would spin so crazily after slipping on cowdung.
Goalkick.
Dimly I could hear Gobra’s voice — “Kick, Palla”. The whistle signalling the end was about to be blown. Everything seemed dim and cloudy.
This time I will kick with all my might.
A right kick — Jai Ma Kali — I put all my heart in the kick.
G-o-a-l. G-o-a-a-l-l!
A roar spilled out till the skies.
At first I couldn’t understand anything. Had I kicked so hard that I had vanquished Vagabond Club’s goal-keeper from our goal-lines?
But the truth dawned on me in two-seconds.
Gobra was gaping at me. As if he was dumb- struck at my feat. And the ball was standing as if stupefied, within the nets of our goalpost.
After that?
After that I have been sitting like Kanhai in the middle of this Colocasia forest a mile away from the field.
From far away even now Vagabond Club’s shouts waft in: “Three cheers for Pallaram.
“Hip, Hip, Hurray!”
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Arijit Gangopadhyaya and Narayan Gangopadhyaya
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