They are getting off the bus now. A silent world. Made complete by the earplugs. His have a hole, a rebellious prick with a pin. He wants to hear.
But there is nothing. The silence of the bus, and before that, of the hotel, and of the practice grounds all through.
He doesn't think of this then. Only later, when the pounding begins.
In the dressing room, he pulls on his shorts, snaps them round his waist, pulls at the shirt to loosen it.
Mechanically. He can hear a rustle-drone, a faint sound leaking through the cracks, and before the assistant coach has completed the signal to remove the plugs, his are out.
Like the Channel Tunnel, he thinks, a sea on the rampage. Some kind of deep, nasal horns, trumpets. They have been forewarned at multiple briefings.
Concentration must not waver. Not today.

The pitch is a light at the end of the tunnel.

When you breathe again, you snort it all in. The hormones, the excitement, lapping against their faces, the national anthem hovering just above, severely.
Then the other anthem begins.
A sheet of water ripples, then breaks into dancing waves in gaudy sounds and raucous colours.
Then kickoff.

The Best Team In The World [By History] assumes possession.
Moving forward jauntily, but with quick, precise passes that allow no penetration.
Exemplary. He can even almost hear Coach’s grudging commentary in the background.
Clothed in his own discipline, he responds to the pitch as he always does; his eyes see line diagrams, possibilities, snaking out across the field of vision.
They move, the lines change, he moves. Like chess, comes a flicker in his brain, but he doesn’t really know about that.
And now this strikes, upsets him. He is thinking. Being influenced by the conditions, the stadium, the play. Distracted, just as had been drilled into him many, many times, that he must not be.
The ball whisks to him, cuts him off. He drives forward, the blood begins to run, one-two, man by his side, he passes hard.
Watches the striker collect, turn- watches it soar- over the bar.
An old voice comes, as he watches the forward clutch his forehead in frustration-disbelief.
‘Even our blood is loyal to the cause, see ? See the colour. See the exact shade.’

Opposition takes possession; he retreats. Swift surging counterattack- a half-admiration rises- clenches his teeth- why is it there ?- The ball comes closer- a desperate jab- it’s out of play. A breath, and a corner kick.

In the pause, he breathes hard, looks round, jostles to stick to his player, tries to fix a thought of that rising, perfectly curling ball, and himself against it, to steel himself.
But an elation bubbles across, breaks out- Here, in the smell of sweat and the sound and rush that is adrenaline, against the best team in the world, he feels laughter pulsing through him, pounding in his head, racing madly, making him shiver- what could be wrong ?

Goal.

Are there words to describe an afternoon
Heavy with sweat, stained right across with the smell of horse-shit,
When, emerging from the fashionable cafe filled with
Self-consciously defiant adolescents,
Kitty parties, matte-lipsticked by occupation,
Kids squealing from delight and perversity,
Corporate lowlifes ascending the stepladder,
Old acquaintances indulging nostalgia and immodesty,
And waiters padded with airconditioning,
To a tossed-up, breathless day,
With vendors at streetcorners cooling off by
Masquerading as louts before unlikely customers
While crows fly intensely by, missing your head entirely by chance...
Strolling along demarcated pathways
Alone, which neutralises the clichés, and
Habitually looking past lovers who glare suspiciously at you,
But miss the other walker who is feeling himself up while
Peering around a shrub at a couple kissing under a tree,
Utterly unselfconscious.
Another, behind, circumventing his own aim even in his head,
Loiters purposefully after you,
Except to where you navigate dung-clumps
To stare up through the branches of a fifty-foot tree,
Or stop to wonder whether you know people you recognise.
Lazing along businesslike roads to read a poem engraved
In an economically-semi-painted wall, sipping
Plum gin from a coffee thermos, eyes sly-sided and watchful
For the man who yells, suggestive, from the gas-cylinder truck
At midday, when the sweat rides to the point of the chin,
And another man blushes, asking the way to a children's park
When what he needs is a 'urinal, Iamspeakingfranklymadam,please
Don't mind, hein ?' While you, overjoyed
That he is not going against a wall, direct him
To an all-women's petrol pump for more blushing.
Crossing roads while looking back,
Feeling tips of raindrops delicately press the point
That water turns white transparent, and walking home
At a pace that defies the shower of
Incredulous sheltered looks, and the angry exclamation-question
That did I have to do all this walking, put on this show of bravado, just now ?

glister

Today, An Inventory of Treasures.
Everything, she prefaces, is two. One for you, and one for your sister.
Even the man in the shop knows now. For years, when we buy,
Always gold and everything two.

