KATHMANDU: The excitement of the 1998 football World Cup had spread everywhere. Some said Argentina would win. Some said Brazil would win. Others said Holland is also dangerous this time. Some said Davor Šuker keeps scoring goals upon goals, so maybe the newly arrived Croatia will take it. Those who wanted to appear a bit alternative or highly worldly and knowledgeable, the clean and well-dressed gentlemen, would swell with pride like ward chairmen by becoming supporters of either Italy or England. There was also no shortage of those who tried to look ‘cool’ by picking Germany and saying ‘Germany will win.’

A rumor started spreading in the neighborhood. Everyone is supposedly going to watch the ‘World Cup’ today. Wow! What a dilemma befell me. What is this World Cup? For a moment, I was bewildered.

“Are you also going to watch?”

Furthermore, when even Mother asked, it was understood that the elder brothers were also ready to go.

The elder brothers and uncles from the neighboring houses on both sides had already eaten their food in the evening and left to watch the World Cup. Until this moment, I had no clue. Was I going to be left behind alone now? I sat down to eat rice in a hurry. Mother served it. More than the curiosity about the World Cup, due to the worry that I alone would be left behind when everyone else was going, I swallowed the food rapidly and left.

Since it was the June-July summer vacation, there was no need to go to school. Having no stress about studies, there was no anxiety about sleep. Therefore, to watch the World Cup, the elder brothers, uncles, and friends from the entire neighborhood lined up and set out. The place we had to go was a bit far. The path was somewhat difficult. The rainy season night was completely dark. However, the excitement of the World Cup still guided us carefully, as if offering a finger to hold.

The courtyard of the house with the television was filled with a mass assembly of slippers. Many pairs of slippers that were placed facing the door in pairs had even been separated from each other after being kicked by the visitors. Just as they say ‘save your life in a crowd,’ I quietly hid my pair of slippers, which I had bought only a week ago, under a Parijat tree.

Dayaram, strike, strike,” shouted an elder uncle, slapping his own thigh. I, on the other hand, felt that the person playing belonged to Nepal itself. But only later did I learn that the man was a player named Marcus Thuram from France

The room near the veranda was almost full, and the spectators had already sat tightly, packed even against the edge of the door and on the ledge of the window. I peeked inside through the gap between the armpits and waists of the elder brothers standing at the door. In the corner of the room sat one piece of a 14-inch black and white television. A fierce football battle was going on on the television.

Oh! Only then did I realize that World Cup actually meant the football World Cup. It was a tournament where teams from different countries clashed. It was from this very World Cup that I learned the names of countries like Morocco, Croatia, Jamaica, and Tunisia.

Those sitting inside would shout, Goal! Goal! Those sitting outside at the door would also shout along with them. In the midst of the excitement, some sitting on the window would drop flat like a falling heap of dung and land jumping into the laps of those sitting on the floor. However, for me standing outside the door, it was like being as far as Salyantar. I had no understanding of when to shout or when to keep quiet.

Occasionally, someone would come out to spit tobacco. Someone would come outside to light a cigarette. When there was a break, they would also come out all at once to pee in a hurry and then, standing in a row like army men standing at attention on the roadside a little further away, they would wet the path. At that very time, people would be swapped in the television room. Those standing outside would go inside and fill the empty spaces with appropriate people, just like filling in the blanks with correct words in English homework! Some, upon returning and seeing another person occupying the spot where they had been sitting, would grumble. If it were kids, these thick-thighed elders would immediately make them stand up by pulling their ears. But fortunately, no one came to make me get up as I sat in an inside corner, gradually shifting along with the elder brothers standing in front.

The break ended and the game started again. Everyone started getting excited again. They would shout Goal! Goal! again. “Dayaram, strike, strike,” shouted an elder uncle, slapping his own thigh. I, on the other hand, felt that the person playing belonged to Nepal itself. But only later did I learn that the man was a player named Marcus Thuram from France. The old folks used to give the players various different names. They called Samuel Eto’o of Cameroon who was very young at that time. They called Roberto Baggio of Italy ‘Grandfather.’ Furthermore, the sinful old men had even kept an embarrassing name for Gabriel Batistuta of Argentina!

Everyone was overjoyed and ecstatic to be able to watch the World Cup on television for the first time in the village. They were bursting with enthusiasm. While everyone was shouting, an elder brother arrived outside. The elder brother, who had arrived from Kathmandu that very day, had come out to watch the spectacle of the village. He stood at the door, peeked inside, and said, “Shame! Is it enough for you guys just to be able to watch? Why are you howling and shouting like howling jackals while watching the highlights of yesterday’s game? Don’t you listen to the radio or anything? Today’s game is only after 12 AM midnight.”

Everyone was stunned.

“I am going to catch a wink of sleep and come back, okay?” saying this, the old man left after throwing a basin of water on everyone’s fire of enthusiasm. The spectator gallery turned cold. A chubby kid acted smart at this hour, saying that this game had already been won by so-and-so. In fact, the television had arrived at this house only after half of the World Cup was over. Throughout the day, four-five robust young men had rotated the dish antenna on a terrace of the field, sweating profusely to tune into the channel broadcasting the World Cup. And all these children, adolescents, and even old men had swarmed earlier in the evening to watch the game today.

Some people slowly dispersed. As for me, I doubted whether I would be able to stay awake until late at night. However, various images were appearing on the television. Since it was a Hindi channel, various melodramatic plays, dances, songs, and advertisements for soaps, detergents, and oils were playing. Various jokes and humor of the lively, mischievous, and eccentric seniors were going on. What more was needed if there was this much spectacle? Now, the fun of the World Cup completely covered me, just like a chicken’s wing covers its chicks.

