Free The Benefit Season by Nidhi Singh

haul me to the Wankhede
Stadium, India XI dressing room. They slip around my neck an ID
card that says I’m a press photographer. One of them has an ID of a
sports injury specialist and the other is some sort of media
coordinator. They breeze me through the pearly gates with the
smiling guards, whose grins get wider as notes are stuffed into
their pockets, and plant me in the midst of a jam-packed dressing
room. I sit around and observe. It’s unlike any dressing room that
I have seen, and I have seen plenty in my short-lived career as a
track and field guy. There are more officials than teammates in the
room. Everyone is on the phone. Noone is gathered round in
discussion on strategy, no coach is giving a last minute advice,
noone is in prayer and surely noone seems to be in need of a pep
talk. The senior players aren’t listening to the captain, the
captain isn’t listening to the coach, and noone has anything to say
to the junior players, who are huddling in a corner and hoping they
have a lucky outing. The physio is stretching the nutritionist who
is cramped after sitting still for hours on the couch watching TV.
She in turn is telling him what to avoid to get rid of that paunch
he’s getting for want of anything to do. My two escorts are busy
speaking in sign language with the seniors, and taking instructions
on their cell phones. It is more like a stock market than a place
that grants privacy and room for contemplation to sportsmen engaged
in grueling combat. I spot my man Chand sitting quietly in the far
corner, listening to his uncle read from what I assume is the Gita.
I head over to their corner.
    ‘ Hello uncle’, I fold my
hands in Namaste.
    From instinct the uncle rises to make a dash
for the door but stalls when he realizes there is no getting away
from me this time.
    ‘ Who let you in?’ he looks
around for help from any quarter to evict my unlawful intrusion but
finds noone is interested in us. ‘So you are a journalist now! God
save the press corps!’
    I figure it’s high time I gave up the
aggressive salesman pitch and stopped making him feel cornered. I
grab his hand holding the Gita and put it on my head. ‘Uncle
please; swear on the Gita that you will give me just five minutes
of your time’.
    ‘ You stubborn fool! All
right! Spout your lies and deception’ he says. Chand grins
widely.
    ‘ Uncle’, I begin’, ‘please
tell me what have you got against me’.
    ‘ You rich city guys will
never understand what a poor man’s life in a village is. Then
what’s the point?’
    ‘ Uncle, I am neither rich
nor a city guy. I am a poor man without a father; trying to stand
on my two feet, like Mukut here. But unlike him I am not lucky
enough to have the support of a wonderful uncle like you. So please
discard those ideas from your mind that I belong to some other
world.’
    The old man melts somewhat. He seems open to
hearing me out.
    ‘ Please tell me what is
worrying you.’ I place the Gita on my head. ‘I swear, that we mean
the very best for your boy here’.
    The man stares at his sandaled feet and
struggles with his thoughts; finally he looks up and says,’ I am
afraid my boy will be taken away from me. I made a promise to his
father, my elder brother, god bless his soul he’s no more. I broke
that promise once and I lost Mukut’s elder brother to the ways of
the city. I cannot now afford to lose the last of his sons, and the
last of our hopes.’
    ‘ But I am not taking him
anywhere! All I ask is you let us manage his affairs. I don’t know
who met you and gave you this impression. But we’re
different…’
    ‘ Everyone says they are
different. Even that man did. But you are all the same- greedy and
selfish’.
    ‘ I am not here to take
away anything from you, or break your family; just give me a
chance. If there is a problem, maybe we can help you with
it’.
    ‘ Ha! You have no idea what
problems poor village folk have’.
    I have a good idea, but I am not telling