A silent Ground

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A silent ground

My brother started playing football when he was six years old. It has been about three years since then, and honestly, the improvement is unbelievable. Watching him play now feels like watching a professional. Whenever I ask him how he has become so good, his answer is always the same “Because of my coach, Joshiah sir.”

Beside the society where I live, there is a football ground. People usually come there to play sometimes cricket, sometimes volleyball. But the most prominent presence there is Joshiah sir’s football coaching. He trains a team called Black Panthers, and most children in my neighborhood go there to learn football. Joshiah sir is African and has been living in India for the past ten or eleven years. He is a hardworking, disciplined, and dedicated coach who has changed the lives of many children, including my brother.

Recently, I came across a video online. It was not just another random clip. It showed a controversial incident in which a BJP councillor named Renu Choudhary was seen threatening an African football coach in Delhi, reportedly asking him to “learn Hindi” and using intimidating language. The man in that video was our own Joshiah sir.

That moment hit differently.

When something like this happens far away, to people we don’t know, it stays a headline. But when it happens to someone you see every day, someone who teaches children with patience and passion, it forces you to look around and really think.

And when I say “look around,” I mean really look.

Today, I live in a country where it often seems that who you are matters less than what your identity is. I see the news every day, but I no longer know how much of it to believe. The fourth pillar of democracy feels like it is constantly under construction. I see the majority threatening the minority, people suffering, women being silenced, children dying. Yet, for a long time, all of this felt distant to me.

My life was simple school, home, classes a comfortable and protected environment, far removed from these realities.

But this incident changed something.

It made me realise that discrimination does not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it wears a suit, stands on a stage, and speaks confidently into a microphone. Sometimes it is applauded. Sometimes it is ignored.

Today, I live in a country where people accused of horrific crimes are still given power, platforms, and protection. Where gender-based violence is often brushed aside as “normal” or “unfortunate,” and justice moves painfully slowly. Where those who raise their voices for the environment, for equality, or for truth are silenced, jailed, or labelled as troublemakers. Where many actors stay silent, business interests speak louder than conscience, and power decides whose pain matters.

I live in a country where hatred between communities is constantly fueled. Where Hindu–Muslim tensions are used as distractions. Where debates over mandirs and masjids feel louder than conversations about schools, hospitals, hunger, and education. Where Dalits still face discrimination that people pretend no longer exists. Where many are not allowed to freely express their sexual orientation without fear, shame, or violence.

Like Shashi Tharoor once said, we live in a country where kissing in public is not allowed but pissing in public is allowed.

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We clap mockingly at transgender people instead of respecting them.
We lynch Muslim men on suspicion and call it justice.
We shout religious slogans outside churches on Christmas, forgetting the meaning of faith itself.
We hurt women, violate them, silence them.
We make children work instead of letting them learn.

And sometimes, we humiliate a football coach who has done nothing but give his best to our children — just because he doesn’t speak Hindi fluently enough.

When I list all this, it sounds overwhelming. It sounds dark. And maybe it is. But what scares me more is how normal all this is becoming. How easily we scroll past it. How quickly we justify it. How comfortably we say, “This is how things are.”

Joshiah sir’s incident forced me to confront this reality. It reminded me that injustice is not always distant. It can walk into your neighbourhood, your playground, your everyday life. It made me question what kind of country we are becoming and more importantly, what kind of citizens we are choosing to be.

Because a nation is not built by slogans, languages, or identities alone. It is built by empathy, dignity, and the courage to treat people as human beings first.

And today, Joshiah sir has suspended his classes.

The football ground beside my society is silent. The whistles are gone. The laughter is gone. My brother is sitting alone in his room, his football resting in a corner, waiting. He doesn’t fully understand what happened to his coach. He only knows that the person who believed in him, trained him, and taught him discipline is suddenly not there.

And somewhere else, Joshiah sir is sitting alone this Christmas far from his home, far from his country, away from the children he trains and cares for. Not because he did something wrong, but because he was made to feel like he didn’t belong.

That is what breaks my heart the most.

Not the argument. Not the video. But the silence that followed.

If a man who gives his time, his skill, and his kindness to our children can be pushed into silence, then we need to ask ourselves uncomfortable questions. About power. About prejudice. About what we choose to protect, and what we choose to ignore.

Because a country is not judged by how loudly it speaks, but by how gently it treats those who have done nothing but contribute.

And right now, I wonder
who is really learning the wrong lesson here?