The old folks used to give the players various different names. They called Samuel Eto’o of Cameroon, who was very young at that time. They called Roberto Baggio of Italy ‘Grandfather.’ Furthermore, the sinful old men had even kept an embarrassing name for Gabriel Batistuta of Argentina!

Which game took place at night, or how the game went, nothing is known. It was the shallow sleep of a child after all. I must have fallen asleep. However, people would shout Goal! I would wake up startled and alert. I would find myself leaning against the wall. I would spring up and look at the television. And then I would doze off again.

The boat capsized, the boat capsized,” shouted an elder brother who was watching the game glued to me.

I woke up startled. I looked at the television. I couldn’t see any boat at all. A player had actually fallen down. Oh! It wasn’t a boat rowed in a lake that had capsized. I learned only after a few days that the name of Brazil’s captain himself was Carlos Caetano Bledorn Verri, popularly known as Dunga.

Ronaldo! Ronaldo! Ronaldo! This time the noise became quite loud. I opened my eyes wide and looked. A player wearing a number nine jersey with a bald head ran swiftly with the ball and struck a goal with a thud!

Because of this night and still other nights, Brazil and Ronaldo settled deeply in my heart. On top of that, I had already read in the schoolbook that Pele is called the king of football and Pele belongs to Brazil.

After one or two days, Ronaldos started appearing in our village too. First of all, Rosan from the upper village shaved his skull bald in his quest to become Ronaldo! After that, on his existing white vest, he printed a large-sized number nine (9) on the back with black ink with great effort. After that, he wrote Ronaldo in English above that name. He used to walk proudly throughout the village wearing that vest.

“Your vest is not correct. Brazil’s vest is yellow, yours became white,” someone said, criticizing Rosan.

“No way. It is white,” Rosan insisted.

A big argument took place between these two brothers. The Brazil jersey Rosan had seen on the black and white television was white. Therefore, he placed a bet. These bet-makers separated, agreeing to bring proof the next day.

The next day, the man who placed the bet brought and showed a color photo of Ronaldo printed on the back outer page of the Kantipur newspaper. Rosan, on the other hand, brought and showed a photo from a black-and-white newspaper called Ghatana Ra Bichar. Upon losing the bet, Rosan said, “The newspaper can apply any ordinary color like this. They must have put yellow color in the printing machine!”

At that very time, people would be swapped in the television room. Those standing outside would go inside and fill the empty spaces with appropriate people, just like filling in the blanks with correct words in English homework! Some, upon returning and seeing another person occupying the spot where they had been sitting, would grumble.

In fact, Rosan did not want to lose the bet. For one thing, the fifty rupees staked in the bet were a large amount. For another, he would have to buy a new yellow vest again and ruin that too. Therefore, he had slipped away speaking bitter words, as if biting into a raw bitter gourd.

In fact, Rosan had become thrilled just like that because the ‘Ro’ of his name matched the ‘Ro’ of Ronaldo. Even after the World Cup ended, he reportedly used to write “Rosan Ronaldo” in his notebooks! It is said that before the district-level examination, he had even made a plan to change his name to Ronaldo Prasad Lamichhane if it were possible to change names!

Anyway, let’s leave Rosan’s matter here. Many others who shaved their hair like Ronaldo were also seen. Among them, the son of Paudel the priest had received a severe scolding and beating.

“You donkey! I, your father, am alive here. You worthless creature shaved your hair, even scraping off the sacred tuft of hair? Are you performing my funeral rites?” The news that Priest Ba grabbed his son’s neck had also shaken the village as hot news at that time.

The World Cup dragged everyone along, heating things up, and threw them into the embers of the final match. A crowd gathered to watch the final at midnight. This time, a surprise occurred. The host, France, did wonders. We were sitting eagerly to watch our Ronaldo run swiftly and score a goal just like before. We were eager to see him run while shaking the index finger of one hand after scoring a goal. We Ronaldo lovers were extremely eager to see him smile gently while showing and shaking two index fingers of two hands toward the sky. But this did not happen at all. Instead, inside Brazil’s D-box, a player with thinning hair on his skull leaped high and struck a goal with a powerful header. After that, he ran while lifting his jersey from the stomach side and kissing it. As if one were not enough, that wretched fellow named Zidane scored another goal too. Four-five miserable souls who were anti-Brazil celebrated with joy as if they themselves had conquered the world. We Brazilian loyalists became dejected. France struck three goals against Brazil and lifted the World Cup that year.

The World Cup ended. The rainy season ended. The summer vacation also ended. However, the influence of Brazil and Ronaldo was to remain for a lifetime. Many who came to school after the vacation talked about the World Cup. There was no one who did not know the bald-headed Ronaldo. In our class too, a friend came after getting a Ronaldo cut haircut. The boys would stroke his bald head and call him, “Hey Ronaldo.” Some, on the other hand, would say Ronaldo does not have a sacred tuft of hair, but this guy has kept a tuft of hair too. I also advised him that if he wanted to make his head like Ronaldo’s, he must cut the tuft of hair too. But he, who had been sitting quietly until then, dropped large tears from his eyes. I did not understand anything.

Only later did it become known that, in fact, while the World Cup was going on in France, he had lost his father here. While the whole world was enjoying watching football, a mountain of grief had fallen upon his life. Looking at the white T-shirt he was wearing to observe mourning, a friend said, “This vest should also have been yellow. We watched it on a color television, Brazil’s vest was yellow.”

This time, he wept bitterly. His life had already become black and white with the departure of his father.

Even nowadays, when the World Cup arrives, I support Brazil itself. I remember Ronaldo. I laugh remembering Rosan, and then I become emotional remembering that same friend who lost his father.