Page 33 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

The game began. I jumped here and there like a flea, and ran around the court, but the ball either
slipped or dropped off my hands.
“Uncle, throw it here,” he shouted.
I flung the ball onto his face. “Oops! Sorry.”
“Ouch!” He rubbed his cheeks. “You can go now.”
My friends guffawed.
“Hey, boys,” he said. “Mind your mouth.”
“Guys, let’s go,” I said. “I have had enough.”

***

The inter-class football tournament began soon. But I didn’t have a half-pant.
“Shucks, nobody wants to lend me a half-pant,” I said to myself. “What should I do now? Oh, yes! My
jeans pant.” I cut it half above the knee-level into serrated edges. “This should serve me a purpose, I hope
so.”
The next day, we—the seventh grades—played our first match against the eighth grades. The game
didn’t go well for me. The ball either bounced off my chest or slipped away my hands into the net.
The next day, Norbu was standing at the entrance. He glared at me as I walked past him. “Seniors say it
was your blunder.”
“What?” I said, turning back to him.
“You were too modish on the pitch yesterday. How could you?”
Head hanging low, I said, “I—”
“I pity you, buddy,” he said. His steady glare said he hated me as much as he was furious. “Do one
thing. Quit playing football.”
I plodded away into the classroom. A squabble of boisterous noise wafted from the corner of the
classroom.
“He could have punched the ball,” said the class monitor. “Ssh!”
The class teacher walked in soon. He had a nasty habit of giving a backhanded compliment. Short and
scrawny, he chewed on betel leaves like a goat. “Where’s the goalie? Oh, there he is! We could have won if
you had practiced. Now sit.”
Others giggled. Bitter feelings preoccupied my mind even at home. “Oops, I am never gonna play
football again,” I said to myself.
“What happened?” asked Dad. “You look vexed.”
“It’s the football match I played yesterday,” I said, looking up from the bed. “My friends blame me for
losing.”
“But why must they?”
“I couldn’t play well. It was my fault.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Everyone has a day. You’ll play better next time.”
“No next time for me now. I quit football.”
“What?”
“No football for me anymore,” I said, rolling up the blanket. “I quit, Dad.”
“You quit because you couldn’t play well yesterday? Tell you what, it happens sometimes. Don’t quit,
son.”
“I should go for a stroll,” I said. “I have trouble sleeping.”
“Don’t hang out too long.”
I closed the door behind. “Don’t worry, Dad.”

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