Star of India

or the India-Malaysia match, busloads of school children, officialdom in blazers and spectators, started filling the stands much before the match. It was a national holiday, and the chanting of the crowd rent the air.

The spectators kept moving rhythmically with the chanting, now to the left, now to the right. Malaysia Win' shouted 50,000 voices in unison, and a riot of colours moved to the left. 'India Go Back', and the colours moved to the right. The movements of the school uniforms, red, green and blue, provided a psychedelic effect.

The crowd roared when centre-forward Poon Fok Loke broke past defenders in a counter-attack, and flicked in a goal for Malaysia. The flags were out, and the triumphant din of trumpets grew louder.

We were awarded a penalty corner; Ashok Kumar came close to scoring but could not. We got another penalty corner and it was wasted again. The ball was a flirt, rolling teasingly in and out of reach, always beyond us.

Olympian Balbir Singh Sr., a former India captain who was the manager of the team, was agitated. Coach Gurcharan Singh Bodhi kept pacifying him in his usual articulate, persuasive manner.

I had a gut feeling that they were arguing over the need to send me in as a replacement. I knew Balbir would want to try me out, but I was not so sure about Bodhi. Their argument about sending me in to play lengthened.

17 minutes were still left for the final whistle, and the manager and coach were still undecided. 16 minutes more for the game to be over, and the debate continued. 15 minutes left, and there was still indecision.

With only 14 minutes left, Balbir beckoned me, "Go in to play Aslam. May your God hear our prayers today." I kissed the taveez which my father had given to my mother for me, and stepped on to the field.

5 minutes to go for the match to end. A counter-attack brought us a penalty corner. Ajitpal Singh came running to me. "Make it Mian", he encouraged me in desperation.

Mian is a strange word. While it is a nomenclature for a Muslim gentleman, depending on its pronunciation, it can also be used to convey ridicule. Suddenly I found no ridicule in the way I was called Mian. The faces of my colleagues showed helpless pleas.

For a fleeting moment, I felt like teaching Indian hockey the lesson it deserved. However, my pain was insignificant when compared to my loyalty for my country. I would teach Indian hockey the lesson it deserved by brining it back from defeat and helping it win.

I took my place at the top of the circle and kissed the taveez once again. Govinda's push was perfect and Ajitpal, standing next to me, stopped the ball beautifully.

I had mentally prepared myself to hit the ball in the left corner of the goal. As the stick was coming down, the Malaysian goalkeeper started moving to his right. Something in me told to hit into the right corner of the goal, in spite of my stance and the loss of leverage.

I hit the ball to the right, and a poor carpet shot entered the goal. The stadium erupted into silence. Suddenly, my team-mates were kissing me. The match went into extra-time, and Harcharan slammed in the match-winner.

Balbir was weeping hysterically like a child. "I hope I did not let you down," I said. "Don't make me feel small. You have lifted us all up today," Balbir replied, wrapping me in his arms.

Exhausted but Victorious - Kuala Lumpur, 1975