I was about five years of age when I first met God, during a football match that is.
Yes. God was there. Omnipresent is God's second name after all.
But can we, in the wildest of our fantasies imagine Him or Her (I never got the gender of mine) to participate in the favourite sport of a five year old turbaned kid.
So, as it goes, the field was set, the players coming out of the wizardly tunnel to enter the International Stadium Yokohama (Japan).
The biggest final of the biggest tournament of the world's biggest sporting spectacle. The beauty we call football.
The 2002 Fifa World Cup final to be played between Brazil and Germany.
The commentators speaking exuberantly of the grandeur of this match. Of the extravagant stakes involved.
Of the big names, the legends, the gods among men.
With outrageous first names. The poacher Ronaldo, the genie Ronaldinho, strike force Miroslav Klose, or the fierce Oliver Kahn.
The audience rising to acknowledge the presence of these greater men.
And I, a child, in midst of this beautiful chaos, sitting on the floor. Way past my bedtime. Glued to the television screen blaring a language ironically foreign to me.
Some thousand miles away from what I was always taught to believe as my nation. And praying.
To the only God I had been introduced to then. Praying with my sweaty palms clasped together and my little heart beating a million times per minute.
Praying not for any team's victory. But for the loss of the country where five years ago, I had come into existence, and where I sat at that moment.
Die Mannshaft couldn't win today. I had been loyal enough till the final, but now it was time to choose. Choose between a father and a country.
A seemingly agonizing dilemma, had I known how to spell the word.
It thus made an easy choice, for the only practical wisdom I had after my five year stint at life was that ignorance is just a little less bliss than a double scooped chocolate ice cream from Pizzeria und Eiscafe Carina across the street.
So on the carpeted floor I sat, praying with all my might that come what may, Germany had to lose this final.
My father was not to be teased at work the next morning.
He was always angry with this country. Always frustrated.
He would talk about the hardships he had to face owing to his foreign identity.
He was engulfed by his exasperation. So much so that criticising Germans had become a passion.
An addictive intoxicating passion.
On some days, the father who kissed me goodbye in the morning was entirely different from the man who got back home in the evening.
Germany was taking my father away from me.
My very own, personal superhero was losing, and to me, his biggest fan; it was obvious.
It was one man against an entire nation. Germany was just playing Brazil.
Its battle, however was against my father.
And there was no way I was going to let them win.
That day, or night, strangely though, my father went to bed early.
Maybe he had lost hope, and couldn't bear to face failure again.
But I was adamant. I had a wish to make. I could not sleep yet. I began praying to the individual who our family held responsible for everything.
If this contest too was to be decided by God's will, he would have to listen to me before making a decision.
After a nerve wrecking first half, the score was nil-nil. An imperfect standstill, just about ready to move towards Berlin.
Waiting, perhaps, for God to make a move. And move he did, in the exact opposite direction, leading the standstill into chaos.
The world's best goalkeeper had erred, Brazil was one goal up.
At that particular moment, my limited wisdom list was expanded by 2 points. One, that there is a God, if not many; and two, that desires are infinite.
For only minutes after the goal, I was praying for another one, just so to confirm my dad's win. An insurance policy.
With eleven minutes left on the clock, and pins and needles in my feet, the Brazilians scored again.
And it was Ronaldo again, the man sent by God herself/himself.
Brazil had won the world cup for the fifth time. Becoming the undisputed champions of this glorious sport.
Millions rejoiced and bathed in glory, completely oblivious to the fact that I had won it for them.
That on that particular night, God had ignored his hundred and eighty million Brazilian children.
On that night, he had been mine.
While the Brazil team may have lifted the trophy, it was my forty year old Indian father who had won, and he, was fast asleep.
His elated five year old son decided to change that. But the hairy arms and the huge chest proved too much for me, and a few endeavors later, I found myself nodding off to sleep on my father's back.
The next morning was one out of a fairy tale. Bright, sunny, warm, breezy outside and the sweet aroma of pudding is what consisted of the atmosphere inside.
My father was off to work. I knew today he would come back a happy man.
My mother was in the kitchen. She too seemed cheerful, or maybe it was just me seeing the world as it was in my head.
I made a leap of faith to park myself on the kitchen slab. Mother didn't seem to mind today. July was the best month. Only two days into it and I had achieved so much. I was starting to believe in the universe again.
"You should have seen yesterday's match Mumma, Ronaldo was so good.
The second goal was so awesome, it was like magic, and the ball was glued to his feet.
He was so fast, Kahn couldn't even see him...and, and..." upon running out of any more fantastic elements to add to my tale, I blurted out what I knew was most important to my mother too.
"The Germans lost Mumma", I giggled.
"Yeah, I know" was the stoic reply. Slightly annoyed, I queried, "What's wrong? You don't seem pleased."
"I am happy, but your father told me about it yesterday."
"You mean, last night? But wasn't he asleep?"
"No stupid, yesterday morning, before leaving for work."
What kind of sorcery was this? Could my father predict the future? Had he fixed the match?
Or worse still, was he God?
There was no way I could share him with the whole world.
There had to be some other explanation. How could this be possible? I had felt God yesterday, I had made him listen to me.
"But Mumma, how is this possible, I saw the match last night?"
And to my extreme amazement, my mother burst out laughing, and in midst of her hearty laughter, she managed with the maximum of effort to speak.
An explanation that rattled my heart and the whole world, my whole world, came crashing down upon me.
It was doomsday.
"It was a repeat telecast, baccha. Match was 30th June. Yesterday was 1st July. Your papa said that we should let you watch because you had slept early and missed the final,
I thought you knew."
And as I stood there, struck by a thunderous bolt, cursing the inexplicable technology, the laughter went on.
The truth hit me in installments.
Succeeding the first hard hitting one, the latter ones turned out rather enlightening.
The mystery of why my father had gone to sleep was disclosed.
Upon further pondering I realized that I had perhaps been witness to a miracle, for God had listened to me (technically), and maybe even shared with me some aspects of his universe governing procedure.
The concepts of destiny and fate were introduced to me.
I had been forced to rethink on my wisdom list, maybe ignorance wasn't bliss.
The philosopher in me was emerging. The world wasn't so black and white anymore. I had been gifted a coloured lens to observe the universe.
Virgin parts of the brain were beginning to function. Earth was revolving around the sun and not around me.
This was my rebirth. And I wanted to get my whole body out to see the entire truth. To feel the light warming my torso on my face.
I wanted to open my eyes to it. To the light of truth. And open I did.
The result, however, was no different from what had happened to me at my previous attempt at being born. I was crying.
The entirety of the gospel didn't warm my face. It slapped me right across my right cheek.
Welcoming me to the big bad world once again. Maybe it hurt, or maybe I was crying at my stupidity.
For the truth was so simple, like it always is.
The creator of the universe had indeed taken out time for a five year old child.
But for one purpose and one purpose only.
Just because he could, he did. And owing to what he was, he had succeeded.
God had tricked me.
