To Hell With Hockey

The Autobiography of Aslam Sher Khan
By Matin Khan, Allied Publishers, 1982

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The

Milkmaid's

Daughter

Slowly they took her in their arms, put her on a bier, and walked out of the house. I was old enough to understand. They were carrying the dead girl for her cremation.

I had told her that only the dead are carried on shoulders, and that was what had happened.

None of my friends could understand the reason for my running home in tears. 

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D uring my childhood, a little girl used to come with her mother to my place to deliver milk. After her mother left, she would sit by my side and talk to me, confiding that when she grew up, she would prepare butter better than her mother. I would reciprocate, sharing with her my own ambition of becoming a better player than my father.

One day she asked me if I would become such a great player that people would carry me on their shoulders. "Only the dead are carried on shoulders," I snapped. "You want me to die?"

"No, I don't want you to die," she replied. "But people will carry you on their shoulders one day."

After I had recovered from arthritis and started playing hockey again, I was returning from practice one day. Passing by her house, I saw a crowd and walked in to ask her mother the reason for such a gathering.

Clustered around the girl's bed were various people - some crying, some wiping silent tears, some chanting mantras. Slowly they took her in their arms, put her on a bier, lifted her to their shoulders and walked out of the house. I was old enough to understand. They were carrying the dead girl for her cremation.

I had told her that only the dead are carried on shoulders, and that was what had happened. None of my friends who were with me could understand the reason for my running home in tears because a milkmaid's daughter had died.

I remembered the girl when I waved out to the admiring crowd in Kuala Lumpur after winning the World Cup. I remembered the girl when I was in the flight from Kuala Lumpur to Madras. Not wanting a planeload of eyes turn towards me, I had run to the toilet to cry.

Opening the door, I was shocked at my sight in the mirror. I was crying profusely. My tears cut across my voice as I told myself in the mirror, "I wish the little girl was alive."

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A Pensive Aslam Sher Khan

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