And so we begin.
From within a locked section of the locked steel almirah,
A faded, peeling red leather box is clicked open.
A blue velvet pouch parts velcro hesitantly: One Gold Necklace.
And then Two.
And Two pairs of Earrings to match,
Two Bangles.
Several bangles. Thirteen Gold Bangles.
[Two sets of Four, one Pair, three Singles.
A picnic party.]

In between, a few boxes of worthless multi-coloured, coloured beads.
She runs thick, stiff, crinkled fingers over them,
Settles them like she settles all the others, but a little defiantly.
Looks close, pushing up her spectacles and peering through the bottom.
'-I used to wear these. Then I stopped wearing, kept everything for you all.
But when I wore, I used to wear these.'
And then they are put away- 'No, you don't need to write them down-
These aren't worth anything.'
'Several chains of beads' I obstinately write, at the bottom of the page, in small.

From one little box, she pulls out two coins.
'Gold Coins', she says, with a glint.
A five-rupee coin, 2009, and a ten Euro-cent piece.
‘But these aren't gold, these are just coloured-‘ I cut into
Her grim, satisfied telling me that these could be made pendants of, someday.
What? she says, and pushes up spectacles, wipes sweat from her nose, peers close.
Maybe, she says, chuckles a little, self-indulgently, reluctantly.
Puts them back in the box, softly puts it aside.
Later on, repacking,
She puts that one back in too.
I point it out, but she smiles, an appeal.
Says Let it be, maybe even gives it a fond parting look.
Clicks the box shut, I help her put it away, lock it up.
All that glisters.

dropping out.

[inspired by Marge Piercy’s ‘Breaking Out’]


My first big mistake ? Seeing
A pair of doors that usually stood shut
As open; As a doorway
To actually going somewhere.

Row upon row of desks stood there
For storing things I never thought I’d use-
Blank pages, and written, and pens, for writing my own;
An upright gasbag who deflated in a drone,
And sighed, as weary of homework as was I,
Who could’ve sworn- I mean, it was unlikely as Hell-

The home I came from, one where daily
Men went out to bring home food and hope
In regular portions- something smaller, but sooner
To fill the pot than what I was doing.
So when I heard, in whispers, of Marx, it was
Brother I thought of, equal and yet unequal
To every boy there that was seventeen-and-some.

In the corner always stood the rule
For walking the straight and narrow, the scale
That measured in bright red marks how far I’d get.
But it held no terror of its own, no threat
Worse than the nagging fear, in my stomach,
That there’d be nothing left to weigh, or only that
With no scale such to weigh it by.

When I was fourteen, after a day
Of groaning stomach and grinding teeth
And more pages left blank than there ought to have been,
I snapped. Emptied my desk,
And followed those before me out into the world.

Touching those sheets later, I could scarce believe
That I’d thought they’d save me, somehow,
‘Unlikely as Hell’, but possible; But I proved weaker
Than the rod of which I’d never been afraid.

"Fat, chinky kid. Bossy as hell. Whatta pain, dude. Never shuts up. But she's on all the teams."
And she was, too.
So we all bore bullying, and let her, teeth all askew and grinning stupidly-fiendishly, steamroller us into orange icecream and letting practice off early.

But at Inter House Swimming, when I feel a tug on my skirt from out beyond all the towels and bathrobes I'm holding, it is her.
Plump face screwed up a little- Didi [she doesn't know me well enough to remember my name]
-Can I use your cellphone ? My mother hasn't come.
She does; Where are you mamma? I'ts going to start. And my races are all now.
Hands the phone back with a sedate thank you didi.

I watch her, she looks at me and replies that her mother is going to come, but late.
So she must win everything, so that her mother can see her getting the trophy, at the end.

She doesn't win. Competes honourably, but nothing.
After each race, she climbs out, stands back and looks on tiptoe through the crowd.


One of us had to drop her home later.