An Outsider Between The Posts

Football’s lesson in dispossession wasn’t in vain. East Bengal’s thraldom reigned at a distance; then came a sudden reinforcement of the refugee status.

- MANASH ‘FIRAQ’ BHATTACHARJEE

‘Anyone who is an East Bengal fan is always right!’

—Ravindran Sriramachandran, Asoka University

During my childhood, I remember a very quiet man from Calcutta who twice visited our Railway Colony apartment in Assam. He was a relation of father’s, and I called him uncle. But I do not remember his name or other det­ails. My only memory of him is his lying in bed, reading the newspaper. Despite being a talkative and inquisitive kid, I hesitated speaking to him. But his strange, fleeting presence persists in my mind, because on both his visits he gifted me a football.

The first one he got me was black and white in colour. I don’t remember much about it. Except that I triumphantly took it to my friends in the neighbourhood, and we played with it every eve­ning, as it slowly lost colour. Only after the leather got torn at too many places did we finally abandon it. I remember the second one better. Not only bec­ause I was more grown up by then, but for the ball’s colour. It was red and yellow. That was the jersey colours of my favourite team, East Bengal.

To be gifted a football at a young age teaches you things you may not realise then. A gift is meant to be something you alone possess and have the sole right over. It is what you savour with care. But here was a gift you were dying to share with others. Here was a gift that would be kicked around, get muddied. During the match I would mostly watch others play and wait for my chance. You realise later, a football is a rare gift that is barely yours. It is a gift you gift away, a gift that belongs to others. A football is a gift that teaches you dispossession.