When I was twelve years old, and a budding tennis player, the highest paying tournament in India happened to be hosted in Calcutta.
They gave two local girls wild cards— free pass— into the second round without having to play the opening round.
My friend R and I happened to be the two chosen ones.
The worst thing about playing tennis, for me, was a match itself—the competition part— the actual part that matters.
I make a great hitting buddy for any A Division male college athlete and their standards are as high as professionals (Not so the case of women’s college tennis- another story for another day).
Why did wanting to be a tennis player have to be about a match and points and balls hurling at your at great speed which you must hit back accurately and strategically in such a way that your opponent can’t get to it? And why must one do that for two hours, alone, all alone, on a tennis court which by then looks like a vast desert where you’re stranded by yourself and you can run and run in any direction but it never ends?
I forget the name of the tournament but it was held at a venue called Deshapriya Park— somewhat surprising as it was one of the more mediocre tennis clubs in the city.
Still. The highest paying tennis tournament in India meant one of the most important, obviously, other than the Nationals.
So all the ranked players were there. Names I read in the paper, faces I vaguely remember from previous tournaments. In the opening week the boys all walk with wide shoulders, high fives, checking out the girls as they strut like peacocks up and down the patio. The women are cool. They sat on the hard stone of the patio, legs swinging down. They don’t act nervous, they are friendly with each other and then gossip behind each others back.
I know who the ranked boys and girls are. I see their faces at all the national level tournaments I’ve been to so far- may be two or three thus far.
Had it been my choice, I wouldn’t have played at all but as my father rightfully said: if you want to be a professional tennis player, you have to play matches.
Sadly, he had a point.
As luck would have it, my opponent in the second round was a girl called Aradhana Laxman, who was India number two at the time, possibly double my age and certainly double my height.
If I am five feet zero inches now, how minute I must have been at twelve.
I cling to R and tell her to sit in the stands where I can see her properly. Our mutual friend T (who later went on to become a professional and represent India in the Davis Cup) sitting next to her.
There she stood, Aradhana Laxman, like a giant Serena on the other side of the net while all I wanted to do was either take a big shit or drill a hole in the ground and bury myself in it.
A new can of balls were opened, we started warming up. And then it came.
My name—
Vibrating through the air like a siren.
“Eeshani Sarkar”
I heard it but I didn’t. I mean I couldn’t. It couldn’t be. And on the loudspeaker nonetheless.
I didn’t know what to do so just kept on hitting.
The voice came from the skies again:
“Eeshani Sarkar. Please report to the referee’s booth.”
By now I had already drilled that hole in my head and blanketed myself in complete dimwittedness and ambiguity— my two facial expressions and fall back pals when it came to panic.
I look up at R and T in the stands but I am unable to make out their facial expressions.
“Eeshani Sarkar, Unsuitable tennis attire. Please report to the referees booth.”
The umpire calls me over and says maybe I do want to go to the referee’s booth just for a pop in after all.
I go…
Everything is blurry and I don’t remember much. Only that the issue was—I was not wearing a collared shirt as per requirement by the All India Tennis Federation. I could not play unless I had a collared shirt. (I was wearing a regular round neck t-shirt).
What was I to do now?
We’ll give you one of our sponsors t-shirts, how about that? They offered.
Did I have a choice.
The sponsor’s T-shirt was one size only that was made to fit a six foot tall male player. It came up to my knees, covering my petite white skirt, so one would think I was wearing nothing else other than a T-shirt.
I suppose I walked back to the court. I just remember the umpire said start. And still not knowing what was going on around me, I won every single of the first eight point and was 4-0 up against India number two.
Readers, if there’s a sure fire way to win a match, it’s this. Be in so much shock that you are numb, senseless and working on auto pilot. But how my auto pilot worked. it was fabulous. Magnificent.
I only wish it lasted. When I looked up at the score board and reality occurred for a brief moment, it was all over, just has quickly as it had started and I did not win a single point thereafter. Losing 6-4, 6-0.
I was far from being upset about the loss. After all that’s what I came that day expecting. Who was I, a piddly little lass compared to the Hanuman of all India women\s tennis?
I don’t remember anything else about going home.
Just few days later, when we had to pick up our losers cheque of Rs 1500, in three, five hundred rupee notes. Those five hundred rupee notes had just been issued by the government. It was the first time R and I saw one, let alone held them in our hands as our own, that we fought and earned.
We giggled and nudged and cute boys and walked away, content. I still have a birthday card that R drew for me with a scene of the match and my long T-shirt, swirling around my rugged but stunted body.
I’m remembering this incident as I read an essay by Malcom Gladwrll on the ‘art of failure.’
He uses a tennis analogy as well. He said something very interesting which I had not thought of before— the difference between choking and panicking.
Choking is what would have happened to me that day on the court itself (not the sensory whirl it put me in thereafter). Panic is when, one my first day at a swimming pool, I crawled back up from below the water like a cat, gnawing at my instructor’s chest hair when he had let go of my hand for just one second.
The last few days I’ve tried taking some self portraits again. Instead of my act natural in front of the camera, I decided to wear the silver wig I’ve newly acquired for my models and get into choreographed poses like I make them do. Very ‘uncontainment diary’ but something new.
I’ve been photographing myself for seven years now. Not once have I gotten myself off the frame- maybe two or three times at most.
That day, perhaps two images were even worth glancing at. The rest looked like a child toying with the camera, accidentally clicking buttons.
At first I was sad.
What would I post on Instagram that day?
But I was reading
’s later post about his trials of writing without the use of his hands. He called himself a paraplegic.I do too sometimes although I’m sternly told that I do not fall into such category. Nevertheless, I have felt like one for the last ten years.
But Hanif wrote about laughing at his failures and reminded me how we are so conditioned to succeed. Top marks in school, good college, good job. Good publishing record. There is never a time in our lives that we have the freedom to just fail.
I always say that I learn more from bad writing than good, because books I dislike, teaches me quickly what mistake I should never do. Whilst, admiring a writer, only makes me feel more of a paraplegic.
Loved the vivid description.
Its life. If you don't fail you can't succeed. Thanks for the read.